“Thank Galt we didn’t depend upon the piss-ass strategy some egghead consultant expert of Professor Manfreed’s dreamed up. But where are we? The FBI has never even cracked the code behind ‘beauty is truth, truth beauty.’ Our men botched the attack on the National Mall. I told you to plant drugs and weapons and go to the press with the story that the squatters were a threat to national security. Instead, that kid got killed and we wound up with international headlines calling me a murderer. So, have you learned anything from what’s happened? It’s been almost a week since we’ve been here. Where are we with ‘Operation Liberation’?”
“Mr. President,” Homeland Security Director Smathers, interjects. “Mr. President, there is absolutely no way we can clear the capital without massive numbers of injuries and major loss of life. The pictures we’ve seen this morning show a sea of people camped out everywhere. The White House, the Capitol, the Mall, K Street, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials—everywhere the people have taken over. Think of it as the Mall Coopervi…I mean illegal encampment, multiplied by ten. It’s a siege. I think we sit back and do nothing. Time and the weather are our best defense. We need simply to wait the invaders out. They’ll get tired and frustrated living in tents out in the open air. They’ll get hungry, and sick, and fed up with living in filth. This is the hottest time of the year in the capital. If the heat doesn’t get them, the summer rains will. Yes, I’ve thought this through and our best strategy is to do nothing and trust in Mother Nature.”
“Smathers, pack up and get the fuck out of here,” Cooper says. “If doing nothing is your best professional advice, you’re fired. Defense Secretary Gibbons, what’s your version of ‘Operation Liberation’?”
“Mr. President, as you can see from the material I’ve prepared, there’s only one way to take control of the situation, the classic tactic of ‘Contain and Contaminate.’ It’s from Offense 101, the first course for officers at the War College. First, we contain the enemy. We box ’em in. We surround his terrain with our troops and fortifications and control all means of escape. Second, we drop leaflets on ’em, telling ’em they must immediately evacuate at appointed exists or face serious consequences. Those who exit are arrested, of course. Third, we attack those who remain from the air. We alternate spraying with tear gas and water. I guarantee you, before long the whole area will be cleared—and the enemy will be behind bars.’”
“Simmons, what do you think, from the FBI’s perspective?” Cooper asks.
“Mr. President, it is insanity. But I wholeheartedly support it and will be sure that the FBI gives you all the resources you need. In unprecedented times, what sounds craziest makes the most sense.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Simmons. And Gibbons, I totally agree with your strategy and tactics. I’ll be meeting with my Corporate Council just minutes from now and informing them that I intend to implement the broad outlines of your plan. In fact, I’d like you to join me at the briefing. Please make fifty copies of your proposal we can pass out. After the meeting, I’ll sign a formal order, giving you the go-ahead.”
Twenty minutes later, smiling broadly, almost jubilant, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, Ham Cooper walks briskly into the Camp David conference room. All fifty of the members of his Corporate Council are waiting for him. The room is eerily quiet. Everyone is sitting stone-faced, staring ahead, steely eyed, arms crossed in front, lips pursed. Taking his place in the front of the room, the president asks Gibbons to pass out copies of “Operation Liberation.” Half of them decline to take it. Those who do don’t bother looking at it. They just look straight ahead.
“Friends, what you have in front of you is my administration’s plan for restoring peace and harmony to the nation’s capital. I know that all of us are troubled by the direction recent events have taken. But it is now time for us to act. And act we will—firmly and decisively. Defense Secretary Gibbons has developed what I believe is a brilliant strategy and, adding to it whatever useful perspectives and suggestions you share, I am prepared to implement ‘Operation Liberation’ immediately. As you can see from your copies of the proposal, it is a classic tactic of ‘Contain and Contaminate,’ as Secretary Gibbons has explained…”
“Mr. President,” Jonathan Smythe of Consolidated Industries shouts angrily, standing up, shaking his right fist and interrupting Cooper. “Mr. President, I told you back in June that your administration appeared to have lost control when the annual celebration at New Atlantis was rattled by ‘the voice from nowhere.’ Since then, things have gone from bad to worse. First, there was the Adam incident. Now, we have the Florida, Inc. debacle. You haven’t got a clue about your enemy—our enemy. All we know is that we’re being made to look like fucking idiots, and we’re losing the best chance we could have imagined to make billions. I’ll be the first to say it: Mr. President, you must resign. The CSA needs new leadership. To save the future of Free-for-All economics, you’ve got to get out of the way.”
