This is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter XXI
Alex was almost asleep, when a loud hammering on the front door woke him. “It’s after eleven,” Vivian yawned. “Who the hell could that be?”
“I’ll go find out.” Alex poured out of bed and fumbled for his robe.
The Weasel stood at the front door, looking as bad off as Alex had ever seen him. Apparently, Weasel had been drinking, throwing up, and crying, and he fell into Alex’s arms the moment the door opened wide enough. “It’s finished! All over! Kaphhh.” He tried to say “kaput” but ended up spitting into Alex’s shoulder instead.
“Steady, man. I’ll get coffee.” He pulled Weasel inside and sat him down on the living room couch.
“What’s going on?” Vivian asked from the hallway.
“It’s nothing, Viv, just a small emergency. Go back to sleep. I’m taking care of it.”
Weasel, meanwhile was trying to sit up. “I don’t need coffee. I need more scotch.” And he began to cry again.
It wasn’t easy getting Weasel to drink the coffee, but after about two cups and several spills, he was able to speak.
“It’s the money, man… The creative financing… It’s not there. We’re going under. I don’t want to be broke… Hell, once my partners find out, I may be dead. Help me, Alex. I don’t want to be dead.”
Alex stared at the sobbing figure in front of him. “You’re right, man. You do need scotch. So do I.” Alex’s money was also tied up in Weasel’s ventures.
Two hours later, Alex and Weasel were naked in the Jacuzzi singing their own version of opera.
“My toes are numb numb,
To my belly bum bum.” Weasel smiled. “That’s Carmen….the Tornado song.”
“Tor-e-ador,” hiccoughed Alex. They’d been downing vodka shots mixed into lemon-Jell-O mini-cups - leftovers from a party. Weasel made a “whatever” gesture with his hand, lost his balance and fell face down into the water. He came up sputtering and weeping. “All lost. All gone. What…am I gonna do?” He brushed foam from his face.
“It’s not your fault, man.” Alex licked some Jell-O off of his fingers and patted Weasel’s shoulder. “You know whose fault this really is? You know why this is happening? It’s because of… all the liberals and the… queers. Because of all the homo…sexules. The homosexuals. In California. In Berkeley. And San Francisco. That’s why. It’s not your fault. It’s because of all the homos.”
“The trouble with California,” said Weasel, “is it’s got Berkeley stuck in the fuckin’…middle.” He belched. “I’ve always loved you like a son. Did you know that? Berkeley’s the trouble with California. Southern Calif…California - not so bad. They got …Disneyland, they got Orange County, and they got... they got… Malibu, and Disneyland. But up North, they got Berkley, and they got San Francisco. And they got fucking gays.”
Weasel reached for another Jell-O mini-cup. “You know what we ought to do? We ought to do… Did I tell you I love you like a mother, brother?”
He saluted Alex with his mini-cup, then downed it and burped. “I love you like the son I never had. We ought to take Berkeley out. Hell, we ought to take out California and all their pansy-ass demonstrators. I’ll bet, if we declared war on California we’d win. I’ll bet if… we could run a troop of tanks from Monterey to Sacramento and just blast ‘em to hell… We should blow up a string of nu..cu..lar bombs from Monterey to Sacratomato. That’d do it. Especially Berkeley and San Fran… Hell…a man’s gotta do what we gotta… We just blow ‘em up and be done with ‘em. We gotta do it.”
They made a map of California on the living room carpet with duct tape, and drove toy trucks up and down the duct tape and farted. Every fart counted as a nuclear detonation.
By the next morning, Alex and the Weasel had sobered up. In spite of his hangover, Alex was thinking hard. “You know we could do it. We could really do it. Not with a bunch of fucking bombs, but with money. What if California had to pay ten times as much for its energy? Hell, what if it had to pay a hundred times as much? For its power. Their power’s deregulated. We could fuckin’ do it.”
Where the duct tape map had been, Alex drew a map of California on a ten-foot long roll of butcher paper, and they used salami slices to indicate power plants. “What if,” Weasel wondered, “something happened to one of the power plants?” He ate a salami slice.
On a separate sheet of butcher paper, Alex was drawing a rough approximation of California’s power grid. “We gotta work this right. We funnel California’s energy money into your investments. We’ll have to figure a way to shelter it, and make it look legit. Like this, see.” Alex scribbled along the left edge of the drawing.
“And we’ll make their fuckin’ governor look like an idiot. The White House boys will be happy. Hell, they’ll be pleased as champagne. They won’t investigate very hard.”
By noon, Alex and Weasel had the core of their plan figured out. By three thirty, they were considering embellishments.
“And we hit the illegal immigrants. Right about harvest time. If that doesn’t destroy their Central Valley, I don’t know what will. Make illegal immigration a felony. That ‘d get ‘em,” said Alex. “Ditto for the homos. Put all the queer sons of bitches back in the closet.”
“We could fucking do it,” said Weasel.
“We got to get oil goin’ off shore. Hell, Texas and Mississippi and Louisiana have oilrigs off shore. What’s wrong with California?”
“It’s the fucking envirocreeps. Let ‘em crawl into a clamshell and get ‘et by a wolf pack.”
“Send ‘em all to France.”
“Why settle for one power plant? What if a whole string of them went down, say during the summer?”
And by the morning after that weekend, the war on California had begun in earnest. Reporters called it an energy crisis. Alex chuckled with pride watching the evening news. He started a scrapbook with newspaper articles documenting the high points of his career:
Energy Crisis Worsens
Californians asked to limit electricity use during peak hours.
Rolling Blackouts Predicted for the Weekend
Governor struggles to keep California plugged in as power plants go off line and energy prices skyrocket.
“I don’t buy it,” said Ivan. He slapped the paper against his desk, causing Johanna to jump back. “This energy crisis is as phony as Tammy Faye Baker’s eyebrows.”
“So why don’t you do something about it?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Investigate. Follow the money. Someone’s making a killing.”
“I’m a newspaper editor, for crying out loud, not the FBI.”
“So send out some investigative reporters. Send me.” Johanna looked at him hopefully, but Ivan shook his head.
“It’s too late to make today’s press anyway,” he said.
“Well,” said Johanna, “when you hired me you said I had to do research.” She ran to her office and began making phone calls.
“They’re going to try to recall the governor!” she told Ivan the next day. “It’s not just about money. It’s politics and it’s huge. And the president is just letting it happen.” When Johanna was excited, her hands flopped around like startled pigeons.
Ivan chuckled. “I figured as much.”
“So can I have a crack at a front-page article? Unfortunately, most of this is from anonymous sources, but…”
Ivan snatched her notes from her hand and leafed through them. “Anonymous.” He started to bellow. “Undisclosed source, Jerry S. says… what the hell, Johanna! You’ve worked at the paper for fifteen years now, and this is the best you can do!”
“But…”
“For crying out loud, this is news, not Spy versus Spy.”
“Okay then, I’m going to write a little poem.”
