The Journalist

by G L Rockey

  Lande: “One thing can screw it up.”

  Novak: “What’s that?”

  Lande: “Time frame. All has to happen like a bat out a Mathaa’s Vinyard. Two days. Hands down, three, in the bag(static)like I said(static)Labor Day weekend would be perfect. If it goes any longer than three days some drink water jerk journalist is gonna start asking questions(static)snooping around.”

  Mac: “I can take care of communications links, satellites, Internet—that can go down anytime.”

  Lande: “Not anytime. Friday the Internet, Labor Day the media satellites, cable, TV”

  Mac: “right.”

  Lande: “Like I said, it’s all perception, good people.”

  Novak: “And so, Dr. Lande, just one thing concerns me.”

  Lande: What’s that?

  Novak: “What is the out for the President if this thing goes boo in the night?”

  Lande: “Easy—some crackpot white supremacist Ku Klux(static)nut cakefaked a video, TV got snookered in, we all nearly got had. Lesson for the press. Ben’s clean as a Jayhawker’s dick.”

  (static)

  Novak: “You understand, Ms. Babs, if this doesn’t work we will all be hanged.”

  MacCallister: “By the nuts.”

  Lande: “Maybe you guys.

  (Laughter)

  Joe turned the machine off.

  Zack sat in silence for a minute.

  Jim fidgeted.

  Zack stood. “When did you say this was taped?”

  “Three months ago, May twenty-fifth.”

  Jim smirked. “Three months ago Why’d it take so long for you to get this so-called bombshell out?”

  Joe said, “You heard it—all the pieces fit now, long weekend, Labor Day, the Miami copsthe videowhat do you need?”

  Zack said, “Funny thing about deceit, once it’s put into words it has a sweet stink about it.” His shoulders slumped, he didn’t know what to do. Rage would be futile, fear would be stupid, pity was more like it. It’s a dream. He pinched his wrist. Nope. Pinched again. Fiction. Nope. He looked up to the ceiling. You writing this stuff?

  Still doubting, Jim said to Joe, “Where did you get that recording? I demand to know where it came from.”

  Zack shook his head and whispered, “They made it up.”

  “We have sources,” Joe said.

  “Who is we?” Jim said.

  “I can’t go into that now.”

  “Oh, wowhow do we know you’re not a fake?” Jim said.

  “How do we know?” Joe turned to the lady escort at the door. “Please.”

  She stepped to another door, opened it, and Kim entered the room. Joe held his hand out. “Zackary, you remember Kim.”

  She extended a hand, “Hello, Zackary.”

  “Kimhow are you?” Zack stood and embraced her. “Meet Jim Roberts.”

  Case said, “Tell them, Kim, where you got the audio tape.”

  “A Pi sister, Ensign Kelly, taped this meeting aboard the President’s yacht.”

  “Wait a minuteI don’t believe that,” Jim said.

  Joe leaned back, pointed his cigar at Jim and jokingly said to Zack, “Who is this guy?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Jim shot back.

  Joe said, “Okay, hotshot, we got three people doing dandy good impressions of Armstrong’s brain goons. I wrote a script, recorded it and all so Zack here could take you on a midnight cruise to Bimini, just to fool you. Makes a lot of sense, don’t it, boy.”

  “What Wait a minute you big-foot fruitcake, don’t call me boy”

  Zack touched Jim’s arm. “Do you really want to quibble the matter, right now, in light of what is happening in the universe?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I still don’t believe it,” Jim said.

  Zack puffed his cigar. “Mr. Roberts, your objection is noted. Now please, shut up.”

  Kim added, “Why would we go to the bother? Ask yourself that.”

  Joe moistened his cigar with his tongue, opened a drawer, removed several glossy black-and-white photographs and threw them on the desktop.

  “Look at the pictures we took just today.” He stood and began to pace. “Why are the Seabees building all those barrack like structures, hundreds of them, at Guantanamo?”

