by Tony Bulmer
“Greetings America on this monumental day,” gushed Helman. “There is the sweet smell of impeachment in the air today dear listeners, and I for one say about damn time. Yes, those liberal, douche snuggling panty-waisters on Capitol Hill have finally gotten their dirty, inept little pinkies jammed firmly in the cookie jar of a genuine, bona-fide international incident.” Huds Helman gave a riotous chuckle and puffed cigar smoke high in the air. “But I am disappointed dear listeners. Not because that ugly stinking cowshed that serves as the headquarters of the so-called federal government is about to go up in flames, hell no. I am disappointed because those gutless saps have fumbled the nature of their own inevitable demise. I mean, I ask you, if you are going to get the CIA and a bunch of towel-headed Wahhabists to blow up those Godless commies in the Chinese government, you could at least make sure some of them were present when the smoking bomb went off—am I right?” Again, Helman let out a cracked guffaw. “But could they get it right? Hell no. Those morons couldn’t organize an orgy in a brothel.”
“We have our first caller on the line Huds,” interjected Erin dryly.
Huds Helman half turned his stocky 6’ 9” frame in his seat, and gave her a dirty leer. “That right sweet-cakes? Who are we talking to first?”
“We got Lonnie from Jersey.”
There was a brief interlude, as Lonnie gathered his thoughts to a background of screaming preschoolers and daytime TV applause. Finally he said, “Hey Huds, I cannot believe I am speaking to you at last.”
“The feeling is mutual Lonnie. What you got on your mind son?”
“Do you think we should nuke those Commie sons of bitches, or no? Because if you ask me they have been cheeking off to the American people for way too long.”
“Glad you asked that question Lonnie, because you have picked on a particular hobby horse of mine—and the answer is yes. I have been advocating for years that we nuke those gutless socialist losers in Washington. The sooner we turn that town into a blackened radioactive crater, the sooner we will be able to enjoy the constitutional freedoms our founding fathers intended.”
“That’s not what I… really meant. I think we should bomb China Huds.”
“Thank you for that Lonnie. I had no idea you had such an advanced level understanding of international diplomacy. I must admit that every Christian instinct compels me to agree with that noble point of view. But here is the thing—why should the hard-pressed American taxpayer have to foot the bill once again, so we can drop nuclear weapons on China? First of all, do you have any idea how much those nukes cost? And second, you just know that if we flattened that Commie loving nest of depravity to the ground it would only become a better place. Look at the favor we did for Japan and those sausage-munching despots in Nazi Germany. We send in the Army, Navy, air force and Marines to flatten their cities to the ground, and two weeks later they are stealing American jobs with a flood of cheap imports. What kind of crap is that? Worse, while this whole ugly scene is going on the Federal government just stands by idle, pocketing their slice of the blood money—deaf to the cries of the proud citizens of our great nation.”
Lonnie from Jersey didn’t get chance to respond to this diatribe of wisdom, because Huds Helman had cut him off and was already on to the next caller, Wyatt from Arkansas.
“You ask me Huds, this whole goddamn shambles is a false-flag operation by the Feds. All they want is an excuse to come to our homes and forcibly steal away our second amendment right to bear arms, don’t you agree?”
Huds Helman stabbed the sound effects board with a giant, nicotine stained finger and the sound of a pump-action shotgun ratcheting a cartridge into the chamber echoed across the airwaves. Huds Helman said, “First of all Wyatt, there ain’t no tax-suckling government stooge on the planet who has the cojones to drag their hairy Cro-Magnon knuckles to Casa Helman and demand this true-born American patriot gives up his God-given right to bear arms. And if they ever did—Huds Helman pressed the sounds effect board again, and the rattle of machine-gun fire filled the air.
Wyatt was overcome by emotion. “We are with you Huds, every God-born man woman and child in America is with you, holding our heads high, and standing ready for the cause.”
“That is good to know Wyatt. America expects nothing less of God-loving patriots such as your self. Now, this idea you raise about a false-flag operation by the Federal government to distract us from their nefarious plans—
“Nefarious Huds?”