“Mr. Smy…the,” Cooper replies, seething and barely able to pronounce his name. “Mr. Smythe, I will never resign. For you even to suggest that I do so is…”
“Mr. Smythe, please sit down,” Harold Klein of International Networks says. “Obviously, you’re agitated. And you have every reason to be. We all are. But let’s give Ham a chance to tell us his strategy before we take any drastic measures. We owe him that at least.”
“Thank you, Harold!” Cooper continues. “As I was saying, first we will contain the protestors in the capital by surrounding them with troops and fortifications. They will only be able to escape through exists we’ve created. Then, we’ll drop leaflets telling them to leave or face serious consequences and then…”
“Ham,” Mortimer Gayle of Gayle’s Department Stores says. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. But Ham, we’ve been friends a long time. I can’t let you go on like this. It’s simply too painful. I’ve been your loyal supporter, even when others weren’t. I’ve defended you again and again. I’ve lost millions of dollars because of you. Yes, you. Don’t look surprised when I say you…”
“Mortimer, please let me add something,” Aristotle Khouris says. “Ham, the members of my investment groups have told me that, as long as you remain president, they will not put any money into the CSA. Under Florida, Inc., for starters, they expected to be able to own all the airports and sea ports. But they don’t believe that will ever happen now. I did my best to defend you, just like Mortimer. But they wouldn’t listen. They’re even afraid that, because you’ve lost a grip on the CSA, their effort to take over countries A, B, and C is in jeopardy.”
Practically unable to speak, Cooper says, “But, gentlemen and lady…I’ve…”
“Ham, Mr. President,” Mortimer says somberly, rising and sympathetically shaking his head and pursing his lips. “Ham, I volunteered to be the one to tell you. You have no choice but to step down.”
“But I…You can’t,” Cooper says feebly.
“Yes, we can, Ham. Before coming here, the Corporate Council met in the capital so we could speak with one voice. All of us have signed a formal expression of ‘No Confidence,’ which, under the CSA Constitution, is tantamount to your removal from office.
“Friends, do I have to remind you about all the things I’ve done for you?” Cooper says pensively, pleading, slowly looking them in the eye, one by one. “Yes, I guess I do. Or, no, I should say, it appears it won’t do any good. I feel like I’ve been poisoned, as though someone I’ve loved and trusted for years has slipped a fatal dose of a slow-acting drug into my favorite cocktail and is watching me die, while I figure out what’s happening to me just before I lose consciousness.”
“Ham,” Mortimer Gayle says sadly, “please don’t make this any harder on yourself—or us. You know, the old saying: ‘You don’t produce, you’re outta here. Business is business.’ They’re your words. How many times have you told us you delivered them when you had to clean house? All of us consider ourselves your friends. We all hope you’ll s
till think of us that way, too. We’ve prepared a written statement for you to sign before releasing it to the press. As you will see, it simply says that, effective immediately, you have chosen to resign to spend more time with your family—and that you have withdrawn as a candidate for president. You throw your unqualified support to Vice President Moreland and to his replacing you on the November ballot. You thank all the citizens of the CSA, and its leading investors, and your Corporate Council for always standing with you. For security reasons, you will not be able to return to the White House. You may remain at Camp David until you apprise us of where you will be living, but you have no longer than seven days in any event. We will provide you with your farewell address to the nation, which you will deliver one week from today. Again, we all wish to remain your friends and wish you well.”
