Chapter 3
War President
President Bushleeg proudly and often referred to himself as "The War President; Commander in Chief of the most powerful and best trained military the world has ever known."
He felt a personal responsibility to use the military to build stable nations around the world, wherever necessity was divined. He never tired of saying his pet nation-building projects would become fertile beds where democracy would flourish and provide free markets and peace on earth. He gritted his teeth and called it, “tough love” whenever the tremendous responsibilities of his office forced him to impose austerity and restrict freedoms in his own country. An inner voice assured him that his people knew he was doing the right thing for the security of their homeland.
President Bushleeg paced the large octagonal office nervously. It had been four busy days since his morning briefing had included exceptionally good news; the lost submarine had finally been sighted. His military had spotted the rebel spaceship escaping from Typhoon Terrible which was spreading havoc across the South Pacific before turning toward China. Rescue vessels had searched the area where the spaceship took-off from after the typhoon and they found the sub. He was sure the submarine would soon be brought to the surface, though somewhat puzzled by the rebel's continuing vague offer to negotiate its return.
The President nervously glanced at his watch as he paced around the office. It irked him to think those puny pioneer rebels had flown all the way to Pacifica and told the world that his crew had survived the typhoon. They had even had the temerity to land at Pacifica's spaceport for their announcement. He, President of The United States of Earth, had personally seen the special news announcement when it interrupted his favorite morning television show. His real anger boiled because they had escaped his best attack fighters, worse yet, his surface to air missiles hadn't even come close to a hit. Humiliation gnawed at his guts. He visualized looking down on the rebel island and tasted bile in his throat.
The president paused his pacing and checked the time again as he anxiously awaited his morning television program, reruns of his favorite cartoon show as a kid. He'd asked the Chief of NMM, National Media Monopoly, to time the show for just after morning briefings. He especially liked the commercials because they gave him a chance to see what his friends who ran the national corporations were doing. He sighed, there really was a lot for the President of the United States of Earth to keep up with, sometimes it seemed more than one person could possibly handle.
He flipped on the projector switch and slid into his favorite seat as the second hand of his watch reached top dead center. His heart skipped a beat wondering if the pretty girl he liked would be in the show. Even-though he knew she’d been dead for almost two centuries, he thought of her as a special friend. Something about the way she moved reminded him of college parties and kissing the girls in the back seat of his dad's limousine, behind their good ol' fraternity, Skull and Crossbones.
He opened a package of snacks and settled back to watch the first cartoon. This hour of complete solitude was something he treasured as special. Secret service agents posted outside his door were under orders to let no one bother him. It was well known that he enjoyed and even needed this hour to himself. NMM newscasters referred to it as; "quality quiet time for contemplation." He appreciated their understanding and settled back to enjoy an uninterrupted hour of "Cartoon Wars," the opening music always stirred his patriotism.
President Bushleeg emerged from his office theater slightly bleary-eyed but otherwise refreshed and ready for the rest of the day. He liked being the boss and telling the entire world what to do, yet, he always felt slight tension before the next assigned time slot. His aides referred to it as, "Decision Time." He often stressed this in public appearances, "My job as your President is to make the tough decisions that only I have the authority to make. I always try to understand the issues and choose decisions that will strengthen your homeland; that is why you elected me."
His description of "Decision Time" was the most accurate statement he ever made at press conferences. He had ordered his staff to bring him a one page summary of Presidential decisions scheduled for the day. He preferred odd-numbered days because the three decision choices were labeled with easier to keep track of numbers, rather than letters, which were used on even-numbered days.
President Bushleeg was quite proud of the team which prepared his decision briefs. He felt it was a sign of his executive ability that he had hired individuals smart enough to summarize any issue into a single short sentence containing all the facts necessary for him to select a tough decision from a list of three choices.
The first decision was almost always his favorite, he viewed it as a warm up decision. It invariably involved a tax credit for one of the national corporations which funded his election campaigns. All he had to do was search through the multiple choices and find the one that gave the Owners the most money.
Today he had zipped through all the decisions but was stumped by the last one. It involved the lost submarine. The decisions were:
1) Blow it up and blame it on terrorists in Pacifica.
2) Blow it up and say something went wrong but terrorism was not ruled out.
3) Hire the Vice President's former company to send in its submarine rescue equipment.
President Bushleeg saw one and two as the obvious and easiest decision but each presented the same serious problem; he had personally appointed his sister-in-law's husband as skipper of the submarine; someone in the family was sure to find out.
