by G L Rockey
“Like dogs with a racoon up a tree,” Mac said.
The President smiled. “General, did I ever tell you the time I was coon hunting. Had two coons up the same tree? Funniest damn thing you ever saw. I had the best coon dogs a man could have, Amos and Andygot them from a farmer over in Cobb County.”
Novak returned the conversation to the issue at hand. “It will surely steel the people’s resolve. When you show them our evidence then announce the invasion of the terrorist countries is underway, you will be hailed a national hero.”
The President furrowed his brow. “Leo, tell me how this domestic thing is going to come down again—the media, you know.”
“The plan is on track. You already have the power, but by tomorrow the American people, public opinion, will welcome your actions. You will explain the declaration of martial law has to be extended indefinitely to assure law and order. We’ll round up Beno and her nut supporters.”
“We’re ready for that, right, Mac?” The President teed off on a rhododendron.
“Ready.”
“The general is preparing a place for all the opposition, right, General?” Novak said.
“Right. We’re equipping a comfortable place for the opposition at Guantanamo II, construction of deluxe barracks, two to a bunk.” He chuckled. “All of them—much like the government successfully handled the aliens after Pearl Harbor, the Native Americans, reservations, all very humane,” Mac winked at Novak.
“Yeah, anyway, General, tell me again how we’re going to get this international thing cooking,” the President said.
Mac looked at his watch. “Lande is going to do guest shots on this morning’s TV news talk shows. She’ll confirm evidence of terrorist complicity in the Seattle and Boston Yards incidents, their supplying arms to insurgent groups within the States. That will be enough for you to invoke your Armstrong Doctrineannounce the invasion of terrorist and supporting countries.”
Armstrong smiled. “Our boys will blow the Beelzebub out of those pricks.”
Mac continued. “Yes, sir, and our NATO friends will be sucked in, not to mention our Israeli allies. We will be compelled to come to their defense, drop a couple of strategic nukes on the bad boys.”
Armstrong stopped. “No population centers.”
“No, no, in the middle of their sand pile so to speak, get their attention, then troops will go in and mop up in short order, two weeks, max.”
“What about those slant-eyes?” Armstrong drove a large pebble down the path.
Mac said, “If they refuse to play ball, a couple of cruise missiles over the bow, so to speak—Gobi Desert, Straits of Taiwan—strategically placed, will get their attention. We can cyber shut down the whole goddamn Great Wall if we want to, and our satellite lasers can fry any missel launch a hundred feet off the groundhey know it too.”
Novak nodded, “And our embassies in key countries are, as we speak, preparing to deliver a notice of such intention tomorrow morning at nine Eastern Standard Time, an hour before you’re scheduled to address the world.”
Mac continued. “They’ll be advised to stand down or be cinderized.”
“No population centers.” Armstrong cast a stern glance from the corner of his eyes. “I still can’t sleep over that Seattle thing. Paris, eh, never trusted them French sex maniacs anyway.”
Novak said, “It had to be done, Mr. President, for the greater good.”
MacCallister assured “Just warning shots, over the bow, so to”
“I don’t want to have any more bloodshed than is necessary. I hate that.”
Mac said, “Yes, sir, but as I said earlier”
“What earlier? Who said that?”
“You have to break a few”
“Oh, yes, right, eggs, omelet, anybody hungry? What about the Huns in Moscow?”
“We’ll throw them a couple bones.”
Armstrong said, “What about the Jew boys?”
“They get Jerusalem.”
“Sounds good to me. How about you, Mac?”
“Heck, yes, part of the deal.”
Novak said, “Six months. Six months and we’ll have this planet cleaned up.”
“Spic and span as my mother’s kitchen, God bless that gentle woman,” Armstrong said.
Mac rubbed his hands, “This is what we should have done thirty years ago.”
