The Journalist
Page 1
The Journalist
By G. L. Rockey
ISBN: 978-1-77145-171-0
Copyright 2014 by G. L. Rockey
Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2014
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. This book is a work of fiction and no created character in this book is of or about any person living or dead, except for true historical figures which are mentioned in context of their news media.
Prologue
4:00 p.m. EST
Sunday, May 25, 2020
Nearing the mouth of the Potomac River, Ensign Kelly Greene throttled back the pulsing engines of the restored presidential yacht, Benny I. Waiting for the craft to slow, she touched the right earpiece of her thick horn-rimmed glasses. The tiny receiver embedded in the opaque plastic frame confirmed that a wireless microphone, concealed on the quarterdeck, transmitted audio to the recorder she had taped under her belt.
She glanced at Benny I’s controls. Five knots. A guarded smile crossed her lips as she swung the ship’s wheel to port for a return run up river. As the craft slowly turned, she scanned, lounged around a small mahogany table on the quarterdeck, the object of her surveillance—U. S. President Benjamin P. Armstrong’s Elite Inner Circle. Better known as the E.I.C., the three-member team (affectionately parodied by the media in human brain anatomical terms—Medulla Oblongata, Cerebrum and Cerebellum) advised the President on everything from breakfast cereal to nukes.
Cerebrum, the head of the trio–Leo Novak, law professor emeritus, Harvard—fidgeted like a sparrow on a low-to-the-ground bird feeder. He blew his tiny beaked nose, cleared his throat, adjusted his rimless oval glasses, ran his hand over his slicked-back yellow hair, dusted the sleeve of his blue blazer and adjusted the collar of his white polo shirt.
Less jittery than Novak, Medulla Oblongata, head of Military Satellite Intelligence–General William “Mac” MacCallister, five-six, two hundred pounds, dress-blue Air Force uniform–teetered like an oversized Humpty Dumpty on the top edge of a ten-foot stone wall.
The third team member, Cerebellum, White House media guru Dr. Barbara Lande puffed on a thin seven-inch Montecristo cigar. At twenty-eight, the slender, six-foot Bean Town redhead wore a bright green blazer that matched her eyes. Tan slacks and white deck shoes rounding out the look, she mirrored a model out of Boating Weekly.
To the average onlooker, the six intense eyeballs of the E.I.C. might appeared to be set in three average people who savored some half-cooked bird that turned on a backyard barbecue spit. But veiled was a desire that washed the moment like a rare and exotic unseen sauce to please their White House bosses evangelical hunger to save the world.
Lande slid her left hand through her G.I.-cut hair and chatted: “It’s all perception, gentleman. Create the perception, and they’ll follow like sheep.”
“What about the goats?” Mac said.
Novak snickered.
Ignoring them, Lande savored another puff, said, “How do most people know for sure that China is really there? Read about it, see it on TV, scan the Internet–nobody feels the goods anymore. It’s all virtual, the only reality is water, fire, earth, the elements, atomic numbaahs, atomic weight, how they’re put together is all in the head of homo sapiens.”
Mac scratched his knees. “I’d say there’s a little more to reality than that.”
Novak nodded agreement, “Lande, I think you should stick with communications, lay off the science, and most of all get rid of those nasty cigars. ”
The throaty marine motors of the yacht gurgling in the background, Lande leaned back, studied the white ash on her cigar and said, “Brain tissue stirs ideas and out of the mouths of the word-making-mammal comes meaning, and the meaning becomes deeds put down toward the reordering of history that ends one reality and begins another.”
Novak raised an eyebrow. “And where is that from, Doctor?”
“My dissertation.” She tossed her cigar butt overboard. A gull swooped to snatch it from the water.
Novak gave a little sigh, batted his eyes, “Let me recap what President Armstrong and I discussed this past week at Camp David.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, with the latest unconscionable act in France the President believes that the time is ripe for a conclusive solution to international bickering, economic chaos and insane hit skip terrorism. He has no doubt in his heart that it is his divinely appointed destinya unique moment in the annals of this planet, in the context of history, that is, to conceive a new world order, to move forward in our combined human evolution with freedom and democracy for all the earth’s people.”
Mac offered a snappy nod of approval.
Lande rolled her eyes.
Novak continued, “The President also desperately wants to make the streets of America safe again for the average freedom-loving Joe and Jane Doe. In tackling the knucklehead global bad boy syndrome at its root, he intends to forge a new world peace under American protections and freedoms at home and abroad.” He looked at Mac. “He wants to utilize our cyber attack superiority, the military’s satellite pre-emptive missile technology, while we’re still on top.”
Lande said, “I always liked up top best.”
Mac whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Novak folded his arms. “So, Doctor Lande, why don’t you expand on this plan you have to accomplish the President’s mission?”
Lande stood. “As I was saying, gentlemen, it’s all perception”
Ensign Greene, concern in her eyes, pressed the temple of her horn-rimmed glasses to her ear–static, intermittent reception as Lande continued, “...they’ll...sheep...”