Back at her own desk, Johanna was about to get creative. ‘People aren’t stupid,’ she thought. ‘They just need a little push. Well, I’m pushy.’
Earth Songs
Rolling Blackouts
Beware the bureaucrat, my son,
The smarmy smile, the toothy grin.
His jabber slings a slimy song.
It hides the pilfering paws within.
The smarmy smile, the toothy grin,
When billionaires and oil wells gush,
It hides the pilfering paws within,
While power stations turn to mush.
When billionaires and oil wells gush,
You feel his talons and his roar,
While power stations turn to mush,
And free elections are no more.
You feel his talons and his roar,
His jabber slings a slimy song,
And free elections are no more.
Beware the bureaucrat, my son.
By Johanna Jacobson
The power crisis made for lead stories and front page news. It diverted billions out of California and into the pockets of Alex’s benefactors. Once again the Weasel had managed to wriggle out of a tight corner, and rich and influential people were appreciating Weasel’s maneuvering and taking note of Alex’s unique talents. Alex decided to take the next step forward in his career.
Chapter XXII
Weasel had set up the interview, and now Alex was waiting to meet some of the most influential people in Washington. Alex had flown to Italy a week earlier for something special to wear, and the tailor had come through with what Alex called his major-general suit - charcoal gray, but with khaki-green highlights in the material, and something about the cut of the pockets and lapels that hinted of the military.
He had dressed carefully that morning; it wasn’t a day for wrinkles. He’d chose a blazing red silk tie and pocket handkerchief, the tie held in place by a solid gold tie tack depicting the American bald eagle in flight. A second gold eagle flew just below the lock of Alex’s attaché case.
An intern ushered Alex into one of the White House’s conference rooms, where he found four of the president’s advisors already waiting for him. ‘The silver-backed males,’ thought Alex - ‘and one silver-backed female, Jean Grigsby - my God but she looks like a man!’ These were grizzled veterans who’d fought in political wars instead of on the battlefield, but their scars and scabs ran just as deep as those of other veterans.
John Ambrose was sixty-five, a thin, prune of a man with a frown to rival a New York subway strike. On his right sat Owen Jessup - rotund, bald, and red-faced, with a huge handle-bar mustache sprouting from below his nose. Next to him was Jean Grigsby (she should never have worn a solid black pantsuit, thought Alex.) And Carter Roosevelt completed the panel. Tanned and muscular, at forty-seven Carter looked almost boyish compared to the others.
John Ambrose spoke first. His upper lip barely moved as he talked. “Mr. Scoggins thinks that you could be of service to us, and that you have a … a certain … gift for persuasion.” He looked Alex square in the face, as if staring him down.
Alex pounced on the opportunity presented by the silence. “I want to advise the president.” He felt control in his words. It tasted hot like whiskey, and he swallowed it and owned it. “I want to dictate policy, and morals. I want to move America in the right direction, and redefine the essence of the American spirit.”
Owen Jessup was not impressed. He leaned back, apparently annoyed that he’d wasted his time with this interview. “Your accomplishments may be impressive, but they don’t warrant a White House appointment.” He picked at his front tooth. “You’re being a mite presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“I want to work behind the scenes. I have a unique ability to influence and I can deliver your peoples’ minds and hearts.”
Owen rapped the table impatiently. “In other words, you want to be a spin doctor, a propaganda writer, a professional liar. You’re wasting your time and ours. We have experts smarter than you in all these areas.”
Alex smiled at the blustering words. “You’re wrong. You do need me. At this time, Mr. Bush’s ratings are disgusting.”
“No one believes in public opinion polls. They’re too easily swayed,” Carter Roosevelt answered dryly.
Alex continued as if no one had spoken. “People are gullible if you know how to work them. I can make them all fall in love with your precious president. They’ll hang on his every word.”
Jean Grigsby licked her flakey lips and spoke. “We are politicians, Mr. Lidecker, familiar with the concept of putting spin on the information. So far you offer nothing new.”
Alex went on. “I can do for politics what George Lucas did for the movies. I can talk Americans into anything - tax cuts for the rich, legalized wiretapping without accountability. I’ll bug every phone and every computer of every senator, congressman, and candidate in the nation. We’ll never lose an election again.”
Alex glanced around the room. Carter Roosevelt was doodling on a pad of White House paper. Own Jessup was fidgeting.
‘The fools! They don’t think I can do it,’ thought Alex. ‘Well, I can do anything. Remordia!’
Jean Grigsby and John Ambrose were observing Alex with sideways glances, their expressions inscrutable.
Out loud Alex said, “I’ll legalize discrimination, repeal free speech and freedom of the press, and guarantee you and your friends impunity from any crime including murder. You name it - I can do it. All of this and more.”
“Cocky words,” said John Ambrose, but he nodded slightly. “Just how do you propose to accomplish all this?”
Here Alex cringed like a lion guarding his prey from scavengers, and he thumbed the latch on his attaché case.
“My plan has three points. First, Americans are used to living in safety. I say we make them afraid - even terrified. Then we provide a strong, confident leader, and they’ll follow him anywhere. Right now America is ruled by democracy. I propose that we rule with terror instead.
“Secondly, Americans don’t want to think too much. Give them the illusion of wholesomeness - they won’t look beyond it. As for any idiots who oppose us, we smear them with scandal. Pick anyone you like, I can find dirt on them. Next we need the media’s cooperation, and, gentlemen, I have connections with the media that you’ve only dreamed of. Once you own the press - and I do own the press - you own the world.”
Alex looked around himself, taking stock. So far it seemed hopeful. “Consider Hitler. He was a master at it. The swastika was originally a symbol of good luck. He used it to muster an army and conquer half of Europe. We can do this with the American flag. We can subjugate the nation in the name of freedom; go to war in the name of peace.”
“You want to go to war, Mr. Lidecker?” Carter Roosevelt slapped the table. “Tell me you’re not considering starting a war!”
“It’s an age-old magic trick. Distract with war and the home front is yours for the plundering. War has served many a dictator – why not us!”
Owen Jessup stood up. “I’ve seen some shady deals go down in the name of politics, but I’m with Carter on this one. You’ve crossed a line. You’ve gone too far.”
John Ambrose cleared his throat. He stared off as if looking for the right words. “Still, under the right set of circumstances … It’s only in this century that a ruler needs permission to go to war. When Caesar or King Richard, or Sadaam Hussein for that matter declared war, they just up and did it, and armies gathered and men stabbed and shot arrows and died- with no questions asked.”
And Jean Grigsby added, “You can’t make pancakes without breaking some eggs.”
And then there was silence thick as swamp water.
Finally Carter Roosevelt spoke. “That’s only two - two points. What’s the third point of your plan?”
