LIARS the News Industry

by Frank B. Thompson III

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - DAY THREE

  As the sun rose it cast long shadows from every pebble and rock. Karl sat down with the team in a slight depression of the desert surroundings where nothing was said. Each mechanically took up a position for perimeter defense. They tried to catch some sleep. Unnecessary contact with the locals was avoided. Water was running short. They only moved at night. In the daytime they bivouacked, and remained hidden again until nightfall.

  Tonight, Karl's team would be forced to leave the protection of the mountains and make a mad dash toward the Iraqi border.

  Sean crouched down next to Karl.

  “What now?”

  Karl shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough. When it gets dark we’ll make tracks for as long as we can to the west.”

  “That’s it?”

  Karl laughed. “Yes, that’s the plan, either we make it out of here alive, or we die trying. We are on our own."

  Sean replied with the devil of a smile. "I can guarantee you this, if we do go down, it won’t be before we send a few more of those Quds guys on to paradise.”

  ----------

  WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Nathan Martinez stood in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office as the fawning media snapped away with their cameras. On either side of the President stood the Senate Leader Jim Rooney and House Majority Leader Patricia Bocchino. It was a historic time for the country, the first member of a minority to be elected to the highest office in the land. The “Martinez Era” had officially begun.

  National elections offered a glimpse into how the news moguls influenced the make up of both political parties. During the primaries, the publishers threw weight behind the Republican candidate with a history of voting in opposition to his party on key issues. The most recent illustration was the news industries backing of a longtime Arizona Republican senator who also happened to openly support legislation that would have forever changed the political landscape, legalizing aliens. If the news barons’ ultimate candidate were to lose his, or her bid for President, the moderate would have been the lesser evil.

  During the primaries there was little the other Republican candidates could do to offset the hundreds of millions of dollars the publishers threw behind the moderate in the guise of journalism. Once the opposition for the Republican Senator had been dispatched, and their selection of candidates won his or her primary, the publishers quite naturally turned their news businesses on them, conducting themselves in much the same way they had with any Republican.

  In over a century, the media had never once been able to find anything closely resembling an “October Surprise” on a Democrat Presidential candidate. The coup de grâce for a politician’s campaign, it would surface magically in October, usually two to three weeks before the election for the biggest effect. Martinez had also magically escaped being tarnished. If the publishers and their armies of reporters ever uncovered something damaging on their candidates, any Democrat candidate, as a normal course of conducting business, they would naturally bury those discoveries.

  The last Republican to experience an “October Surprise” was President William W. McKinley and to show the lengths the publishers would go, a month before his reelection a World News Network reporter dug up a letter purported to come from McKinley’s past. The 70's era typewritten document was put forth as the evidence. The entire news industry ran with the story and the plan nearly worked. Referred to as “Memogate,” the letter showed the President had escaped a tour in Vietnam due to family connections. McKinley’s poll numbers began to fall precipitously and if it were not for the efforts of ordinary citizens, a typology expert and the internet, who exposed the document as a fake, his political career would have been finished.

  When the last traditionalist news agency, The Daily, disappeared a century earlier, there was nothing to hold the publishers accountable. As the news industry's propaganda grew in audaciousness and deceit, there was nothing except ordinary citizens left to discover the truth. Without the internet, however, even that would not have mattered.

  The stakes for national elections were every time high, but particularly so when ALL Washington was up for grabs, as was the case this year. With Democrats in charge, the results were always further encroachments on the traditions of American life. The Democrats would have free reign in the appointment of federal judges, activists who would legislate from the bench. The federal government would invariably grow, and regulation would increase, as would taxes to pay new, grandiose programs.

  The election, however, had not proven to be a mandate for significant change. Even with the cards stacked entirely in the Democrat’s favor, Martinez only managed to carry fifty-three percent of the popular vote. It was a sign to the political handlers that the Democrat had to continue with the charade of a moderate, and the cue cards would continue to be necessary. The extreme ideologue that lurked just below the surface had to remain hidden from public view, even as Martinez rushed to implement an agenda that would force the nation to a point of no return, hopefully before the next presidential election.

  A President’s aide stepped in front of the ‘Press Pool’ and announced, “Okay, that’s it for now. Thank you.” The aide ushered the reporters toward the door with his arms like he was herding goats to pasture as the President and his Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank, and the Congressional leaders, Sen. Jim Rooney and Rep. Patricia Bocchino departed out a side door.

  “Jim, Pat, thanks for making an appearance.”

  “The pleasure was ours, Mr. President,” replied Rep. Bocchino with her bright teeth-filled smile. Sen. Rooney nodded in agreement.

  “Well, I’m confident you two have business to take care of up on The Hill. I will see the two of you again tonight at the celebratory dinner.”

  “Very good, Mr. President,” replied Sen. Rooney with his somber looking grimace that was his version of a smile.

  Martinez at the moment looked sternly at his Chief of Staff. “Nelson, you and I need to talk.”

  "Yes, Mr. President?"

  “Let’s talk in private.” The Chief of Staff followed the President and his long lanky strides. Nelson, shutting the door behind him, took a seat after Martinez had taken his.