He felt somehow trapped. It vaguely irritated him that the Vice President, Dork Chewey, had a former company that kept sprouting new talents as fast as he could make decisions. He knew ol' Chewey wouldn't do anything wrong, basically, but worried that decision number three might end up in political cartoons posted on popular foreign newspapers and web sites.
He finally bit the eraser off his pencil and decided Chewey's former company should have a go at it. He marked number three, wiped the sweat off his brow, finished the rest of the decisions, and handed in his paper to waiting aides. Next he slammed his pencil down and turned on his charismatic smile for the historic photo session following decisions. As soon as the flash bulb blindness faded he stood up with his version of executive style swagger and went to the bathroom.
The President was shocked when he returned from the bathroom. In that brief time his office had become a scene of total bedlam. He stood dumbfounded, watching aides running around the room with charts, maps, and briefcases. It looked to him like a bunch of chickens running around a barnyard looking for a place to hide from a swooping hawk. The scene made him angry.
"What's going on around here?" he bellowed.
President Bushleeg was a big man with a big voice. Every one stopped dead in there tracks when he yelled. Nobody wanted to see him upset. The President could become mean - very mean - especially if he was jostled, physically or mentally.
"Sir," One of his aides called from the map room door. "A second search vessel has found the submarine."
"That's good," the President responded, feeling slightly uneasy looking at all the wide-eyed faces looking at him.
Secretary of State Slashburn strode out of the map room followed closely by some of his aides, "Mr. President," he began. "The second image is superior to the first. We have a problem that requires The Commander in Chief."
Though he showed only his strongest outward confidence, President Bushleeg smelled trouble as he strode into the map room.
"Here's the second image," The Secretary of State said handing it to him.
"It's better than the first one," The President agreed. "What's the problem?"
"It's here on the map," the top military officer present, General Powerpill, indicated a red dot on the wall sized computer screen, which displayed a map of the south Pacific.
The President walked closer to the map. He glanced at the image and then looked back at the red dot. "So what's the problem?" He asked a second time.
"It's here," General Powerpill replied moving the pointer to a second red dot.
"I didn't ask where, I asked what," President Bushleeg said, skillfully exhibiting a superior's pained but patient exasperation.
The General handed him the earlier and less distinct image. "The first image is from this red dot and the second image is from the second red dot." Numbers appeared next to the red dots as he concluded, "Those two red spots are over two hundred miles apart."
President Bushleeg stood before the map, he held the first image in one hand and compared it to the second image in the other hand. He looked at them both and his mind became crystal clear. He hadn't actually paid much attention to his job up to this point because he was merely a temporary president appointed when the last president let the pioneers escape. The family plan was for his brother, Jud, to win a two-term presidency for the other party, then he would take over for two full terms representing the alternate political party, assuming enough voters could be cajoled into actually voting.
"Okay." He said slowly, carefully applying his best tough cowboy voice tones. "I want a sonar reading to tell us which one is the real submarine." He felt in his bones that the Pioneers were somehow behind this. His political survival instincts smelled double trouble. He absolutely hated to be toyed with. His careful plans were in sudden jeopardy, and, just as suddenly, President Bushleeg became a very dangerous man.
"We can't," General Powerpill responded, stepping backward and looking down at the floor.
"Why is that, General?" The President spoke with upper-class disdain, demanding an answer.
"Ship sonar systems have suddenly started breaking down throughout the Pacific Fleet.
"Has this ever happened before?"
"No," General Powerpill answered slowly. He hesitated a moment and then continued. "Very mysterious sperm whale calls are also echoing throughout the Pacific. Though we have no way to connect the sperm whales with sonar break downs, the whales are making quite a racket. It seems rather suspicious."
"Has anyone ever heard sperm whales calling all at once like this before?"
"No. Mr. President."
"Then I'm telling you the whales are doing it."
"I tend to agree but I can't see how."
"I don't know how either. Call the manufacturer and see if they can engineer a quick fix."
"That's already been done. A recording answers and says the number is no longer in service."
"How could that be?" President Bushleeg raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"Vice President Chewey's former company won the contract to supply the navy's sonar equipment. Its shadow company closed down as soon as this problem came up."
"Send some sonar experts. Break down the door. I'm telling you, I want the job done now."
"We can't, Sir. The factory is in an isolated province of Mongolia."
"Mongolia?"
"Yes, Mr. President. The local government provided tax incentives and well enforced low wages to locate there."
"I see. That makes sense. Does Pacific Fleet Command have a fall back plan?"
"Yes Sir, Mr. President. Like you, they think it has something to do with the whales."
