A less perfect union, p.2
A Less Perfect Union, page 2
Rideman took the tablet back. “And now?”
“Now we’re fighting for survival.”
****
“These numbers are horrendous.” United States President Henry Solomon paced around his desk.
Vice President Melinda Hanover had to agree. She sat in a high-backed leather chair in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. She lamented the loss of the Oval Office in the White House attack. The historic walls that listened in on all those nation-shaping conversations were lost forever.
“The party is taking a beating in the polls, Melinda.”
“A shame. We were on a real roll there with a Democratic Congress behind us. It’s sad to say, but we owe the success of our campaign to Kahil. Your response to the attack has earned the loyalty of the American voter. Let’s face it; the Commander in Chief role inspires patriotism in every American.” Looking around the windowless room, she hoped the reconstructed White House would be ready for her in four years.
“Four years ago, Americans had no stomach for conservatives. Now all liberals are ‘evil,’ but whether you follow a donkey or an elephant, everyone wants vengeance for an attack against our country.” Henry slid his tablet onto his desk and settled into his chair. “If we can’t turn this around, we’re in for four years of gridlock and partisan posturing.”
America was in a big tug-of-war now. Red states against blue and no topic was off limits. Henry was a great statesman, orator, and visionary. His passion and energy were infectious, enabling him to move ground-breaking legislation from the Capitol to the White House with expedience, but all progress halted when Washington was struck last year. Yet another war in the Middle East and the economy still in the shitter, Americans were reaching their breaking point.
This was the worst year Melinda could remember since she started in politics twenty years ago. It was a year that saw a riot at a Yankees versus Indians game over a comment about “your fag-loving President.” Christ, a fist fight even broke out on Bill Maher’s political panel.
“Things are about to get nasty, Melinda.”
About to get?
“The party’s got some pictures of an Ohio senator partying in Vegas, and a rep in Texas is about to find himself out of the closet. Steer clear of any comments, stick to our topics, and we’ll be fine.” Henry pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.
“I think something bigger is brewing, Henry. The Purist Party has been quiet. Too quiet.” An ultra-conservative political party run by wealthy, old, white, corporate executives, the Purists were occupied with something. Melinda was sure of it.
Taking a moment, Henry sighed. “The war in Yemen is easier to deal with than these political wars.” He shook his head. “Let’s get some people on it. We don’t need any surprises.”
The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done. ~ George Carlin
* * *
Chapter Two
Hanson Davis III eyed the woman sitting at the corner of the large wooden conference table. He didn’t know her name, but her tight red shirt caused fun images to scroll through his mind. A long, blond curl framed her face as she bent her head to read his presentation file on her tablet. It made him want to take a fistful of her hair, wrench her head back, and fill her mouth with his dick.
She’s what the Pentagon needs.
This was his first trip inside the Pentagon, but he could already tell it was a stuffy, no-nonsense operation. As it should be, but shit, they could cut loose a little, couldn’t they?
“Are you ready, Mr. Davis?” Defense Secretary Leo Michaels asked.
“I’m always ready.”
Hanson flashed one of his I-have-what-you-need smiles to the full conference table and slipped out of his tailored suit jacket. Draping the garment on the back of his chair, he touched his own tablet and brought his presentation up on a main screen behind him. The first slides were gruesome pictures of the most recent roadside bombing in Sanaa. Body parts everywhere. Hanson almost couldn’t look directly at the pictures.
“Those are classified photos,” Ms. Red Shirt said. “How did you get those?”
The defense secretary sighed. “Mr. Davis, we’re all aware of the problem. Let’s get to your proposed solution.”
“I don’t know about you folks,” Hanson began once he’d shown all the images, “but I’m sick of hearing about roadside bombings. Sick of losing more Americans. Sick of letting the enemy win.” He switched to the next slide showing the skeleton of a detonated roadside bomb. “We know most of these improvised explosive devices have ammonium nitrate in them. What we don’t know is where the damn devices are hidden. Until now.”
He pulled up a schematic drawing of his newest stroke of genius and loved when his audience leaned forward simultaneously.
Fish on a hook.
Sometimes his job was just too easy.
“At Davis Industries, we’ve developed the answer, ladies and gentlemen. Collective Improvised Explosive Device Detection System, or as we like to call it seeds.” He paused to let that sink in then continued. “A nanotechnology-based system, CIEDDS works with a hive mentality. At only the size of a grain of sand, each nanite can be dropped anywhere troops will patrol. They travel like insects and work much the same. When quantities of any IED compound are detected like ammonium nitrate, a nanite sends out an alert and others arrive to analyze and boost the warning signal which contains the precise latitude and longitude of the threat.”
“How are soldiers notified? It needs to be immediate to be effective,” one of the audience members asked.
“Each soldier will be outfitted with a GPS receiver that would alert him or her of the threat.” Hanson had prepared answers to every possible question. No one would poke holes in this. No one.
“What kind of coverage can you achieve?” someone else asked.
Here comes the backhand.