  Zack glanced at the pictures, “You tell me.”

  “Ten to one, they’re expecting a few of Benny’s opposition.”

  Zack studied the pictures. “Look at these, Jim.” His mind moved ahead in megabytes. He looked at Joe. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Jim studied the photographs. “How do I know this is Guantanamo?”

  “Ever been there?” Joe said.

  “Well, no, but I’ve been to Puerto Rico.”

  Joe said, “Believe me, that’s Guantanamo.”

  Zack sputtered, “I don’t know what to say. I have never not known what to say in my entire life.” He looked at Jim. “Have I?”

  “Not that I know.” Jim shook his head. “This is preposterous.”

  Zack looked at Case then Kim then Case. “Are you sureI mean”

  “No,” Joe, agitated, said. “We made all this up to play a trick on you.” He held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. “For what? Gimme a break, Zack, I have better things to do with my time.”

  Lightning illuminated the night, the lightbulb over Joe’s desk dimmed; in the distance it thundered.

  Zack nodded. “We have to get back. I’m assuming you have a copy of this recording.”

  “Yes, this one is yours, you better hurry.”

  Joe took the disc from the machine and handed it to Zack.

  Tucking the disc in his breast pocket, Zack said to Joe, “One thing’s bothering me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Why me?”

  Joe smiled. “Cause I like you, booby.”

  “Booby” Jim shot up.

  Zack paused then said, “We need a lift back to our boat.”

  Kim said, “We’ll get you backbut there’s a pot full of U.S. Navy in the Atlantic, and” She pointed out the window. “the storm coming up. Be careful.”

  Zack nodded. “Let’s go, Jimbo. This may be the biggest journalism day in your young life, mine, too, let’s go for a boat ride.”

  Chapter Forty Three

  2:30 a.m. EST

  Churning clouds obscuring the moon, the pending storm drew close and the sea whipped three-foot black waves. Gusts of wind swept sea spray over the bow. The engines of Top Gun echoed pulsating whines.

  Gripping the craft’s wheel, Zack called over the din to Jim who stood to the left clutching a handrail, “Jimbo, how you feeling?”

  “Super.”

  “Think of it this way, we’re challenging the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Triangle’s winning.”

  “I knew this thing went straight to the top.”

  Jim called, “I still think crazy Joe’s tape is a fake.” He wiped a spray of salt water from his face.

  “Jimbo, you’re a journalist, put it together_feed the media unconfirmed reports, stir up some racial stuff, add a trumped-up story about fighting terrorism to protect freedom, motherhood, apple pie, the childrenand, oh, by the way, temporarily suspend the Constitution. Vintage Lande media manipulation; she’s a genius at it.”

  Jim clutched the railing. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Go over the side.”

  Jim heaved over the side.

  “Don’t fall overboard,” Zack said.

  Jim leaned back. “Where’s that bottle?”

  “Here.” Zack handed him the bottle of Glenlivet and picked up where he left off about Armstrong. “Then Armstrong goes to Camp David to make it look good.”

  “Going to Camp David just made sense.”

  “Why are you defending that sack of spineless jackass?”

  Jim wiped his mouth. “Why are you defending that phony nut case, J
oe Case?”

  “It’s a matter of which nut you choose to believe.”

  “And I’m dealing with three.”

  “You talking about me?”

  “Yes”

  “Jimbo, after all we been through”

  “I don’t careI’m” He heaved over the side again.

  “Take another drink, settles the inner ear.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Zack checked his heading—west-southwest. “Don’t you see a pattern in all this?”

  “No.”

  “I do.”

  “I knew you would.” Jim wiped his face.

  “Each event seems simple enough, but when you put everything together you get a whole that is brilliant.” Zack adjusted course to due west.

  Jim slugged the bottle again and steadied himself as the craft skimmed a cross-swell. “Bwana, what if you’re wrong?”

  “When is the last time I was wrong?”