“Yes, thirty years ago. I was a young whippersnapper then, playing around on Daddy’s farm. Did I ever tell you about the time I darn near ran over a cow? Almost ruined my ol’ man’s Farmall tractor, too.” Armstrong smiled. “God a-mighty, what a time. Then I went to acting school.”
Novak steered the President back on track. “You, Mr. President, are about to see your new world order come into being, when all will be free and equal, where God intended His world to be. It is almost achieved. Pax Americana.” Novak clapped his hands in silent applause.
“What about ol’ Pax Beno? She’s got a piss pot full of supporters.” The President frowned. “What’s the latest spade poll?”
“That is moot, Mr. President. The election will be postponed indefinitely. Besides, Guantanamo II, remember, the crackpot will be getting a nice suntan.”
“Guantanamo?” Armstrong looked puzzled.
“The dissidents”
“Oh, yes, that, yes.”
Novak sighed, “Just think, tomorrow shall be the beginning of a new era in the evolution of humankind’s movement over the face of this planet. Oh, Mr. President, people will remember you, they will tell their grandchildren. We are on the eve of the re-ordering of Planet Earth. Think of it. Can you fathom the import of these times we are in—nay, the time we have begun? We are an elite few, the few who will give peace on earth to all races under the sun, obedient to the banner of democratic capitalism even more splendid than the Pax Romana.”
“Don’t get the horse before the cart, Pax Novak.” The President smacked a stone with his stick. “What’s this glitch with that prick Miami newspaper editor? I overheard something yesterday, Babs said something about a fax” The President paused and glanced at Novak. “Speaking of our Boston Bean big-mouth media whiz, when will that be taken care of?”
“The general has exit plans for Dr. Lande this very evening, right, Mac?”
“Roger.”
“Good. Ah, what was I saying?”
“A fax”
“Oh, yes, overheard Babs yesterday, somebody sent a fax to that prick Miami newspaper editorformer priest.”
“Zackary Stearn,” Novak said.
“I’d like to nail that self-righteous mackerel snapper once and for all,” Armstrong said.
Novak cleared his throat. “Not to worry, under control. Your harshest critic, editor of The Boca, he’s been asking a few questions. We traced a fax from Bimini to his office, nothing to worry about.”
“Bimini?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’d it say?”
“Some Bohemia code, we’re working on it.”
“Better watch that prick.” Armstrong smashed another stone. “That sorry, excommunicated poke of manure, Notre Dame guy, Irish prick, Catholic to boot, porking some young editor.”
“An employee, young enough to be his daughter.” Novak raised an eyebrow. “Mary O’Brien.”
“We have an eye on it.” Mac grinned.
Armstrong said, “What? You mean you got pictures?”
“Well, not exactly, but”
“What in deuces does that mean, not exactly?”
Novak intervened. “Mac’s satellite people are keeping track of Stearn, right, General?”
“Roger that,” Mac said.
“Where is he now?” Armstrong asked.
Mac said, “As we speak, last report, on a restored piece of floating junk, called Veracity, that he lives on.”
Armstrong furrowed his eyebrows. “Veracity?”
“A boat.”
“Figuresall the vices. Once them priests bolt, there’s
the Devil himself to pay, sowing all them pent-up wild oats.” Armstrong pursed his lips and clobbered another rock with his walking stick. He asked, “What was the Dow yesterday, Novak?”
“Just broke thirty thousand.”
“The bottom falls out Tuesday, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A little fear that will make this thing easier to sell to the American people.”
“A hundred billion shares, all Dow, will be dumped opening bell Tuesday.”
“Good, good. That ought to do it. I have any of that stuff?”
“No, sir, sold yours last week.”
“Gold. I mean, good, good.” The President wiped his left sleeve across a runny nostril.
Novak said, “And the general will disrupt commercial communication satellites right after your speech tomorrow morning.”
“Not my White House hook-up?”
“No, no, that will be preserved,” Mac said.
Armstrong said, “That’ll drive those TV jerks up Murphy’s creek without a paddle.” He frowned. “I can’t wait for that prick anchor at you-know-what network to squirm like a night crawler on a fish hook.”