Alex opened up his attaché case a crack and fumbled among four manila envelopes. He passed one to Owen Jessup and one to Carter Roosevelt. Owen opened his and his ruddy face paled. “How the fuck did you get these?” He snarled the words. Inside the envelope was Owen Junior’s rap sheet - an impressive list of drug-related charges and an instance of date rape that had been hushed up by sizeable contributions to a prominent judge’s retirement fund. Instinctively Owen hunched his shoulder over the papers, protecting them from view. And there was more. His hand trembled in spite of his efforts to remain calm, when he pulled out photos of his daughter dancing nude at a “Girls Gone Wild” party.
Carter Roosevelt’s envelope was fatter. It contained construction project plans, including all the details - legal, marginal and downright criminal, - for six shopping malls, two hotels, and three planned bedroom communities in Texas, Oklahoma, and Louisiana. Carter pulled up the envelope flap, and pulled out two inches of the plans, and then shoved them all back. There was no point in looking further. He dropped his head into his hands and sighed.
“My third point is merely this,” said Alex “I always do my homework.”
John Ambrose was curious. “Just how many envelopes did you bring?”
“Only those two,” said Alex.
Chapter XXII
Alex had an office in the White House and behind his desk hung a three-foot tall picture of Winston Churchill. The frame was gilded and so thick as to border on gaudy. Me and Winnie, thought Alex, we were cut from the same cloth.
Suddenly he was in with the really big boys, and the stakes - they were astronomical, so high they would cause a veteran gambler to tremble. This game allowed for no errors. The consequences of a bad move made death seem easy by comparison. Before now, he'd been playing only for himself. Not that he ever considered the possibility of failure or defeat. Such horrible words! Before this, if he had missed something, he had only himself and his father's image to deal with. Now, if something went wrong, he'd have unhappy partners in Washington, and a second set of unhappy partners in corporate America and the corporate Middle East - unhappy and very powerful partners.
Blackmail was a funny game - something like holding a scorpion by its stinger." On the one hand, Alex held all the strings and all the power. On the other hand, an unhappy partner, should he ever get loose, could have him killed. Of course he'd taken precautions. “In the event of my death, the following documents will be made public…”
No, he made sure that it was in his new partners' best interests to keep him alive and happy. But his victims had resources and power of their own. And he had to make himself an indispensable asset to these victims before any one of them figured out how to destroy the evidence against them.
This was life, not a chess game. Possibilities were infinite, and he, Alex, had to foresee all of them and plan. Contingencies, parries, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, just as in a fencing match - victory depended on balance and timing. Alex knew that his strength lay in offense. He had to keep the upper hand, and be several moves ahead of everyone else. Always on the offense. Be bold. Hit first. Hit hard. Keep hitting. Never let up.
The California campaign had been a huge success. The energy crisis had yielded over
$8 billion for his corporate clientele, and more importantly, it had left the state near bankruptcy and ripe for political takeover. Plans for a recall election were already underway.
But just when it looked like the Weasel’s problems had been whitewashed clean away, they began surfacing in the newspapers.
ENRON EXECS CHARGED WITH INSIDER TRADING
The once-prized commodities are now classified as ’junk bonds.
BUSH ADMINISTRATION TIED TO ENRON
President Bush fought against placing caps on the price of energy in California.
They were dark days, and Alex was groping for something, anything, to make the scandals go away and to make the president look good. The tabloids were digging up stories about the twins. The newspapers criticized everything – his tax cuts for the rich, his weak environmental policy, and, finally, like a rotting carcass, the Enron scandal stunk up the air around the White House and their friends. Adam Snavely, Weasel, and Allen Smythe-Huntington were safe enough, but some of their friends’ heads were on the chopping block. It seemed that Alex spent most of his days doing damage control. What he needed was a huge diversion. Alex had great friends in the news media who transferred much of the heat from the president to the Clintons, but, face it, they needed new material.
“We’re counting on you, Lidecker. This is where you earn your keep.” John Ambrose had barked a laugh when he said it, as if it were all a joke, but both men knew he had meant it.
The diversion had to be something completely new, completely unexpected and it had to be huge - the greatest piece of showmanship of all time. He’d been meeting with seven close friends from the CIA and FBI. So far, they hadn’t come up with any new scandal items because wiretap laws were too restrictive, so Alex was considering a new angle. Cloak and dagger was fascinating and it had never been exploited before – at least not in the United States.
The Seven Musketeers, they called themselves, and this was their fifth meeting - their fifth attempt to find a suitable diversion article for the news. “This may just do it,” said Ernie Martinez, switching on his recorder. Ernie and Alex’s friendship went way back – through the CIA days with their all-night stake outs, the close calls, and the night-clubbing until both of them were falling asleep in their whiskey.
“They’re planning to hijack planes,” said Ernie. He switched on the recorder. Someone was raving in Saudi, most of it swearing with allusions to dogs and pigs and Americans.
“It’s Al Qaida, of course.” Ernie stopped the tape and stretched. “They don’t have all the details pinned down yet from what I’ve put together, but they’re planning something immense.”
“Ideas, gentlemen. How can we make the most out of this information?” Alex asked.
“Instead of alerting airport security, what if we use undercover FBI – hundreds of them in each of the airports!” Eddie came up with the idea. “We could make it look like a miniature scale war, a real life cops and robbers show. We play up the good versus evil aspect.”
Marty Stillman puffed on his cigarette. “Could work,” he said. “We pick an agent to be the hero and do him up in all the papers. That’d take the heat off of Enron for weeks.”
Scott Holmes, the newest and youngest Musketeer, all but hiccupped with excitement, so anxious was he to fit in. “And we do follow-up stories on the FBI and the CIA. Disaster narrowly averted thanks to shrewd work by our undercover agents. We pick a couple of agents with interesting stories in their lives - a handicapped kid, a battle with cancer - you know what I mean. And we show their families and do clips of their wives and mothers talking passionately about their heroes. Later, any time Enron starts to surface, we do feature articles about out FBI heroes, and relegate Enron to page 25 where hardly anyone sees it.”
But Alex was deep in thought. They’d use it and they’d spin it all right, but there had to be something more… While the others chattered, the word “Remordia” played in his head, dancing like a hand-tied fly bobbing over a trout’s head. Thoughts formed in his mind, at first just murky impressions, and then a clear plan.
“Here’s why you’ll never get top billing” said Alex. “If we stop the hijackings, the departments get a little glory and the story runs for five paragraphs on page eleven.” He stopped and scratched his head. “Maybe six paragraphs if we’re really lucky. No, what we need is for the president to take the credit. Instead, we let the hijackings proceed. The nation is thrown into panic. And in the midst of it all, the president steps forward calm, sure of himself. He’ll be prepared. We’ll see to it. He takes the reins of leadership, and declares war. Who’s going to question a president during a national emergency? Or, for that matter, who’s going to object to a little illegal wiretapping? Americans must all stick together. United we stand! And as a wartime president, he has broad emergency powers. We can use them. And we have great news coverage for months, and maybe years.”
Scott looked puzzled.
“This is better than sex,” said Marty.