“Nanites can be air dropped at a minimum rate of eight tons per square mile. They are also photovoltaic and have a life span of approximately six months. There is a warning system in place when their population dwindles to ineffective levels in an area.”
“What’s the risk to our troops with this, Mr. Davis?” Ms. Red Shirt asked.
Let’s get naked, fuck like rabbits, and I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow at breakfast, sweetheart.
Containing a smirk over his thoughts, Hanson said, “Our extensive testing shows the nanites are completely benign to humans and the environment. If ingested by mammals, each nanite is so tiny it simply passes through the digestive system with no harmful effects whatsoever.” He pulled up the screens with the testing documentation. Waiting for those results to be processed had been brutal to his timetable, but from the nods around the conference table, he saw the value in having them done.
“CIEDDS is the antidote to our biggest problem in this war, folks. Without the threat of roadside bombings, our casualties will drop significantly. Our military will retain its numbers and can traverse more ground safely, and countless civilian lives can be saved.”
That statement got several mumbles of agreement. Plummeting support for American action in Yemen was the number two problem after roadside bombings and before capturing Ayala Kahil. CIEDDS could take care of two birds with one nano-sized stone and line Hanson’s already overflowing pockets. His mother had always told him he was smart. She’d had no idea how smart.
“Are there any other questions?” He flicked off the main screen then turned back to the conference table.
“Looking at your phase one quotes, I’m not sure even China has enough money to fund this initiative, Mr. Davis,” a woman to the left of the defense secretary said as she scrolled through the estimates.
“I’m sure the American taxpayer will be in favor of doing whatever it takes to keep their soldiers out of harm’s way.”
“This is bleeding-edge technology. Is it field ready?” another member asked.
Gesturing to the tablets in front of each member, Hanson said, “You have the results. I’d stake my own life on the effectiveness of this detection system.”
“I’ve seen it for myself,” General William Bates said from the head of the table. “I attended the field demos. The technology impressed me.”
Match point. An endorsement from General Bates was as good as a guarantee. That old man had been eating apple pie his whole life. It’d been a stroke of genius to invite the guy to a demonstration.
“How soon can you go into production?” a man sitting next to Ms. Red Shirt asked.
Picking up his tablet and holding his thumb over the screen, Hanson said, “Just say the word.”
****
Steaming-hot shower water massaged Sheridan Taylor’s tired muscles. Walking the streets of Yemeni towns was not easy no matter how sensible one’s shoes were. A few months ago, she’d been wearing high heels while working at International Headline News Center in Atlanta. The steady clack of those heels along the pristine floors had been commanding, but dirt and rocks under thick-soled, military-grade boots was a more comfortable fit.
This was her time. She could feel it with every breath she took while out in the field reporting, doing interviews, or gathering information. The Yemeni civilian casualties angle had not won her any favor with the United States military, but her stories were going viral just the same. Her IHN blog was overloaded with followers, actively commenting and discussing her and her stories. Her segments were aired at key times throughout the day, often leading as the top story.
People were talking about Sheridan Taylor. Better yet, people were listening.
She shampooed her shoulder-length chestnut hair a second time, not confident a single wash would rid her of the day’s grime. As suds slipped down her body and pooled at the drain, she rehashed a conversation she’d had earlier in the day.
“I’m not even talking about fifteen seconds on air,” she’d said to someone named Lori who was obviously General Charles Easley’s first formidable line of defense. Sheridan had hoped to at least break through to level three or four today, but Lori was steel.
“The general is not doing interviews, Ms. Taylor.” Lori’s voice indicated she said that very sentence many, many times a day.
“Look, I just want a quick quote on the Sanaa retaliatory strike. Many civilians were wounded. I think the general needs to show the world he cares about the loss of non-American lives… unless that isn’t the case.” She didn’t usually hit below the belt like that, but she wanted to get Easley on the hot seat where he belonged. She’d seen too many mothers wailing over the corpses of their children.
“I’d be careful, Ms. Taylor. You have no fans here already. You know that, right?” So Lori wasn’t above getting vicious either? Okay.
“I make no apologies for exposing the truth. The general’s refusal to comment implies he has something to hide.”
“The general is not doing interviews, Ms. Taylor.” Was Lori even a real person? Or was she a recording?
Sheridan had hung up, but she hadn’t admitted defeat yet. Her camera guy, Nick, had confessed to knowing “someone” close to Easley today. Who it was or why he hadn’t told her that tidbit weeks ago she didn’t know. She had wanted to strangle him. Better late than never at least. If Nick could somehow get her an interview with Easley, even if it was over the phone, she’d be happy. She always worked at maximum capacity when she was happy.
Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around her, she padded to the small hotel room’s closet and fished out flowered cotton shorts and a purple tank top. She twisted her hair up into a neat knot and dragged her laptop over to the twin bed. The hotel room wasn’t much in the way of an office or living space, but she’d tolerated it for the past two months. She could go as long as she needed to, as long as this run of stories continued.