  "Nelson, why are you insisting we meet with Mitchum? He’s going to be gone in a matter of days, if not hours, if your plan works.”

  “Mr. President, it is simply a formality. A simple meeting, so we won’t raise any red flags.”

  Martinez, again glanced critically at Nelson. “How quick?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “All right, ten minutes. I want you there as well.”

  “I understand, I’ll make the arrangements.”

  ----------

  Derrick noticed the new President looking at his watch every minute, or so, a clear sign that Martinez considered this meeting a complete waste. That struck Derrick as fine, as he did not want to be there either; he had better things to do. It was odd, however, that Martinez insisted he meet him on this, the first week of his presidency, especially taking into account this treatment.

  Most past Presidents understood the value his group brought to the table, a unique kind of power, their own private little army. Most past presidents, even the Democrats, had been somewhat interested in the operational aspects of SAD, but Martinez was exhibiting signs of no such interest. It was as if the President were simply going through the formalities dictated by his position.

  Martinez had said hello and gone into what amounted to a two-minute elevator pitch on why the public loved him and why the new president was such a great man. The President must have used “I” at least two-dozen instances within that short time.

  Sitting next to the President was his Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank, who did most of the talking, no questions just talking. It would have been okay except the Chief of Staff was not saying anything of significance. All Derrick could do was sit quietly and try to stay awake.

  Kosovo, then Somalia we
re Derrick's first taste of a Democrat in office. At the time, it was obvious to everyone, except the media, that those missions served no American interests. No, the only thing those missions did was to elevate President Evenson in the eyes of non-Americans. Derrick would never forget those good men who had fallen just to prop-up that Democrat’s international magnanimity.

  Nine minutes into the forum an aide knocked on the door, stepped in and ended Derrick’s misery.

  Derrick was just picking up his briefcase when Nelson spoke up one last time. “Director Mitchum, one more thing. I almost forgot to ask, are any of your teams currently on missions abroad?”

  That is a hell-of-an-odd question, thought Derrick.

  The Director was convinced he spotted a momentary look of glee in the eyes of the Chief of Staff as he waited for the answer.

  What the hell is going on here?

  Derrick addressed the question by looking at Martinez, dressing down the Chief of Staff. “Mr. President, written directives from your office are carried out without question.”

  The President all of a sudden appeared upset. “Director Mitchum, are you saying you are carrying out missions without my knowledge?”

  Mitchum’s first thought, I need to avoid answering that question.

  “Mr. President, all missions ordered by President McKinley are coming to closure. I know you must realize my organization falls under the jurisdiction of the CIA.”

  Derrick could easily tell this guy had no idea what he was talking about; both President Martinez and Nelson Frank were completely off base and uninformed. Now was time to muddy up the waters a bit.

  “Under CIA Charter A009J-32, written directives are carried out up to the point when those combat soldiers on mission are out of harm’s way.”

  Martinez peered at Derrick with a cold, harsh look that said he was not used to hearing the word “No,” in so many words, very often.

  The President saw he was not intimidating the Director with his glaring eyes and turned to his Chief of Staff. “Haven’t you got something to say?”

  Nelson responded in the only way he could, as the Chief of Staff recognized Derrick was likely right. “Director Mitchum is correct, Mr. President. The Charter Director Mitchum mentioned is there to protect the lives and safety of covert operatives in the field.”

  The President’s look was one of anger. Martinez could not accept the fact that they had been had, that he could not play the game he was trying to pull, whatever it was. Derrick sat quietly as Martinez turned his gaze back to him and with anger in his voice, the other shoe dropped.

  “All I’ve got to say to you Director is you’re treading on very thin ice. You may be used to doing things a certain way...”

  “Mr. President!” Nelson raced to cut Martinez off before the President said anything damaging. “Mr. President, we’re already late...”

  The President, without shifting his gaze from Derrick raised his voice. “Shut up, Nelson! Director Mitchum, you may have been used to doing things a certain way, but that’s all going to change under me. If you can’t overcome some bureaucratic red-tape then I’ll find someone who can.”

  “Mr. President, if I may,” interjected the Chief of Staff.

  Martinez did not respond to the Chief of Staff. “Do you understand me, Director?”

  “I understand you perfectly, Mr. President.”

  One could hear a pin drop with the silence that descended in the room as Derrick waited to see what Martinez would do or say next. It appeared Martinez was finished with his tirade.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”

  There was no response, just seething anger from someone who had not gotten their way.

  Derrick needed to get the Black Angel team back, and quick. This staged event of the President’s was going somewhere. This new administration could not have had anything to do with the Iranians being tipped off, could it?

  Derrick at that moment understood, under Martinez, his days were now numbered. The Director understood: anyone in his position, anyone worth their salt, would have responded in the same exact manner. The fallout that just occurred was not just due to a conflict of personalities. For some undisclosed reason, this President wanted him to put himself on record for a mission that was sensitive and at the moment compromised.

  Derrick at that moment stood up from his chair, grabbing his briefcase in the process and stood fixing his eyes the President’s. The Director was the more intimidating of the two for the politician nervously averted his eyes. Derrick understood the reaction; this bully became the real coward he was when called out.