“Low-slung snake-bellied evil Wyatt, the kind that eats out the hearts of righteous God-fearing patriots such as yourself, and the millions upon millions who stand with us, all over this great country of ours.”
A shocked intake of breath sounded over the phone-line from Arkansas, as Wyatt absorbed the horrific implications of his worst fears confirmed.
Huds Helman said, “The way I see it, I wouldn’t put nothing past these big-government stooges. I wouldn’t be surprised if this little plot they hatched to blow up the Chinese government and all those other world-leaders was just a cover for their true intentions, And we all know what they are right?
A shocked silence coming down the line now, indicating that Wyatt had very little idea how truly awful the situation was. Finally he croaked, “What do they want Huds, where is all this going?”
“Sharia law my friend. Those hacks in Washington want to kill all the leaders in the world, so they can unite with those prayer-mat kissing Muslimists in al-Qaeda. Mark my words, one day soon, unless the American people rise up and say enough, we will all of us together be kow-towing to those flip-flop wearing mullahs in Saudi-Irania.
“Saudi Arabia or Iran. They are two different places,” Interjected Erin tersely.
“I know you might think they are two different places, but we are talking global jihad here. All those prayer mats face the same direction am I right? And not one of them is directed towards the true God-fearing heart of the world.” snapped Huds.
“Jerusalem?” wondered Erin aloud.
“You just playing dumb, or it somehow come natural to you Erin? I am talking about the United States of America. If those holy-rolling Jihadists had any real faith at all, they would be directing their pointy little prayer-worshiping noggins towards the good ol’ U. S. of A. five times a day. We are the most God-loving nation on the planet after all. What could make more sense?”
Erin drew a long slow breath. “Islamic prayer is directed towards the Kabba inside The Grand Mosque in Mecca, Saudi Arabia. According to the sacred Koran, the Kaaba was built by Abraham, and was the first place humanity worshiped God.”
Huds Helman leaned in towards his microphone and snapped, “What the hell is the matter with you Erin? You sound like you swallowed a leather bound edition of Wikipedia, or something.”
“Abraham, wasn’t he Jewish? What would he be building a church inside a mosque for?” wondered Wyatt from Arkansas.
Huds Helman blew a huge smoke ring and said, “Prime real estate. If I know one thing about our Jewish friends, they know when to make a move. You can have no doubt they are still collecting rent on that tenancy in the Grand Mosque, am I right Erin?”
Wyatt was awed. “You got some kind of righteous wisdom behind you Huds, It ain’t no wonder those A-Rabs hate the Jews so much, if they are collecting ground rent on the holiest site in the history of the world.”
Erin cut in quickly, “Thanks for your opinions caller, but we got ourselves a full switchboard today, real full, and I think that the middle-east question is beyond the scope of our current debate.”
As they went to an ad break, Huds Helman turned his microphone aside and growled, “What the hell is the matter with you Erin, I could have hit that question out of the park.”
“No doubt. But we have got the Irving King interview coming up. In fact, he is sitting in reception right now.”
“So what you waiting for, we can’t have your friend hanging around in the lobby can we now?”
“He isn’t my friend Huds. You
asked him on the show, remember? But, if all he has got to offer is half-baked financial tips, the listeners will get restless and quick.”
“Don’t you be doubting my judgment now my Jamaican lovely.”
“I am from Vermont.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said isn’t it? Now, don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing. Mr. King is a forthright entertainer through and through. It is our job to draw out his true nature. Ask him baseline questions on the issues of the day, then squirt gasoline on the conversation and we can have ourselves a regular clambake cook-out.”