Hope for the best, she thought and made a small course correction, then settled back for the return trip to the Washington Naval Yard.
Chapter One
4:30 p.m. EST
Sunday, May 25, 2020
Pompano Marina
Homestead, Florida
With gusts of wind building to thirty knots, Biscayne Bay a churning bowl of four-foot white caps, his Sunday routine jilted by Mother Nature, fate, whatever, Zackary Stearn called it quits and set his heading ten miles south of Miami, his home port, Pompano Marina.
Twenty minutes later, he glided into his rented mooring, tied up, threw out two extra side bumpers and decided to get some back-burner work done before going to dinner.
Sitting in the galley of his RV and home, a forty-foot refurbished Chris Craft he had dubbed Veracity, he nursed a Glenlivet on the rocks and noodled around with what seemed an endless editorial.
The subject sloshed around several things: first, the current President of the United States, Benjamin P. Armstrong; second, Armstrong’s manipulation of the press; third, the shrinking number of newspapers in the U. S. of A; fourth, the cannibalism of information by blogs, social media’s glut of misinformation, the Internet; in general the whoring of information, news and otherwise.
Zack looked over his yellow-pad draft editorial notes:
In the beginning, so the story goes, there was darkness upon the face of the deep. From there the tale gets complicated. One supposition suggests there was some sort of Big Bang in the darkness—the Big Bang must have been really big because it was the beginning from which there evolved many mysterious things, earth being one of them, the current President of the U. S. of A. (Benny P. Armstrong) the other.
Moreover, said story reports, following this Big Bang, Planet Earth separated itself out from a plethora of other things and placed its
whirling blue-and-white mass in an ordered course around another wondrous object—the sun, of which Benny is the son (work on this). Then along came time (which also had started sometime around or before the big bang, maybe?) and moved forward for some reason in sixty-second minutes—hour cycles (think it has something to do with the sun, earth’s rotation, ancient Babylonians, look it up, etc.)—then, after many evened revolutions around the sun, there came upon Planet Earth living things—one of which evolved into a word-making mammal (credit Cerebellum, Dr. Lande, on that word mammal thing) Homo sapiens (one male and one female); and this species multiplied, subdued the earth and everything in it. Then came capitalism, then came journalism, then came television news, then came the internetso called “news” that makes yellow journalist look like Mother Teresa’s diary
He put his stubby pencil down, turned to his computer, accessed Google search engine and keyed in DAILY NEWSPAPERS, clicked search and read the first hit:
Dailies, newspapers, circulation - Spurred by the Internet’s ever expanding presence combined with mega-media international corporate takeovers, bloated staffs, albatross plants and soaring newsprint costs, many daily newspapers have gone the way of T. Rex. Adding to their demise is the economics that forced them to share a shrinking piece of the advertising pie dollars with television, radio, Internet, local cable news operations and satellite TV. A few giant newspapers still survive in print form: The Wall Street Journal, New York Times, L.A. Times, Chicago Tribune, Miami Herald. It is interesting to note that they are now mostly feature vehicles with hack-fiction writers producing supplements for local PTA groups and high school soccer news inserts. In some larger communities, small, cost-efficient weekly gazettes have become reliable niches for what is called in some circles ‘the meat of local news.’ Two of the more popular are La Voz of Los Angeles and The Boca of Miami.
The Boca being his newspaper, “Hear, hear,” Zack said, printed the page then read articles he had clipped as source material for his editorial.
The Wall Street Journal
March 15, 2020
New York — BLUE CHIP industrial stocks soar to record numbers amid rumors of Armstrong’s global military posturing.
WSJ, (Page 1-A) OIL DEMAND FIVE FOLD
With China and India hell bent into the personal car business, the thirst for oil to keep the machines running is causing an insane scramble in international oil markets. Who would have thought a slippery substance buried in the earth for billions of years would become so valuable.
World oil producer nations raise prices — In its latest move a cabal of oil producing nations has raised the monthly average basket price of a barrel of oil to an all-time high of $165 per barrel.
With alternate fuel production trumped by other concerns, electric vehicle cost out of reach, the price at the gasolene pump in the USA at $8.50 a gallon, President Armstrong promises swift action. He noted that the increase has pushed the cash flow to oil producing nations to over a billion a month of America’s hard-earned dollars. Noting “We being first, Henry Ford and all, are entitled to lower prices.”
The New York Times
April 26, 2020
Paris — The Eiffel Tower Toppled
Over 5,000 people lost their lives when an explosive device was detonated in the French capital. An Internet message from the terrorist group UR2 claimed responsibility. Saying violence only begets more violence, France officially remains committed to nonviolence. A government spokesperson blamed the policies of Israel and America’s nuclear support of the Jewish state for the world’s chaos.
The Washington Post
May 1, 2020
Washington, D.C. — Vermont’s pugnacious in-your-face Senator Nancy Beno is making a strong November run at incumbent Benjamin P. Armstrong for the Presidency. Beno, the World Socialism candidate, pledges to open a dialog with Islamic States and, while guaranteeing Israel’s security, dismantling Israel’s nuclear threat.