“They’ll be writhing,” Novak said.
“Twelve hundred hours, Monday, Eastern Standard time.” Mac beamed.
“We’ll see what that does to their happy-talk news hour crap.” The President bashed a low tree limb with extra force.
“Yes, sir, exactly.”
“Perfect,” Mac said.
Novak said, “Everything is in motion as planned. It is amazing how smooth this whole thing is progressing.”
“It better go smooth.” Armstrong paused, took aim at a stone and crushed it straight as an arrow. Admiring the trajectory of his drive, he smiled. “’Cause if the press gets wind of what you boys are up to it’ll be time to call in the dogs, piss on the fire and go homefor both you guys.”
Novak and Mac exchanged concerned glances.
Chapter Forty Five
10:00 a.m. EST
Toting the New York Times and Miami Herald under his left arm, Zack entered, ten minutes south of Miami, a suite of the La Quinta Inn. He surveyed the cookie-cutter accommodations–beige living room walls, double window, green sofa, matching chair, kitchenette with two-chair table. In the living room, next to the sofa, a combination computer-video phone-TV sat on the top of a small writing desk. His eyes stopped at the kitchenette counter, where a tiny green basket with two red apples sat.
Jim, behind him, kicked the door shut. “What are we doing here?”
Zack slammed the newspapers on the sofa, walked to the apple basket and read the card taped to the side–Complimentary.
“Figures.” He looked at the small coffee maker and accompanying two packets of coffee. “Jim, how ’bout making some water?”
Jim walked to the kitchen. “Complimentary fruit basket, huh?”
“Small,” Zack said.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too.”
“Why don’t we just go to my place, I’ll fry us some eggs.”
“It’s bugged.”
“How do you know that?”
“Have an apple.” Zack pitched him one, took the other and took a large bite.
Jim put his apple on the counter and rummaged through a kitchen drawer.
“Looking for a bug?”
“Paring knife.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to peel this apple.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No.” Jim found a small knife and began paring. “I would have thought you would at least wash that apple of yours.”
Ignoring him: “So is The Boca, betcha. Veracity, too.”
“What?”
“Bugged.” He wiped his lips. “That’s why I told Ted to keep his mouth shut on board Veracity. I wanted them to think it was me on board bumping around.”
Jim closed his eyes and shook his head. “You need to get hold of yourself.”
“Eat your apple.” Munching, looking around, Zack went to the sofa. “You think this place could be bugged, too?”
“That’s crazy. Who knows we’re? I think this whole thing is a figment of your and Joe Case’s imagination.”
Chewing, Zack said, “You still doubt, don’t you, after all this, what we’ve been through the past five hours? You amaze me.”
“Just think about it. What if the Channel 10 video is legit and your wacko Bimini pal is faking it?” Jim finished peeling his apple and took a bite. “I’m betting on Channel 10.”
“Were you betting all this between pukes?”
“I’m eating.”
“Sorry.”
Jim pointed his apple at Zack. “Think about it. Joe Case versus the leader of the Western World.”
“Jim, the proof is in the pudding.”
“It doesn’t prove who made the pudding.”
Zack picked up the Times. “Look at that headline. CITIES UNDER SIEGE: RACE WARS SPREADING. Look at the Herald: PRESIDENT DECLARES MARTIAL LAW. You think all this stuff is a movie?” Zack said.
“I think it is what it is. You don’t believe it, either, do you?”
Zack wiped his hand across his face. “Maybe it’s more that I don’t want to believe.”
“Let’s face it, it’s damn hard to believe.” Jim chomped.
“Okay, so let’s go over the facts. What have we got?”
“You tell me, Bwana.”
Zack began with an index finger, “One, we’re under martial law, I know that. Two, violence in this city, I’ve seen that firsthand. Three, you’ve seen the television coverage. Four, I have this recording.”