  “I look forward to working with you and your office, Mr. President, Mr. Chief of Staff. Good day.”

  Derrick turned about quickly and walked out.

  There was something going on here that the SAD Director could not yet put his finger on. It was a bad start, but one that would have happened anyway, given the circumstances. Derrick had served under a Democrat President once before; the Director recognized how easily they could throw away the lives of his men. His only priority right now was to get Black Angel back, and then he would take his lumps, later.

  ----------

  MANHATTAN, NY - The opportunity the young assistant had been looking for arrived when her “bitch-of-a-boss” forgot to lock her office door when off at a luncheon engagement. The voice-activated audio recorder was tacked to the underside of the news celeb’s desk. Shirley could not wait to find out what the Prima Dona had been up to. So far, nothing about McKinley and the war crime charges had surfaced at WNN, or the other news companies.

  Shirley quickly and quietly entered the executive’s office, locked the door and walked around to the back of the desk. Shirley stooped to her hands and knees.

  Good, the thing is completely out of sight.

  Shirley had to lie down to see the recorder.

  Jesus Christ! The Velcro is holding only by a thread!

  Shirley had wanted to send the audio recordings on with “Mr. Smith’s” contraband she had been surreptitiously copying, but things had just at the moment worked out where the secretary could get to them.

  The cleaning crew must have knocked it loose. I’ve got to try someplace different.

  ----------

  Derrick half heard his Operations Officer, Ronald Timm, tell the extraction team of the change in plans as he read through the latest communications.

  “How far are they away from the border?” Derrick asked without diverting his eyes from the document.

  “They’re still heading along the Taurus Mountain range. The transponders put them here." Derrick looked up at the area being highlighted on the big screen.

  "Last communications with Black Angel indicated they were forced to make a course change to the east due to enemy pursuit. Just before dawn, they made one more course correction and were again heading south. This chain of mountains is slowing their progress down considerably.”

  "When can we expect them to be close enough to send in the Black Birds?" asked Derrick while yawning.

  “If they succeed in avoiding any further detection they will travel a five kilometers further from their current positions to bypass the town of Genehdar. It is a notorious strongpoint for terrorist activity. Officer Hagman indicated he expected they will turn toward the border somewhere in this area,” the officer highlighted one more position on the digital map, “and cross this large wadi somewhere in this area, before hitting flatland up to the border.”

  "What's your guess on when they will be at a safe enough point for an extraction?"

  “I believe it’s going to take them at least two nights of hard trekking before they are close enough to be safely airlifted out. Our aerial reconnaissance shows the areas crawling with Iranian military."

  Derrick replied, "Yes, it’s like someone knew they were coming. What’s your guess on how many are on the team’s tail?”

  "I’d say it is at least several compa
nies, sir."

  "Keep me apprised of any changes," responded Derrick with a yawn. It had been twenty-four hours since the Director slept and his mind was losing its mental sharpness. There was not anything Derrick could do for Black Angel at the moment, as they would soon be in hiding and unable to move during the daylight hours.

  For the greater part of the day the Director scanned through various communiqués trying to put the pieces together only to come up with zero. Derrick took one last look at the transcript of the conversation with Officer Karl Hagman, "Mission has been compromised. Observed suspected informant captured and eliminated. Terrorists and Iranian military now in pursuit."

  He needed to be fresh and alert when darkness descended in the Middle East...his one objective at the moment was to get his team back, out of harm's way.

  “I’m going to go and catch up on some sleep. Keep me posted if there are any changes; I’ll have my phone with me.”

  “Very good, Director.”

  ----------

  Derrick’s cellphone began to dance across the reading table of the hotel room waking him from a deep sleep. When a team of his was in dire straights, the Director made a habit of staying close to the operation center, so instead of taking the one-hour drive to his suburban home, Derrick would stay at a hotel within minutes of CIA Headquarters. Sure, the CIA complex had sleeping accommodations, but Derrick needed to get away from that environment to get his thoughts off work and some real rest.

  Half asleep, Derrick snapped up the cellphone and squinted to see who was calling, "Unknown Number."

  “Director Mitchum,” he answered groggily.

  A man responded, “Director Mitchum?”

  “This is Derrick. Who is this?”

  “My name is not important for the moment. What is important are the classified Presidential memos being leaked to the news media and their plans to expose them to the public.”

  Derrick was now wide awake. "Who is this!"

  "In good time," came the answer.

  Derrick responded with a more level head. “You do realize that what you’re talking about is a treasonous offense, punishable by a prison sentence of not less than twenty-five years, and how do you know who I am!”

  “Director Mitchum, the evidence I have shows that you are clearly being setup. It so happens it is not in my interests to see that occur. We have a mutual acquaintance, someone who tells me you’re not the type of person who likes to play the part of a fool.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that a compliment?”

  “No, of course not, I’m simply trying to make a point. You have very little time to react to their plot. I will fill you in on the details, but not over the phone.”

  Derrick demanded again, “I think it’s time you told me who you were.”

  “My name is Dr. Magnason...Dr. Victor Magnason.”

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