Chapter XXIII
Alex made it a point to be by himself on the morning of September 11th. He turned off his pager and took the phone off the hook. Then Alex turned on the TV and, along with millions of Americans, he heard the news that American Airlines Flight 11 had crashed into the World Trade Center. Almost every channel was reporting news, their cameras trained on the black plume rising from the World Trade Center’s north tower. As Alex stared at the smoky wisps disappearing into the air, a second plane appeared on the horizon, and moments later, America watched in horror as United Airlines Flight 175 hit the south tower with a devastating explosion.
Witnessing it all, Alex felt like a kid at a Godzilla movie, or a four-year-old playing with his trucks and action figures, watching, fascinated, as tiny people poured from the building.
Now rescue workers were arriving in fire trucks, ambulances and squad cars. The cranes, axes and hoses seemed more like toys than real tools.
Alex watched all the destruction, a director reviewing his play on opening night - no -more like a god creating his truth. ‘This is only the beginning,’ he thought, ‘only the beginning, a house of dominoes about to topple over, one brick at a time.’ Old beliefs and values would make way for Alex’s new America. ‘I can do anything,” he thought. Anything is possible. I created reality and it came true. I always believed I could do it, but now that it’s here….’ The tiniest of smirks escaped his lips. It couldn't have gone better if he'd flown the planes himself.
And suddenly, in a steamy cloud of smoke and dust, one of the towers crumbled and fell, and, inside his head, Alex heard bones snapping and felt flesh scraping along concrete. Was it his imagination? The sensation was so strong! The cameras moved in closer. People were running, and Alex could see screams etched on their faces, and he could see their eyes, wide with fright, more animal-like than human. Alex shuddered and his chest ached. ‘It’s all too much!’ he thought. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. ‘Only a small diversion,’ he thought. Sweat formed and his throat was parched.
On the screen a body jumped from a window. Alex looked away. “Not my fault,” he said to himself. “I didn’t tell him to jump. He chose to jump. It was his decision.” Alex said the words out loud, willing his pounding heart to settle.
Quickly he flipped off the television and put the phone back in its cradle. ‘Remordia,’ he thought, ‘make all this go away.’ And, moments later, the phone rang with an unfamiliar page’s voice from the president’s office requesting his presence for a strategy meeting.
Alex gathered together all his notes and speeches. More ideas buzzed in his head, and as he planned American’s reaction, his own panic subsided. "Heroes, their lives sacrificed for freedom.” Heroes are good -- Americans love heroes.
Johanna read the accounts of 9/11 in the newspaper and watched the burning towers over and over on her television set. The mood at the paper was somber. People spoke in hushed whispers. Jokes and pranks were put on hold.
For Johanna, the stark truth of the attacks set in slowly as she scrolled through the Internet and searched through her mail for some way to address the tragedy in her column.
Earth Songs from the Upstart Gazette September 15, 2001
Dear Readers,
Like you, I watched the news clips of the planes flying into the World Trade Center, and somehow the scenes of death and destruction seemed more like a movie than real life. And then I received a letter from La Chandra Jones who worked at the World Trade Center. She wrote down the events of September 11th as she experienced them, and, for my column this week, I’d like to share her letter with you:
‘September 11, 2001
First there was a loud “whoosh” sound, stronger than wind in a storm. Then a blast and crashing, not really like gunshot, but that was the first thing I thought of. You could see the glass bend! The windows bulged, then straightened. Harlem all over again, I thought. Up on the seventy-first floor of the World Trade Center’s south tower, our office rocked like tree branches in a hurricane.
Part of me wanted to hide under a desk, and part of me wanted to get out.
No one else seemed scared. Then my boss said, “I don’t know what that was, but we’re evacuating now,” and so we did.
The elevators weren’t working so we had to walk down in the stairwells - seventy-one flights. A hell of a long way. But at least we were going down instead of up. After about eight flights I took off my heels. I carried them for a bit, then dropped them to the side of the steps thinking I’d pick them up later.
They yelled a message on the overhead page – an isolated fire in the north tower. Nothing to worry about. No need to evacuate. Bullshit! Twenty-three years in Harlem made me suspicious of anyone who says there’s nothing to worry about!
Kept going down. None of us really knew what was happening, or we’d have been a lot more freaked.
About halfway down, another blast. Blam! Like something exploded. The whole building rocked. Worse than the subway, I thought.
Later I figured it out. That blast was the second plane hitting our tower, but back then I didn’t know what it was.
Now the air was getting all smoky. You could see the dust sort of hanging in the air. I put my sleeve over my nose and tried to breathe through the cloth, but it didn’t work, and I kept coughing and choking.
Only about five flights to go. Legs hurt. Lungs hurt. But I didn’t want to stop. Now people were running and crying and saying things like “Let me out,” and “we got to get out of here.” They were more scared than people on the upper floors were, and suddenly so was I. Stuff was falling and my throat was dry, crackly sort of.
Then I saw the front door and remember thinking, ‘almost there, almost over’. Excited to be so close, and afraid something dreadful would happen before I could get there.
Firemen were running into the building. I was so scared getting out, and I wondered if they were scared going in. And one of the guys reminded me of my baby brother. His turnouts said “Washington” on the back, and I was hoping that Washington would be all right.
Then I was out, and the air smelled so much better.
And we kept running and another rumbling blasted exploded behind us. The ground shook and I turned around.
Then the south tower collapsed. It just fell apart, and crumbled and wasn’t there any more. More smoke and dust. My legs really hurt, but I ran some more anyway. I wondered if Washington had gotten killed. I hoped not, but he probably did.
And I’m thinking this was way worse than Harlem.
By
La Chandra Jones’
Our hearts and prayers go out to the men and women who lost their lives and to the families and friends who grieve their passing.
Johanna Jacobson
Chapter XXIV
As the weeks wore on, Johanna got more and more disheartened watching the news and reading the papers. The president’s agenda was clearly to wage war. He was strong and decisive – a perfect leader and hero. It was as if he had known that the attacks were going to happen, as if he had been preparing for them. And strangely, there was no opposition to his war – none at all.
SUSPECTS TO BE HELD AT GUANTANAMO BAY
More than two hundred terrorists detained. ‘I want to learn to fly. “I don’t want to learn to land,” says one suspect.
A CALL TO WAR
Afghanistan is harboring Osama bin Laden, thought to have masterminded the attacks of September 11. President Bush vows retaliation. “Any country offering asylum to terrorists is an enemy of the United States,” says the President.
Johanna finished her column with time to spare. She’d written the article with more passion that usual, and she didn’t want to spoil it with too much proofing:
Earth Songs - The Upstart Gazette September 31st, 2001
Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Lotsastuff, the president, I mean the King, walked out into the village to wave at his subjects. A rotten rutabaga hit him square in the rotunda. Remembering his image, the King looked up and smiled, waving with his left hand, while brushing away slimy vegetable matter with his right one. Pumpkin pulp pummeled his pate, followed by moldy melons and soggy succotash.