  “Right.” Jim called over the smack of hull against waves. “If you’re right, if we don’t get shot, if your loco friend is telling the truth, got a recording from some Super Fly, the question is, what are we going to do about it after we both get dead?”

  “You really are a pessimist at heart, aren’t you?”

  Lightning cracked just off starboard.

  Zack gripped the wheel. “You better put your life jacket on.”

  “For what?” Jim said. “To drown more slowly.”

  “Jimbo, trust me.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “About what?”

  “If Case is right, what are you going to do about it?”

  “We’re going to print it.”

  “No, we’re not.” Jim slugged the bottle again. “We’re going to die in the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Luck, fate, heaven, hell.”

  “Ohhh.” Jim steadied himself as Top Gun skimmed yet another swell. “My luck, your fate.”

  “If you only knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Nothing.” They rolled forty-five degrees to port, Zack struggled with the wheel. “You know who we haven’t heard from in any of this?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Our Congressional leaders.”

  A five-foot wave doused the cockpit. Jim’s knees buckled, “We’re going to die”

  Zack called over the chaos, “Armstrong’s goons planned this thing perfectly. Congress back home on Labor Day break, eating corn on the cob with their constituents.”

  “Ooooh. Jim heaved over the side.

  “Watching the same TV doo-dah-day we’ve all been watching on the boob tube for the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Ooooh.” Jim hung on as the craft yawed sideways.

  “You okay?”

  Out of the water, the twin props whined as Top Gun slammed into another series of surging waves. Rain began to spit.

  “We’re going to drown” Jim said.

  “Little swells. Nothing to worry about. Listen, we have to contact Beno when we get back.” Zack swung the wheel heading due north.

  “Why are we changing direction?”

  “Relax.”

  “Why are we turning?”

  “Somebody up there where they shouldn’t be.”

  “Again?”

  “Anyway, we need to contact Beno when we get back.”

  “If we get back.”

  “We’ll get back. We have to.”

  Jim wiped saltwater spray from his forehead. “I could have been a lawyer.”

  “If anyone can derail this thing, Beno can. She’s got to KO that son of a bitch Armstrong in Novembershe has toif there is an election.”

  “If there is an election? Zackary, you simply have to get to a shrink.”

  Lightning illuminated the blackness in front of them. Splitting thunder cracked the air. A drenching squall began.

  Zack, over the chaos: “Beno is right.”

  Jim yelled, “You’re crazy. You’re crazy.”

  “Do you grasp what Beno has been saying?” Zack braced himself as they shot off a wave at twenty degrees.

  Jim clutched the railing. I don’t care.

  “She’s talking beyond any system of economics we now havebut greed stands in the way, a select few now control roughly ninety-five percent of the world’s wealth. Too many are getting the short end of the stick. ‘Silver and gold shall not deliver them in the day of the wrath.’ Ezekiel seven-something.”

  Jim mumbled, “Oh, my God, he’s quoting the Bible.” He shouted over the torrential rain, “Zackary, your Jesuit slips are showing.”

  “Take another slug.”

  Jim hit the bottle again.

  “Better?”

  “No”

  They smacked a five-foot wave and pitched thirty-five degrees.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” Jim prayed.

  The boat righted itself. Lightning struck ten feet astern.

  Jim crossed himself. “I just hope you can walk on water.”

  “Call it what you like, the proof is in the pudding.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “What you said.”

  “Pudding?”

  “Yes.” Jim slugged the bottle and gave it to Zack.

  A swell jolted Top Gun and she swung ninety degrees.

  “What was that?”

  “Not to worry, Jimbo, Bermuda Triangle, probably ghosts from missing Flight 19.”

  “You think that’s funny, don’t you, real funny. Gimme that bottle back.”

  Zack looked at his compass and wiped saltwater from his face. He turned back to a heading due west. “Should be seeing the night lights of Miami in fifteen minutes. Keep an eye out.”

  “Zackary, you’re insane.”