TEN
Enlisting, Evading, Enflaming
MONDAY, AUGUST 29, 11 A.M.: SOUTH OCEAN DRIVE, PALM BEACH, FLORIDA. For the past three weeks, if astronauts had been poised in outer space looking down on the CSA, they would have reported a mystifying phenomenon. For hundreds of miles, from every direction, clogging major roads and interstate highways, caravans of thousands of cars, trucks, and people on foot, bicycles, and motorcycles have created an almost unbroken chain headed to the Florida border. Since August 8th, when the full extent of the devastation caused by Hurricane Dick, the category 5+ storm that hit the Sunshine State, became clear, the Prometheus Project, in collaboration with Coopervilles nationwide, fired up “the people” to mobilize—and mobilize they did. And they keep coming.
Along the way, reporters stopped Mr. B, the “mayor” of the Central Park Cooperville, on I95, outside of Savannah, Georgia, among the first to head to Florida. “Do you really have to ask what we’re doing and why we’re doing it?” he replied in disbelief to a question he thought particularly naïve. “Have you seen pictures of what’s happened? Surely, you can see for yourselves. It’s the same old pattern: the CSA has abandoned its people. Florida has become the biggest Cooperville in the nation. There’s no government to rescue the millions of people stranded and desperate. They are literally crying for help. But, as we learned, right after the disaster, Cooper and his mob cynically connived in the comfort of the White House to make money from the misery of millions of helpless people. So, who better than all of us who have suffered to take charge when other victims are homeless and devastated?”
“But this has been called ‘the rich man’s hurricane,’” said one reporter. “Most of the people affected are well off. Why should you help?”
“Young lady, I’m sorry to say that if you can ask such a question, you’ll never understand my answer. Let’s just leave it at that. I’ve got to get going. There’s work to do. Honestly, I don’t have time for silly chatter.”
Along the route, once the media began reporting on the path of “the people’s march,” as they dubbed it, people who live nearby have been bringing food and water, tents, generators, and other vital supplies to the side of the road. They even set up portable toilets and showers. Local doctors and nurses have staffed medical tents. As one doctor put it, “Who can sit by when homeless people rush to help homeless people?” Volunteer patrols protect the marchers at night. Unfortunately, almost all roadside hotels and motels, convenience stores, restaurants, and gas stations refused to cooperate. As one franchisee of a national motel chain put it, “I’ve got to follow company policy. I’ve been told, all of us have been told, that anyone who can afford the price of a room is welcome. I ain’t in the charity business. My investors want profits or this place goes belly up and I’m outta a job. I ain’t gonna let no commie-lovin’ socialists clog up my toilets.”
In Palm Beach, in the headquarters of “the people’s” hurricane relief effort, a tent pitched where rubble has been cleared from the flattened condominium at 100 Worth Avenue, Mr. B, Wilson Brackett, III, head of internal affairs from the Central Park Cooperville, and Alma Parks, head of services, hold their daily assessment meeting of the statewide relief effort. Mr. B, along with other Cooperville leaders from around the country, surveyed the damage and needs throughout the peninsula and set up a coordinated plan to dispatch volunteers, based upon their skills, where they were needed most. They established three major points of entry (I10 from the west, I75 and I95 from the north). As volunteers enter Florida, they are assigned to one of eight service zones, then given jobs and directions to get them there. Daily, Parks updates the “needs” database, based upon reports from coordinators in the field. She has also established a census program that identifies the name and vital information for every volunteer, including where they are working. Everyone is issued a personal wristband when they cross an entry point. So far, 45,000 volunteers have flooded into the state—and hundreds more arrive every day.
“We still don’t have an accurate body count, and we probably never will,” Mr. B says, shaking his head from side to side and pursing his lips in disbelief. “It’s hard to imagine. One minute millionaires around here are living in mansions, the envy of everyone, thinking nothing can happen to them. Then, all of a sudden, they’re just like the rest of us, homeless and dazed, not knowing what to do next. There’s a group of about twenty men who still can’t face up to what’s happened. They keep asking me, ‘Where’s Tallahassee when we need them? Where’s the federal government?’ All I can reply is, ‘Where have you been? Didn’t you hear what the president and your governor were plotting with the Corporate Council? That wasn’t made up stuff. It was real. Those were their very words. You elected these guys! Didn’t you understand their agenda? Didn’t you understand that they’ve been out to screw you all long?’”