The Boca
May 6, 2020
Miami — Johnny-come-lately politician President Benjamin Armstrong has reacquired the historic presidential yacht, U.S.S. Sequoia. In re-naming the storied vessel Benny I, the former ABC sit-com star and converted television evangelist said, “It’s time America got back to her bedrock Christian roots.”Some say Benny should get back to his South Carolina roots too, and for good.
Zack sipped his Glenlivet and smiled. Partial to his own writing, he liked the last article best. The others, every time he read them, conjured wonder about words, reality and fiction.
His cell phone began to ring. Checking caller ID, he saw it was Mary O’Brien, thought about answering, decided not to and, the phone still ringing, left for a cold Bohemia beer and his favorite torrid Mexican food at the Bimini Road Café.
Chapter Two
Two weeks later
5:30 p.m. EST
Sunday, June 15, 2020
The White House
In his book-lined West Wing office, Leo Novak—in blue Polo shirt, tan Dockers slacks and black Gucci loafers—stood beside a twenty-five-inch floor-stand globe of the Earth. Sipping a cocktail, turning the orb slowly, he continued a conversation with Dr. Barbara Lande.
“Our quest, Babs, is essential for the elevation of the human species on Planet Earth.”
Lande, in red blazer, white silk slacks and red pumps, lounging in a maroon wingback chair, rolled her eyes, held up her cocktail, “The sweet vermouth helps, don’t you think?”
She referred to her special brew of Long Island Iced Tea they both drank from blue White House goblet.
Ignoring her remark, Novak, engrossed in his lofty thoughts, said with some distaste, “Beno, all those people, the unwashed, they don’t get it, never will.”
Taking a cigar from her jacket pocket, Lande said, “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes.”
She lit up anyway.
Novak paused then continued his thought, “Freedom is not absolute and equality is not true of everyone.”
“I can attest to thatbeen in the Patriots’ locker rooms many times.”
Novak looked down his nose. “You do understand the magnitudethe implicationsour place in the chronicle of world history, don’t you?”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?”
Resigned, Novak sat behind his spindle-legged Renaissance desk. “The President simply loved your idea.”
“How could he not? It’s genius, if I do say so myself.”
Ignoring her, or not hearing her, Novak leaned back. “So, how is this going to work?”
Hearing the door open, Novak and Lande watched as MacCallister, flushed and disheveled, entered. He wore weekend khaki fatigues.
“Where you been, Mac?” Novak said.
“Tied up.” He teetered.
“Who was she?” Lande said with a smile.
MacCallister ignored her as he sat on a ten-foot white tufted sofa that faced Novak’s desk.
Novak held up his White House goblet. “Have some Long Island Tea?” He indicated a shiny chrome tumbler sitting in the center of a narrow coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Mac leaned forward and poured a goblet of the potent mixture. He took a drink and frowned.
Novak said, “That’s the sweet vermouth.” He looked at Lande. “To Doctor Lande’s liking.”
“Figures,” Mac said.
Lande saluted with her goblet. “Saludo.”
Novak said, “We were just chatting, Mac. Ah, did you see this morning’s Post?”
“I didn’t get to it yet.”
“Ha,” Lande said.
Novak continued, “Shows Beno ahead of the President by fifteen percentage points.” He shook his head. “The attention span of the American people is truly amazing.”
Lande crossed her legs and puffed on her cigar. “You’d think Beno was servicing those network TV news jerks. Can’t believe those weenies. Every week the same lick-it-up crapola—Senator Beno offers new plan t
o reduce taxes; Senator Beno asks for cap on business profits; Senator Beno demands list of the President Armstrong’s corporate supporters; Senator Beno promises negotiation with terrorists” She formed a zero with her index finger and thumb. “Facking losers.”
Mac took a long drink, set his glass down, gripped his knees with his hands and mocked Beno’s campaign slogan. “I’m tired of trickle-down economics. I want to percolate it up.” He stared at Novak through narrowed, tank-slit eyes. “I could arrange an accident for that bitch in a second.”
Novak shook his head down to the neat peak of his chin like a wet Labrador retriever shedding water. “No, no, no” He sat up and leaned over his desk. “Any action of that character would give the media boobs a field day. Many problems, many problems—remember the sixties with all those asinine assassinations, dippy songs. Besides, if Beno were removed there’d be ten nincompoops standing in line to take her place. It is not Beno, it is the insanity of her position, that left-wing socialist position, that must be purged from our thinking, all thinking.” He took a drink of Tea, propped his feet up and said, “No, no, no accidents.”
Novak studied the ceiling for a moment then said to Mac, “Suppose you didn’t see the Times, either?”
“I heard about it on the radio. Those French wee-wee’s are smoking something, always have been.”
Novak replied, “After they lose their national phallic symbol, five thousand little Pierres, they’re blaming everything on us and Israel.”