  Zack glanced at the raging fury of water all around. “You know, Jimbo, I agree, but sometimes I think I’d rather be insane than what is currently being offered as the other optionn either case, I’d give it all away to be out of here and over thereto know for sure, know once and for all what’s over there.”

  Jim heaved over the side.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Sunday, August 31

  9:00 a.m. EST

  Camp David

  Rays of morning sun light streaking through the dense evergreen and deciduous tree canopy, the crisp air yielding a hint of an early winter, President Armstrong, Professor Novak, and General MacCallister strolled a Camp David trail.

  Skipping alternate steps to keep up with the long strides of Armstrong. Novak wore his favorite brown tweed jacket, while the President perspired inside his red-white-and-blue warm-up suit. MacCallister, in full dress uniform—hat, medals, five stars—exuded confidence.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Novak beamed. “Well, Mr. President, are you pleased with our progress so far?”

  The President flicked a twig with his hickory walking stick, “Yes, yes, but I’m baffled at the ease of it all. This media thing” He paused a moment to think. “It’s like that big buck rhino I shot—remember, Mac?—on that trip to Africa. Damn thing was a giant, awesome, and at the same time so doll-gone stupid.” He scratched his groin. “You know those damn things mate for an hour.”

  The general laughed.

  Novak smiled

  The President stopped to poke at an anthill. “Look at them little buggers run.” After a minute of poking around, crushing some ants, he resumed the walk. “Anyway, what were you saying, Leo?

  “Our progress”

  “Oh, yes, this current thing, progressof course, this is more than we could have hoped for. But, II hate all thetheyou know, doll-gone carnage.”

  Mac puffed. “You gotta break some eggs to make an omelette.”

  Novak fluttered his eyelids at the hackneyed expression.

  Armstrong: “I know, Mac, butthe women and children” A small tear formed on the side of Armstrong’s bulbous red nose.
/>   Novak knew when to come to the aid of the President’s discomfort. “Mr. President, all great changes in history have come at the expense of some human sacrifice. Since the beginning of time it has been so. I would dare say early man shed a little blood when they tried to decide who would pass the flame on and to whom.”

  “Yes, I know, I wasbut I’m always distressed with the loss of human life.”

  Mac had a thought on the subject. “God knows, many of your heroes spilled some blood–Saul, David, Sherman, Patton, Bush–many people were sacrificed in the name of righteousness.”

  “Many were screwed, too,” Armstrong said.

  Novak changed the subject. “Mr. President, you were wonderful on TV yesterday. The stage is set in the public’s mind. Tomorrow you will speak to the citizens of the world.”

  “You know those boys from the Hill are going to be damn roasted about being out of town their fall recess and all, you guys shutting down everything, me not making this speech on the Hill.”

  “That’s the plan,” Novak said.

  “I know, but, doggone it, I was going to get in a little hunting myself, down at the farm. But this isthis has to be done. It’s just the doll-gone timing. Why couldn’t we have done it on Columbus Day or Martin Luther King Day? I just know some of those boys are going to be upset about not being able to get back to DC.”

  “They’re all giving sound bites to the media, though, blabbing up a storm,” Mac said.

  “Let ’em, might be their last chance,” Novak said.

  Armstrong chuckled. “Them boys over on the Hill sure like that TV coverage. Some of ’em even have makeup artists, full time, on their staffs. You believe that, Mac?” He winked. “Some of ’em need it.” He poked an elbow toward Mac and smiled. “Right, Mac.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Novak kept the President on track. “When you make the announcement tomorrow, Mr. President, confirming our evidence that the Seattle incident was a terrorist attackit will be of little consequence, anyway.”

  “What was that?”

  “Terrorist, foreign government involvementyou remember”

  “Are you kidding? Of course, I remember. I justI’ll go over the script, I mean speech, tonight.”

  Novak: “When they see the foreign conspiracy evidence, the people will rally around you.”