Jim frowned. “Right, and the only thing that confirms that recording is Joe Wacko’s theorysome Pi lady plant. Give me a break. It comes down to who do you believe—President Armstrong or fruitcake Case.”
Zack thought a minute. “I think you’re letting your negative feelings for Case cloud your thinking.”
Jim contemplated. “What about you? Maybe your animosity for Armstrong is getting in your way.”
“Sometimes you have to go with your gut. And my gut is telling me Armstrong is a sonofabitch. Meanwhile, how about going down to The Boca, see what’s going on, and”
“What?”
“I was going to stay, post a story on our web page”
“Lots of luck, internet is out.”
“Anyway, I’m going to try to get Hoffman or Lockman, somebody at Channel 10, persuade them to broadcast this audio recording we got from Case.”
“Ditto lots of luck on that, Bwana, like fishing without a hook. And, like I said, what if you’re wrong, and it’s a fake?”
“I’ll look like what everybody in this town thinks I am, so what? And besides, it’s not a fake. You’re wrong.” Zack finished his apple and sat at the video phone. “How about making some coffee.”
“With two packets?”
“Never mind.” He looked at the keyboard. “This is a new one, how do you work this thing?”
“Turn it on first.”
“Right. How?”
Jim reached and pressed a button on the side. “What do you want, TV, phone, computer . .”
“Phone.”
“Type in ‘phone’ at the blinking cursor, or just click on the phone icon.”
“Amazing. What about how you turn on the boob tube first. Let’s get the latest installment of news.”
“Click the TV icon.” Jim moved the mouse under Zack’s hand, clicked and the screen came to life, along with another TV set in the far corner of the room.
“Amazing,” Zack said. “How do you change channel?”
“See where it says ‘TV, up, down?’”
“Genius, and how about going to The Boca.” Zack looked at him. “And please take that tie off.”
Jim stepped back to the kitchen area. “I worry that we’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Will you stop that? We’re not jumping to a
nything.
“Go to The Boca, put a story together, might as well keep our reputation spotless.” Zack surfed the muted channels.
“CNN is interviewing Sam Hawkins from Arizona. [click] Bloomberg has Marilyn Whetly...who is Marilyn Whetly?”
“Head of Transportation.”
“Interesting.” Zack continued to click. “ABC has Senators Schultz and Tackio, and there’s that infamous Channel 10 video again. [click] There’s some Chef’s new grill. [click] NBC is interviewing Mayor Carranza—Hey, our mayor is back.”
He pressed the volume up.
Wearing a red dress, looking vivacious, big hair, Mayor Carranza talking: “ and I returned from my trade mission to Rome as soon as I could. I simply don’t have all the facts yet. But I call on the citizens of Miami to please let us sort this all out.”
Latino female reporter: “But, Mayor, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
Carranza: “It’s never too late, dear. Right makes right.”
“Genius.” Zack clicked to another channel. “Jim look, Beno”
“I see.”
Zack increased the volume another notch.
Gray business suit, hair pulled back in a bun, Beno was well into a sound bite, “I’m certain of one thing. We must get control of this situation.”
Jim said, “She needs to do better than that.”
“Shut up.”
White male reporter, his name, Rod Reed superimposed over his chest, along side a BBC logo superimposed over the lower third of the screen: “But, Senator, the question was, what do you think of the President’s handling of this situation?”
Beno: “This is not a time for partisan politics. We must all come together on this and restore order. As you know, the President will address the nation tomorrow morning.”
Rod: “Well, thank you for talking to us, Senator. Back to you, Bruce.”
Shot of Bruce, white male, crew cut red hair, at anchor desk beside a TV monitor. Bruce smiled. “Thank you, Rod, and we now switch to Cairo for a report from our bureau chief, Meg Scott. She has more on the conspiracy theory reported by Egyptian Ambassador Kadid.”
On the monitor winsome blond Meg stood beside a short brown man in a blue suit.
Bruce: “Meg, so what is the latest in the land of the Pharaohs?”