“I thought that they loved me,” he said. “What happened to my ratings?”
“Lead balloon,” said his first advisor. “That’s how they went over.”
The others chimed in.
“Limp leaf.”
“Ton of bricks.”
“They’re crashing.”
“Plummeting.”
“But why?” asked the king. How could anyone not love me? When I took the throne, I bought their love with 600 kapoozins. You can buy a month’s worth of hog slop for that kind of money.”
“But you gave the nobles billions of kapoozins. They say you stole the throne.”
“Lies.”
“And your nobles are stealing from the coffers. They pay no taxes.”
“No one likes taxes.”
“But without taxes, we have no schools, no roads, nothing to serve the people.”
“Rubbish. The rich can’t afford to pay taxes.”
“The longer you rule, the poorer the people become. Within seven years the country will be on the brink of bankruptcy.”
“So? We get six and a half years of luxury, and, seven years from now, we’ll blame some other poor shmuck for the problem. ”
“Be honest. Rule your kingdom with honor.”
“No, no, that’s not it.” The king waved his hands in frustration. “I need some new clothes. Send for the royal image maker.”
The royal image-maker eyed the king. “We need to make you a strong leader, loving, moral, and brave.” And he motioned to two peasants carrying a large trunk. “Let’s see…Perhaps a uniform.”
“A uniform! I love uniforms. Make me that one,” said the king, “and a war. I want a war. Oh, what a general I’d make!”
A week later, the image-maker returned. He clapped his hands, and two peasants entered again staggering from the weight of the large trunk they were dragging. The image-maker reached inside. “A 5-star general’s uniform,” he said.
“But I don’t see anything…”
“…with a saint’s halo. A stupid person can’t see the uniform, Your Majesty,” said the image-maker. “But, of course, you can see it.”
“Uh, oh, yes, right, of course I see it. Where is it?”
“Right here on this hanger,” said the image person, pointing under his left hand.
“I want to wear it tonight,” said the king.
The word went out on the television. “Only the wise can see the King’s clothes.”
“But he’s naked,” said the newscaster.
“You’re fired,” said his producer. For foolish newscasters can get into all sorts of trouble. They sent the newscaster to jail on a pokey island nearby and whipped him twice each day.
“The king is so wise,” said his replacement.
“But he’s also so naked,” said the politician.
They sent him to the pokey island jail along with the newscaster. One who could see the king’s clothes replaced him. “The king is good,” he said.
Some others disagreed with the king. “All traitors and terrorists” said the king. The pokey island jail got pretty crowded
And though the clothes were imaginary, the war was real. So were poverty, oppression, and injustice.
Then one day, a small boy stood up in the crowd. “The king is butt-naked,” he said.
“Hush,” said his mother.
“But, Mom, he is. His pee pee is waving in the wind, and his butt cheeks are flapping where everyone can see.” He said it loudly.
“News flash!” said the news reporter. “The king is naked. He’s been naked all along. I was too scared to say anything.”
“So was I,” said the politician. I was afraid I’d lose my job or get killed, or, what’s worse, I’d look stupid.”
And the kingdom began to heal.
By Johanna Jacobson
Minutes later Ivan called her into his office and his face looked troubled. “You can’t print that, Johanna. This is a time of war, and the nation has to stand united. This is no time to criticize the president.”
“But he wants to wage war.”
“You can’t print that article. It shows revolting taste. End of discussion.”
“And, if our government knew nothing about the attack, how come they now have enough evidence to send hundreds of men to Guantanamo Bay? And why Guantanamo, and not somewhere in the U.S., unless they plan to torture them? And how do we know that they’re all terrorists? Maybe some of them are in there by mistake. Or, even worse, maybe some are activists, in prison for exercising their right to free speech. Or maybe they know something that might embarrass the president. This is the United States. We don’t have a Gestapo or a KGB. We have to stand up for freedom and truth.”
“Johanna, stop right now.”
“What if…”
“No, you may not print the article. I don’t care if the president takes a gun and goes on a shooting spree in the parking lot. He’s second to God. Got it?”
“This blows, and you know it.” Johanna slammed the door, then started crying.
Chapter XXV
“You're amazing Alex.” Vivian said it so often he was starting to get tired of the phrase. “So much sadness and anger, and you just do what you have to and even manage to smile. How do you keep up your spirits?”
And Alex took to shrugging modestly because he had run out of modest answers.
"Darling,” said Vivian, “Weasel called. Something about arranging a meeting tomorrow. I wrote it all down for you.”
The following morning Alex shaved with care, and, after he’d finished, he ran his fingers over his cheeks and chin, feeling for any missed stubble. But no, his shaved face was flawless, as was everything else he'd done - smooth and slick. Appearance is everything, and Alex knew how to put on a good appearance. And to make sure he wowed the partners, Alex wore the same suit he'd used to interview for the White House job. Why meddle with success?
The meeting was held in a twenty-sixth floor conference room in Houston. Alex was the first person there, and he walked into the room ready to be congratulated.
Weasel’s partners had picked an ultra-modern suite in one of Houston’s finest hotels. It was a room of sharp edges, (“cutting edge”, thought Alex) with glass and chrome furniture. And it made Alex want to salute. There was a sense of urgency in the angles. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city, and, looking out through those windows, Alex understood a great truth: Houston, Texas, the United States, the world - it all belong to him now.
“But for a price.” The words sneaked into his head, startling Alex. Then he smiled. His price had been hard work and it had all been worth the effort.
Alex turned from the windows. There on the opposite wall, in stark contrast to the clean, modern lines, hung an enormous oil painting of an eagle flying over snowy mountains with a jackrabbit in its claws.
The eagle’s details fascinated Alex - the massive wings, drawn halfway through the down stroke, his head stretched up and forward, and the long, curved talons - so sure of their grasp, - reflecting sunlight. Fantastic, exquisite, thought Alex, predation, survival - life and death.
Then Weasel’s friends filed into the room, and Alex imagined himself the eagle, carrying prey in his powerful claws, and he shuffled his papers, impatient to begin.
As Alex looked from man to man, he noticed the suits they were wearing. Alex knew Italian suits, and realized that he was badly outclassed.
“Mr. Lidecker.” Adam Snavey emphasized the “mister”. “Is this the best you could do? Are you aware of how seriously you’ve botched up the whole situation?” He peered over his glasses at Alex as a principal would stare down at a student facing detention.
Stunned, Alex dropped his gaze. He was about to start a war. Enron was history, and the president looked great. Surely these people weren’t going to quibble about a few Arabs or soldiers when so much else was at stake.