"And?"
"Pacific Fleet Command believes we should clear the area of whales so we can concentrate on our top priority, retrieving the lost sub."
"How?"
"The proposal is to disable them with anti-submarine devices."
"You mean kill them with bombs?"
"Those aren't appropriate military terms, Sir," the general responded with a sharp salute. "Disabling and clearing devices are the proper military description."
"Oh, I see; you're saying the whales have resorted to terrorism and National Security demands we take an appropriate defensive posture to promote democracy?"
"That's it, Mr. President. All attempts at diplomacy have failed. Pacific Fleet Command deeply regrets the need to use force yet is convinced we must clear the oceans of terrorist whales who hate freedom and shun our way of life. We await orders to proceed from the Commander in Chief."
"How many whales will be left when the terrorists have been, um... cleaned up?" President Bushleeg asked, with a worried expression on his face. "My mother-in-law is president of the Whale Watcher’s Club, this could lead to tension at the dinner table."
"They must all be transitioned out, Sir. We're talking about the future of the free-world here. We believe terrorist whales have already begun converting dolphins to their sinister purposes."
President Bushleeg visualized the squelching glances and double meaning comments that were sure to become part of Sunday dinners with his mother-in-law. It seemed as if his thoughts were a nightmare ringing in someone else's head.
Another aide suddenly burst into the room and the president pulled himself from his unpleasant daydream. There's been a third submarine sighting!" she cried, holding up a graphic image for everyone to see. Another aide quickly entered the location data into a computer and a third red spot appeared on the wall-sized screen.
"It's just outside Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii!" Secretary Slashburn exclaimed. "That's impossible."
"Maybe the sub escaped and was trying to reach port before the terrorists could strike again," General Powerpill speculated aloud.
"I suppose we'll need to check this one out, too," President Bushleeg mused. "Still, we can't afford the cost of chasing everywhere based on our own story."
"It's not a story anymore," the Press Secretary announced. "It's now printed facts reported by NMM," he waved the mid-day news and showed the headlines about the submarine and terrorist whales.
"But nobody outside this room knows what we've been discussing," President Bushleeg said in exasperation. "Who leaked it to the press?"
"I can't say, Sir," The Press Secretary responded. Whoever it was would speak only on the condition of anonymity. As you know, part of our job is to protect NMM's freedom to report the news. National Media Monopoly is a shining example to the world of our free press and our respect for freedom of information in a democracy."
Secretary Slashburn then elbowed his way past the milling aides and undersecretaries. "This isn't a problem, Mr. President. It's an opportunity to show the world we are serious about the Bushleeg Doctrine."
"You're absolutely correct," President Bushleeg responded proudly, raising a clenched fist to illustrate his personal bravery in battle. "We are taking action against terrorist whales before they bring their hatred for freedom and democracy to the very center of our people's homeland. The rest of those wimps that call themselves 'world leaders' would still be wasting valuable time in useless diplomacy. In contrast, we take bold action based on the facts as presented by the National Media Monopoly on NMM News."
The President then looked around the room and saw with satisfaction that everyone was working hard on the tremendous paperwork load this important action was generating. He allowed himself another moment of personal pride. His executive abilities were clearly evident as he surveyed the hard working staff; one hundred percent college graduates, and he had personally appointed the hiring committee. He was just beginning to relax when another aide burst breathlessly into the room.
"There's been a fourth submarine sighting," he said as he hustled to President Bushleeg and handed him yet another image of the submarine sitting on the ocean floor.
Bushleeg felt his mind whirling, he resisted his urge to become angry. He was the fourteenth member of his family to be President of The United States of Earth. His family was well known as enlightened enough to evenly divide their presidencies under the broad philosophical umbrellas of both main stream political parties. He had a proud tradition and superior breeding on his side, he thought of his family's history and remained calm. With a well practiced upper-class tone of resigned acceptance, he turned to the computer technician and requested the latest location be placed on the wall map.
A new red dot, labeled number four, appeared in an ocean trench just offshore from Spaceport Pacifica.
The President looked at the submarine picture and handed it to Secretary Slashburn. "It's the best picture yet," he said quietly, brushing the hair back from his forehead and adopting the posture of a relaxed yachtsman confident of winning the race.
He then turned to the aide who had delivered the picture. "I prefer everyone in my Administration to use the proper term for the spaceport, please call it by its real name from now on, it's Vandenberg Airforce Base. That way we'll all know what you are talking about."
"Yes Sir," the aide replied glancing nervously at Secretary Slashburn.