“I know how you feel, Mr. B,” Brackett adds. “Most people don’t ‘get it’ until it’s too late and, as soon as things get better for them, they go back to business-as-usual. But I can’t think of all that at the moment. We’ve got real work to do, right in front of us. We’ve almost got wireless service back in place statewide. But we’ve still got a major problem with explosions and fires from gas leaks. Most are under control. But we never know when or where the next one’s gonna erupt. In many places, you can smell the gas in the air. Otherwise, we’ve been making real progress. We’ve established eight service hubs across the state: four on the west side (Tallahassee, Gainesville, Tampa, and Naples), another three on the east side (Miami, Daytona Beach, and Jacksonville), and one in mid-central (Orlando). Since most major roads are now at least passable from Orlando, our central distribution point, we’ve finally been able to distribute portable showers, blankets, sleeping bags, toilets, generators, drinking water, and the like across the state.”
“That’s great, Wilson! Where’s all the stuff coming from?” Alma Parks asks.
“Haven’t any idea,” says Brackett. “All I know is it’s coming in—and going out as fast as we can get it to people. And that’s all I care about. The Prometheus Project sends daily updates nationwide listing what we need. Many volunteers are bringing supplies, stuff people have donated who’ve helped them along their route.”
“I wish I was having as much luck as you are,” Parks laments. “I’m seriously short of medical personnel—and supplies. Many, many victims have run out of their medications. We’re trying to get prescriptions refilled, but, unless their conditions are life-threatening, they are low priority. We’ve got seriously wounded victims, some who haven’t had any medical attention at all, living in the open—without even a tent or a sleeping bag. This morning I saw a woman with her broken arm in a makeshift sling, walking around dazed. By now, the whole world’s gotta know that Florida is a war zone. We’ve got dead and dying everywhere. But we haven’t even begun to get a handle on the situation.”
“Ever since volunteers from Cooperville have arrived,” Mr. B adds obviously troubled, “the biggest problem we’re having is with the guys who know what’s happened here and who only want to make a buck off of other people’s misery. They’ve been planting saboteurs in our feeding tents, or show
ing up themselves, saying that our stuff is contaminated and offering to sell food and water. In one case, they held up a dead rat they said had been found in a vat of soup, but which they brought in to scare people. They’re parking their helicopters on roads that we’ve cleared, making it impossible for our trucks to get through. People have been shouting them down. Some have attacked their helicopters with bats. Some of the money-grubbers have even been trying to hack into our wireless system to keep us from reaching people who might donate supplies. They won’t do anything unless people can pay. They stood by and let a house burn down because the owners didn’t have the cash to pay their fee. I don’t know what we can do, but we’ve got to do something.
“There’s some great news, however. Last night, we had confirmation that supplies from Mexico, Cuba, Venezuela, and Panama will be arriving at the Port of Tampa within two days. Phase two of the European relief effort is under way, as well. Supply ships should soon arrive at the Port of Palm Beach. Don’t despair, Alma, the whole world is watching—and helping—even if Washington and Tallahassee are doing nothing.”
Farther south on South Ocean Boulevard, where the historic Mara-Lago mansion was located before the hurricane leveled it, a large feeding tent has been set up in a clearing. As in similar tents across the state, preparations for the midday meal are well under way. Today, trucks from the Orlando central food distribution center arrived at 3 a.m. to supply the day’s rations. Volunteers began their preparations immediately. The first feeding went on schedule from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m. But several hundred men, women, and children are already in line for the next feeding. By the time the meal is over, hundreds more will have shown up. They don’t start serving until noon, so a young, redheaded man is making his way along the line, passing out snacks, especially to help quiet the ever-hungry kids. Mothers nursing infants and frail, older victims are let into the tent whenever they want.
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