“Sir, it wasn’t my fault. I wanted to negotiate, but the president…”
Vernon Pomerleau slapped his hand on the table. The sound of his ring striking the glass rang out like gunshot. “Negotiate!” He laughed and shouted in one breath. “You wanted to negotiate! What were you going to say? Please don’t hurt us mister terrorist. We’re sorry our towers got in the way of your planes”
The room rang with laughter. Alex looked up at the painting for reassurance, but this time he noticed the rabbit, trapped in the eagle’s claws. The gashes were long and deep, showing pieces of exposed meat hanging from the rabbit’s thigh, and its eyes were glazed from shock or pain or death. Beaten, defeated, it hung in the eagle’s talons, helpless over its fate.
Alex had never known defeat or failure (ugh, such unpleasant words!) He’d never considered himself the rabbit – not since the time he was four years old and his brother had stuck his head in the toilet. But now Alex stared at the men seated around him, knowing that he was playing a game of high stakes and was ignorant of the rules.
Dr. Smythe-Huntington stood up. “War is both acceptable and inevitable. The United States depends on Middle East oil, and can’t be held victim to the whim of some medal-toting hot-head who decides he doesn’t want to sell it, or wants to barter for higher prices. War is necessary, but you’re about to wage it against the wrong nation. Iraq should be the target, you dunderhead. Get Saddam and give us oil rights to the unexplored western desert, not a bunch of friggin’ barren mountains and some religious maniacs.”
‘Shit,’ thought Alex. He didn’t like playing defensive politics. “But what about the terrorists? Surely we have to stop them. And the way they treat their women. What about that?”
“We need the oil right now. Terrorists are a pain in the ass, but they’re not worth waging a war over. Petroleum is worth waging war over. You should know that, Lidecker.”
“And they treat their women the way women should be treated,” said Vernon Pomerleau.
“There was no connection between the planes and Iraq. How are we supposed to sell bombing Iraq to the American people?”
“You lie, Lidecker. You tell them that Saddam sent the planes. That’s what we’re paying you for, Lidecker. To lie, and to do it effectively. I believe that was the unique talent you boasted of when we took you on board.”
Shit, thought Alex. He was trembling. Sweat drenched his Italian shirt. He thought now that his suit hinted of the uniform Saddam Hussein typically wore. He needed a miracle and thought the word, “Remordia”.
“We’re waiting, Lidecker.”
Alex stood up, and slowly looked around the room using the silence as his introduction. “Weapons of Mass Destruction,” he said and again there was silence. So obvious! He would have thought of it earlier if the men hadn’t rattled him. “WMDs! Banned by the Geneva Convention. These are Saddam’s trademark weapons and his Achilles’ heel. You’ll have your war. First Afghanistan, next Iraq, and then Iran and anyone else who dares defy us. We’re training Americans to respond to fear. And we’re training them to accept war. Once they back one war, they’ll back as many as we tell them to.” As Alex talked, power swelled his lungs and his voice filled the room. “Americans have never been under attack. They’re used to freeway accidents and heart attacks, but they’ve never known terror… I can supply terror. Arab terror organizations like Al Quaida will be my greatest weapon. Those who despise us the most will supply the instruments of terror. And with every suicide bomb they detonate, our position becomes stronger. Gentlemen, I’ll have every man, woman and child in the nation quivering from their breakfast cereal to their evening news. I’ll pitch an ad campaign the likes of which this country had never seen - first against Afghanistan, next Iraq, and finally against any nation that dares to defy us. And WMDs will be the link to Saddam Hussein and the ultimate source of terror by which Americans will stand behind us.”
The room was quiet, the air charged, and Alex knew that, once again, he’d won. Like the eagle, soaring over the mountaintops, he was anxious to get back to Washington, anxious to build his plans and set them into action.
“Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction - WMDs. Soon the whole country would know the initials.”
Bubonic plague, small pox, anthrax, nerve agents, seren, ricin, nuclear weapons, chlorine gas - there were many more. Research on all of these weapons went on in many military bases throughout the United States. Alex chose anthrax. He’d put anthrax into letters and address them to Senator Thomas Daschel and Senator Pat Leahy, They were both troublemakers - both crusty and outspoken and both likely to vote against his legislation or likely to stall its passage. Assassination was so much easier than the democratic process! And with two spots on the Supreme Court likely to be vacant within the next few years, Pat Leahy had to go. Finally, to ensure maximum news coverage, he added Tom Brokaw and The National Enquirer to his list of victims.
Next he searched his computer’s database for blackmail material against someone with access to the military’s anthrax supply. Alex hummed to himself. Dr. Sheldon. Biological Weapons center in Alameda. And, oh, my, look at these photos! It seems the good doctor’s been a naughty boy!
Finally, through Weasel, Alex found a laboratory that made anti-anthrax vaccine, and had contributed heavily during the last campaign. He signed a secret contract with the laboratory’s CEO to boost production of an antibiotic and vaccine effective against the anthrax bacterium. Best to be prepared, he thought.
Ten days after the infamous flights of the hijacked planes, Johanna read about the anthrax in the morning paper
Mysterious Deaths Caused by Anthrax
Five victims dead from exposure. FBI identifies mysterious white powder as anthrax.
It reminded her of the WMD workshop she had gone to years ago. Five mail carriers had been killed. ‘Just as in chess,’ she thought, ‘the pawns are the ones who get killed. I wonder who was supposed to get the letters.’
Johanna had to look hard to find out. The letters were addressed to Tom Brokaw, The National Enquirer, Tom Daschel and Pat Leahy. The writer assumed that Osama bin Laden was behind the anthrax poisonings.
Johanna was incensed. ‘So someone tries to assassinate the president’s political rivals, the president gets his war; the news media gets shushed, the tabloids leave him alone, and he scares the pants off of the American public and everyone thinks Osama bin Laden did it! Isn’t anyone even going to look at the White House and its advisors? Plus, they have access to all the anthrax they want through the military.
Johanna decided to check with the only paranoid left-wing activist she knew. She called up Temple.
“See if Osama brags about it on Arab. TV tonight,” she said. “You know, the way he bragged about destroying the World Trade Center. If he takes the credit, I’ll believe he did it, but I’ll bet he denies the whole thing.”
Temple sounded so calm. Johanna was ready to explode. “And listen to the president. He’s inciting people, not calming them down. Terrorists don’t want to kill people; they want to scare them into doing something – like going to war.”
“You’ve lived in Berkeley too long, girl. You sound like my mother.”
“What’s your mother got to do with this?”
“She was always seeing government conspiracies.”
“So, how often was she right?”
“About 50% of the time - assuming, of course, that she was wrong about the Kennedy assassinations and Senator Wellston’s plane crash. She was right on with Watergate.”
There was no word from Osama bin Laden on Television that night, but everyone knew that he was responsible for the letters with anthrax.
Johanna paced, and went to bed thrashing, twitching and thinking about anthrax. “It’s no good. I’ll never get to sleep at this rate. It’s not fair, God. Why can’t I sleep?” She turned over onto her stomach. “You can’t be expecting me to do something! What on earth can I do about this? Even if I am a journalist, I write the environmental section. I don’t know enough about politics to argue any of this intelligently.” A car whooshed by and then the night was still.