"It has had two names ever since the old United States of America collapsed," the Secretary of State offered in defense of his aide.
"Secretary Slashburn!" The President admonished sternly. "The United States of America never collapsed; that is just a description adopted by dumb college professors who knew they wouldn't be granted tenure. The good ol' USA reorganized itself into the USE. One of my ancestors was President then, that was before we updated our name to match the dignity and glory of the new United States of Earth."
"Yes, Sir," the Secretary answered uneasily.
"I remind you," Bushleeg continued. "The United States has never been rivaled, except for a brief period when China tried to copy us, before it used up all its natural resources and choked on the pollution."
Secretary Slashburn's son, General Slashburn, then jumped to his feet. As top man at Helpful Unified Nuclear Tactical Advantage, HUNTA, he deftly changed the subject to get his dad out of hot water.
"We're going to need more troops for Operation Freethem, in Pacifica," General Slashburn said solemnly. "If terrorist whales gain a foothold in Pacifica we'll be up to our necks in deep doo-doo."
"I wholeheartedly agree, General. How long will it take to get our troops into position," the President replied, also glad to change the subject.
"No more than three or four weeks, Sir."
"Three or four weeks! Why so long?" President Bushleeg was beginning to sweat profusely, he loosened his tie.
"Most of the concrete bridged have finally collapsed because concrete only lasts ten or fifteen years."
"What? I've personally seen concrete bridges over a hundred years old. My wife showed me a cement plaster fresco from ancient Greece that is thousands of years old. I tried to break off a piece when the guard wasn't looking, it's still as hard as a rock."
"Yes Mr. President. But our concrete is made by NCM, National Cement Monopoly. They follow strict codes supporting planned obsolescence and maximum stock dividends. It benefits the Owners."
This caught President Bushleeg's attention, his family was an owner and he'd always been curious just how many owners there were. It occurred to him that this bright young general might know and so he used this opportunity ask him. "How many owners are there? General."
"I don't know, Sir. That's a privacy area of our free enterprise system of private property. I'm just a military specialist but I'd guess there must be at least a thousand owners. I'm certain it's over a hundred, Sir."
"Either of those number seems rather large and unruly, to me. Well, stick to your job, General, have the National Concrete Monopoly send a bunch of concrete to fix those bridges."
"Sir, I tried that. NCM has moved to your brother's corporate theme park. Remember, he bought Haiti and then renamed it New Taxhaven."
"So?"
"So they refuse to ship us anymore concrete unless we pay for it with gold. That's why we had to let the bridges fall."
"Gold! But there's only enough gold left to pay my salary until my younger brother takes over this stupid job," Bushleeg stammered. "What about loyalty to the country?"
"Globalization, Sir. They have to think of the shareholders first or suffer raised interest on the money they borrow to expand faster and faster."
President Bushleeg was fuming. He'd just about run out of ideas when he realized the general had inadvertently indicated a way out. His political survival instincts took over, a sly look masked his face. He licked his lips and nervously and looked around the room to make sure everyone was busy with their paperwork. Then he turned to Reserve Board Chairman, Homespun. "How much is left in the employee pension plan?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Not much," Chairman Homespun whispered back. "We'll have to raise the retirement age again if we take anymore from there."
President Bushleeg sighed. He knew Chairman Homespun was right, he'd have to authorize a study to raise retirement age again. This was another part of his decision maker job that gave him the willies. Even the National Media Monopoly had given him bad press when he had reluctantly raised retirement age above life expectancy.
He leaned closer to Chairman Homespun, "How much higher than life expectancy do we need to move the pension age?" He asked, still whispering.
"It depends on how much you want to capture back into the public domain," Chairman Homespun answered with his characteristic matter of fact voice. "I'd say you'd be safe to set pension payments to start five years after most people are dead."
"Okay." Bushleeg responded. "I'll tell the fact finding committee what facts to find. Thanks." He wanted to ask Chairman Homespun how many owners there were, it was still on his mind, but he decided it would be best to keep the subject quiet. As far as he knew, his was the only family that was known publicly to be an owner. He figured most of the higher executives and generals around him were owners, but he had no way to be sure.
It suddenly dawned on President Bushleeg that his greatest danger lay in the hands of a dwindling number of owners. They had become akin to cunning pirate piranhas who would turn cannibal at the drop of a hat. "Those whales may be terrorists," he grumbled to himself, "but, when I look back over my shoulder, it's the owners who terrify me; every one of them is trying to be number one on the wealth chart, they never sleep.”