She quickly wrote a blog post about the economic effects of having American troops patrolling the streets of Sanaa. The civilians she spoke to today were in near financial ruin. Mostly artisans and farmers, their products were not being bought, because many of their consumers were refusing to leave their homes. They were doing without basic necessities rather than risking being blown into confetti-sized pieces by a roadside bomb or being caught in the line of fire. Everywhere coalition troops patrolled was a target.
Sheridan herself had gotten closer to the massacres than she’d wanted to, but the footage had been powerful.
Too bad no one will let me show any of it.
No, carnage like that was best left for Hollywood or video games she’d been told. The whole thing reeked of censorship, but she’d known that covering this side of the war would ruffle feathers. That didn’t mean she was going to quit. She was determined to get all the details she could and put the most factual, up-to-date information onto the public’s televisions, laptops, phones, whatever. She’d hit everybody, everywhere, with everything.
The truth had to be revealed.
Reviewing some of the still shots Nick had gotten of the Sanaa blast site, she shook her head over the destruction. The bodies had been cleared away by the time she’d gotten there, but the charred walls of shops selling handmade carpets and pottery, the haphazard arrangement of broken timbers and blown-out stones, and the spots in the dirt that had been darkened with pools of blood were definite evidence of the evils of war.
She zoomed out to get an aerial view and used her finger to measure the diameter of the ruins. Tip of index finger to where finger meets palm. Pretty sizable when you considered the scale she was viewing. After pulling up some of the photos from bombings that happened about a month ago, she made the same rudimentary measurement with the same results. When she dug into the bombings from six months ago, the blast zone was only about three-fourths the size of her pinky finger.
Not even a full finger. Hmm…
A soft knock sounded at her door. Throwing on a denim, button-down shirt over what amounted to her pajamas, Sheridan squinted through the peephole in the door. Just as she thought.
“Nick,” she said when the door was opened.
Her cameraman wiggled two mini bottles of Jagermeister at her. “Let me in.”
She stepped aside and gestured to the bottles. “What’s this about?”
“Thought you’d want to celebrate my genius.” Nick grinned in a way that made him look about fifteen in the dim light of a single lamp.
“Tell me some good news, Nick.” She was too tired to stroke his ego.
“He’ll take a call from you on Saturday morning. My contact is friends with that Lori person you spoke to.”
“That woman has friends?” She shook her head. “Doesn’t seem possible.”
He handed her a slip of paper with a phone number and time on it. “Don’t be late.”
Sheridan grabbed the paper. Having it in her hands made the appointment more official somehow. “Nice work, Nick. I owe you one.” She took a swig from the bottle he handed her.
“Does that mean you won’t yell at me tomorrow while we’re filming?” He winced from the burn of alcohol in his throat.
“I can go easy on you tomorrow, but I live to yell at you. I thought you understood that.” She shot him a smile and gestured to the room’s only chair while she lowered onto the edge of the bed.
“A one day vacation in the dust bowl. It’s not Palm Springs, but I’ll take it. Here’s to not getting our asses blown up. So far anyway.” Nick raised his bottle, then downed its contents.
They tossed around some strategies for questioning Easley and decided what backdrop they should use when she quoted him in her broadcast. Though she was thrilled the general had agreed to speak with her, she couldn’t help but wonder why. Easley was known for leading the army, not eloquent sound bites. As far as she knew, he hated the media.
She’d just have to make it her duty to change his mind.
****
“No. It’s not right.”
Airman Paul Easley had watched some of his fellow Air Force Pararescuemen pack up for a special assignment into the caves thought to house Ayala Kahil. His father, the general, had requested specific skills for the delicate operation. Paul had immediately volunteered for the mission, but he hadn’t been chosen.
Only one reason for that.
“He’s trying to keep me here in the states.” Now, Paul paced the length of his kitchen in his living quarters on Moody Air Force Base, Georgia. He wanted to be furious with his father, but couldn’t work up a good enough froth over it. With his mother’s passing nearly four years ago, Paul was all the general had in terms of real family, and Charles Easley took his fathering seriously. Many of the young men and women serving under his father’s command looked up to the general like a father figure. How could anyone not? A finer male role model couldn’t be found. The man had proven to be a natural-born leader time and time again, and he genuinely cared for all the soldiers under his command. His standards were high. That was undeniable, but he inspired people to meet those standards.
“However, it might be time, dear Father, to learn a thing or two from me,” he muttered to a photo of his father hanging on his refrigerator.
Paul picked up his cell phone and touched the speed dial button for the direct line to the general. Not many people had that number, but sharing DNA with the man earned him certain privileges.
Of course, sharing DNA also kept him from getting the special assignments too.
We’ll see about that.
When the general answered, he was in mid-sentence talking to someone else. Typical. He was always doing fifty things at once and thinking about another fifty.
“Paul,” the general finally said.
“Dad.” As much as he was ready to launch into all the reasons he should go on that rescue mission, Paul took a minute to enjoy being connected to his father.