“And what if I’m wrong, God? And, besides, Ivan won’t let me print anything about war or political corruption.” A lone cricket chirped outside her window. And the idea of making some statement wouldn’t leave her alone.
“Okay, Lord, what do you want me to do? I’ll write something, but you’d better help me and not leave me dangling. You left Jesus dangling on the cross. But he was Jesus, and I’m only me. Don’t do that to me. Please, God. Just please don’t expect too much.” Rubbing her eyes, Johanna threw on a bathrobe, pulled out a pen and notepad and began to write about coyotes and chickens and anthrax.
The next day, she waited for Ivan to approve her column, a nothing story featuring dancing organic vegetables. Then she ran down to the layout department. “I found a typo,” she said. “Can I just get into your computer and change it?” That’s when she replaced the safe story with the one about the coyotes and chickens.
But before she could make it back to her desk, she heard bellowing, and knew that she’d been caught. “See me in my office – now.” Ivan’s jaw clenched, and his face had turned pink - not a good sign. So Johanna prepared to get chewed out.
“What the Hell – What the bloody Hell were you thinking?” On his desk lay the article that Johanna had spent the night writing:
Earth Songs
Once upon a time a greedy fox wanted to take over the chicken coop.
Well this fox, like all foxes, was sly. He mixed up some poisonous white powder and mailed it to the chickens he hated the most. Three chickens died, but they didn’t understand what killed them.
The fox mailed a second letter to the coop. Actually, he tied the letter to a rock and shot it over the fence with a slingshot. This time with an explanation – This powder is anthrax, and it’s mailed to you courtesy of the coyotes.
“It was the coyotes,” explained the fox. “They are the ones responsible for the anthrax. Let me set up some security around your perimeter to protect you from them. We must wage a war against the coyotes,” he said. “You can’t let them do this to you. But don’t worry - I’ll protect you. My brothers and I; you know you can count on us.” He smiled, and he’d practiced it so well that there was not a trace of guile on his face.
“We can trust the foxes,” the chickens all said. “They are decent and honorable.”
“So the foxes sent the chickens off to wage war on the coyotes. Armed with rifles, grenades, and tanks, they quickly vanquished the coyotes, who had only their teeth with which to defend themselves.
“You need better security from the coyote spies, said the fox. They’re still out to get you, you know. I’ll set up some wiretaps, and I'll monitor your computers, and I'll set up tight security at your gate and across the top of your fence. No more white powder got into the chicken coop, so the chickens knew that the foxes were capable. The foxes controlled all their goings out and coming in, as well as the phones, and computers. “Thank you, thank you,” cried the chickens, clucking in gratitude. “You’ve truly saved us from our enemy.” And the foxes dined at leisure on chickens and eggs for the rest of their days.
Who’s mailing out the letters with anthrax – a call to send our nation to war? For Pete’s sake, they were mailed to Senator Tom Daschel, an environmentalist passionate about energy conservation and Senator Pat Leahy, who gave the president grief over his Supreme Court appointments. It’s not Osama bin Laden sending the letters; it’s probably someone in our administration. Please, people, don’t support a government that poisons its own people to make war popular.
By Johanna Jacobson
Ivan’s face reddened. He threw down the paper, leaned on his knuckles and glared at Johanna. “What the hell were you thinking?” “What the shit were you thinking? That you’d just sneak this by me and I wouldn’t notice? Did you think the layout editor wouldn’t tell me about this? Don’t you think I read the final draft copy?”
“It’s why I became a journalist - to tell the truth – not a watered down version of it.”
“Where’s your proof? How do you know it’s the truth? And what if the paper folds? What then? How are you going to tell the truth if there’s no paper?”
Johanna shrugged. “It’s what I believe. It’s my truth, my story, my passion.”
“And I’m killing it. Consider yourself lucky that you still have a job. And if you ever try a stunt like that again, you’re fired. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, but...”
“I’m killing it. End of discussion. And I’m keeping an eye on what you write.”
Johanna tried talking to Ivan again a few days later. “Osama bin Laden couldn’t have been responsible for the anthrax. The bacterium was a domestic strain.”
“Get out!” said Ivan.
“Are you afraid of the president?” Johanna watched carefully for Ivan’s reaction. “Are you afraid you’ll get an anthrax package?” Ivan didn’t answer. “Or that they’ll black-list the paper?” Ivan looked down. “That’s it. You’re afraid of what the president might do to you. That you’ll get a real poison-pen letter with your water bill. Or are you afraid you’ll get arrested? This is still America, you know. We still have free speech. Although we won’t have it for much longer unless we fight for it.”
“And what if you’re fired? That’s real close to happening right now. I’ll fire you in a heartbeat if I ever see anything in print that hasn’t been approved. So you can thank God - or your lucky star, or whatever you believe in - that your little scheme failed, because, believe me, if you’d succeeded, or if you ever try anything like that again, you’ll set a record for out on your ass!” Ivan paced. His face turned red. He slammed his fist against the desk. “Understand?”
“I understand. But I used to admire your courage.”
“Three strikes, Johanna. Three strikes and you’re out. You’ve already had two.” She slammed the door on her way out of Ivan’s office. The bathroom was the only private place she could think of, and she needed to talk to God. “Do you want me to try a third article and be fired? I could really use your help, Lord. You’re God. You can do anything. But I’m just me, and this is all too hard!”
American Troops Deployed to Afghanistan
Soldiers prepare for overseas duty.
Everyone took the anthrax scare seriously. Alex was tickled by how little it took to send the American public into panic. Flour, crushed chalk, powdered hand soap - all of these were potential weapons of terror. Now hazardous materials specialists routinely donned protective suits to clean up mysterious white powder - everything from sugar to talcum powder.
John Ambrose walked into Alex’s office unannounced and threw a newspaper on Alex’s desk. “What do you plan to do about this problem?” he asked.
Anthrax Worries Slow Mail Service
Mail carriers express concern about handling mail which might be laced with anthrax.
John’s upper lip actually quivered as he talked. “You’ve done the job too well. Everyone’s terrified of anthrax. But we can’t have mail service disrupted. Do something.”
Alex smiled. “I’m way ahead of you.” He handed John a press release he’d just finished. “It seems that there’s a plot to blow up one of the bridges on the West Coast. It’s fresh news, and it’ll get anthrax off of the front page. Once the media stop talking about anthrax, the posties will calm down.”
John Ambrose actually smiled.
Creating news was an adventure to Alex. Each morning he reached for a newspaper eager to see what new turn the war on terror would take. But the next set of headlines almost caught him off guard.
FBI Had Advanced Knowledge of 911 Attacks
Evidence suggests that the 9/11 attacks could have been prevented.
The White House advisors were panicked. If word ever got out that the 911 attacks could have been prevented, they were all facing jail time.
Alex whispered his good luck word to himself. Remordia. Then he smiled at the group. “This isn’t a problem, Gentlemen: it’s an opportunity – an opportunity to get rid of bleeding hearts without the guts to bend a rule or two. Listen to this. The FBI is inefficient. So we reorganize it and weed out any disloyal agents, the ones who might leak this kind of information to the newspapers. We’ll do this with flair. We’ll set up a new agency that answers directly to the president. ‘Homeland Security.’”
For once John Ambrose was smiling, or maybe it was more of a leer. “’Homeland Security’ – a perfect name. It conjures up comfort, a cozy fire, amber waves of grain, everything good and pure that our nation stands for.” They shook hands on it.
Soon Afghanistan took center stage in the news
Fighting in Kabul
Bin Laden’s army retreats in chaos.
Troops Reach Caves of Tora Bora
A treacherous path under the mountains will pit our soldiers’ skill against the wiliest of enemies.
Kandahar Falls
Today, the flag of the United States of America was unfurled over Afghanistan’s capital city as troops marched into Kandahar.
Chapter XXVI
The Afghanistan war was a huge success, and Alex was savoring the rewards of a job well done. He had never slept this well, and his dreams were so vivid, he frequently stopped to wonder if he hadn’t actually lived through them:
With a sharp, thunder-like clap and a shuddering rumble, the ground trembled, and Alex found himself at the top of a craggy mountain. Jagged rocks scraped at his legs as wind knocked Alex to his knees pushing him toward the edge of the cliff. “Now, will you pay my price for your life?” The voice boomed through the wind.
“I’m not afraid to die. I will not pay your price.”
The wind screamed through the mountain, a banshee’s wail - cold and piercing. Alex felt himself pushed towards the edge. Frantically, he grasped for a handhold, and found a pine branch, a limb growing through the tiniest of cracks in the rocks. He wrapped both arms around the branch, holding it for his life.
“Will you pay my price for your life?”
“No.” Alex’s scream sounded faint against the crashing wind that tore his clothing from his body, and he crouched shivering and naked, clutching the pine branch next to his chest.
Then he saw his father’s face. The mountain was gone; the wind had died down; Alex was still crouching naked, but there was only the face of his father. “I am very disappointed in you, Alexander.” His words rang like an echo in Alex’s head. “I am very disappointed in you.” – over and over – “I am very disappointed in you.” Alex was aware of his shame and his nakedness.
The wind laughed and bellowed, and Weasel-man’s image appeared, picking his teeth with needle-sharp fingernails. “Will you pay my price?”
“Yes,” Alex whispered. His chest burned, with the sensation of a bee sting, and his father’s face took on the expression of a dried fig.
Again the wind died, and the sense of terror waned, replaced by those feelings of ownership and control so familiar to Alex.
Alex woke with a sense of urgency. ‘Today I begin waging war against Iraq,’ he thought, ‘just as I promised. Winning will be easy. We have a hundred times the weapons and military sophistication that Iraq has. They may as well use slingshots and B-B guns for all the good it’s going to do them. Peacemaking won’t be much worse. We’ll bribe them with Yankee money and bomb the ones who don’t agree. They’ll come around or be jailed, or die. They really don’t have any choice.’
Within a few days, his message began to hit the newspapers:
9/11 LINKED TO SADDAM HUSSEIN
New undercover evidence suggests Al Qaida received assistance from Saddam Hussein.
IRAQ MAY HAVE UNDISCOVERED CACHE OF WMDs
White House skeptical of United Nations’ arms inspection program.
WHITE HOUSE HINTS OF NUCLEAR DANGER
The next cloud may be mushroom-shaped.
Johanna was in Ivan’s office hoping to talk him into letting her print her article. “All of a sudden Iraq is to blame for 911, and we’re supposed to believe it and go to war because of a rumor. Do you let your kid shoot up a school because maybe someone has a knife?” Johanna tried to appear calm.
“Ivan, you’ve got to let me print this. We’re about to send twenty-year-olds into Iraq. They’re going to risk their lives, supposedly to protect us. If they can risk their lives, we can bloody well risk our jobs.”
Ivan read the story as Johanna paced back and forth. He just had to let her print it! Ivan wasn’t a sellout.
When he had first hired her, he’d told her, “write the truth; write with feeling; and I’ll print it no matter what.” And he’d stood by his word. But all that happened when it was fashionable to be an activist. Ivan hadn’t really had to stick his neck out. This was different. Now everyone was scared. And, as in the days of the mobs and protection money, Johanna thought, no one wanted to be the first to squeal.
Finally Ivan spoke - slowly and deliberately as if he were trying hard to get it right. “Johanna, I understand, and I’m killing it anyway. You think I’m a coward, and maybe I am. The whole world is watching while our country goes to war. The situation is delicate. That’s a politician’s expression, but it’s true. Tempers are hot. Emotions are high. Everyone is afraid. And emotional, frightened people are dangerous people.”
Johanna shook her head. “Maybe some Al Qaida fighters think they’ll go to heaven with seventy-two virgins if they die as martyrs, but I have to believe most are dying because we’re threatening their homes, their God, and their way of life. And they’re not just risking their lives like our soldiers. They’re flat out giving away their lives. That’s a side of the story that no one sees. And we used to have freedom of speech in this country. That’s something you used to be passionate about. What ever happened?”
“Johanna, I’m still passionate about free speech, but I’m also afraid. Minions of the president run almost all the newspapers in the country. The Upstart Gazette isn’t one of them yet, but, if we stir up trouble, we could be greenmailed in a heartbeat. We’re a tiny pawn as far as the political scheme of things is concerned. If we made big enemies in the White House, the Upstart Gazette wouldn’t last a month.”
Ivan took out a well-worn pink and red paisley handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Our country is set up to run on petroleum, and we don’t have enough of our own. We import over 50% of our crude oil. Yes, it would be nice if we had better buses and more people walked, but the hard fact is that we’re just not set up for it.”
“So we’ll kill a few Iraqis for oil? Print that.”
“There’s more, Johanna. All news about the war is filtered through the White House. If I want my reporters to have access to the White House, I have to print news with their slant on it. That’s why I keep my trap shut and back a war I don’t believe in.” Then Ivan crumpled into a chair and rubbed his hands across his face as if the explanation had drained away all of his energy. “I know our leaders started a dangerous game. And they’re wrong. But If I’m the whistle blower, I won’t have a newspaper in which to print anything for much longer. So I bite my tongue and put out the state-approved version of the news.”
Johanna stared. “I believe that telling the truth sets you free. You told me the truth just now, and your words rang stronger than any I’ve heard from you in a long time. And it’s going to take a lot of truth-telling to clear up this mess. But we have to do it now - before anyone invades Iraq and before anyone else gets hurt.”
Ivan shook his head. He looked old all of a sudden. “No, Johanna. I won’t let you print it.” It was as if he had to muster all of his strength just to say it.
Johanna turned towards the door. “You’re wrong,” she said, and she held back the tears until she’d left Ivan’s office.
No comments:
Post a Comment