Erin Francelle had no idea what that meant, but she could hazard a wild guess. The Hudster was going to shoot the breeze live on air with one of his billionaire buddies. As ever, he would run the entire interview by the seat of his pants, no plan, no script, no nothing, just a whole bunch of gruff, gator-wrassling opinion, mixed in with a hefty side order of pure ego-mania. It was a recipe that had turned Huds Helman into a hundred million dollar a year media super brand. And she was part of it. Erin Francelle thought about the fat paychecks falling into her bank account every month. Those checks wouldn’t last forever, but by the time the last one came, she would have the wealth to write her own ticket—start her own law firm or media empire. Until then, she would have to suck back the sexist banter and the racial slurs—swallow down every last filthy comment that former NFL nitwit Wayne Huds Helman, media mogul had to offer—like he was the funniest man in the world.
11
Shanghai, China
As the motorbike powered down the hot, tree-lined boulevard, Karyn focused on the cordon of police vehicles, drawn across the road; there were steel-rail barricades too, topped off with garish warnings in blood red Hanzi characters.
Over two hundred yards out now, and already the cops were moving out in front of the barricades; raising their white-gloved hands in the confident knowledge that nothing, or no one could pass their checkpoint. Karyn wound the Wuyang’s 600cc engine just as far as it would go and it squawked out in wild protest. There was no telling how much more punishment the rattling motor would take. By the sound of it, the tortured pistons were making ready to break out through the head gasket. But Karyn didn’t care. They had almost reached terminal velocity, and she was damned if she was going to let up, for even a second.
The checkpoint was approaching so fast now collision seemed inevitable. The white-gloved police officers, once so confident out front of the barricade, were now having second thoughts, peeling away right and left, as the motorcycle closed on them with building speed.
Karyn felt the secretary of state’s terrified fingers clutch her svelte midriff ever tighter. It was almost as though the creep was trying to touch her up whilst her hands were unavoidably engaged in saving both their lives. She ground her teeth hard, clamping her jaw tight with ever-greater determination. If Truman Whitaker spun off the back of the motorcycle now, at this speed, he would be horribly maimed, or killed. All it would take would be a quick jerk of the handlebars, or a sudden variation in acceleration and he would be off—spinning in the roadway, completely helpless, like a turtle on it’s back. The wind roared hard against her face, taunting her, daring her to make a move. Karyn scowled, fighting back the demons that raged inside her. If Truman Whittaker died right now, no one would know she had killed him. She would ride free from consequences, like the ghost the CIA had forced her to become. But Karyn couldn’t kill just anyone, a voice inside told her that was a flaw, but she new that it wasn’t. The voice was wrong. Only the bad people had to die, the monsters, the enemies of mankind, who killed without scruple.
As the wind pinned back her raven hair in the raging slipstream, Truman Whittaker’s hands prowled ever higher, his whole body pressing hard against her now, drawing tighter to her, like he wanted to do something more than salvage the last moments of his miserable, gutless life. Whitaker took some believing. Most men would be moving with the program, fighting with every last shred of energy they had to ensure their significant partner was safe. Not this guy. Truman Whitaker was looking out for number one, Karyn had no illusions; if the creep had even the slimmest chance of squeezing out of this fix by him self he would. Whitaker was a survivor, no matter who he had to stamp on, or elbow out the way he would make it through. The dark voice edged back into her consciousness, but Karyn fought it, her fingers twisting ever tighter on the throttle of the speeding motorbike.
The cops on the barricade had weapons drawn now and were taking aim. The line out on the cordon was hermetically tight. There was no way they were getting through; no amount of crazy would change that. But Karyn was a professional, trained in the art of split-second decision making. This whole ugly scenario was just another day at the office for a Deep Five CIA operative. Her instincts came to the fore; the seamless transition to instinctive thinking was something she had learned never to question. Instinct gave her the split-second edge that made the difference between survival and a world of hurt too ugly to contemplate.
The opportunity, when it came, was so fleeting and dangerous that most minds would have dismissed it without question. Not Karyn. She saw the storm drain when they were almost upon it. Her SERE training kicked into high gear—survive, resist, evade, escape—the mantra for CIA agents in high threat situations.
She curved the bike across the road in a wild tire-burning arc, before swinging back across in the other direction to build momentum. The storm drain was flanked by two retaining walls that ran upwards, at a precipitous angle into the encroaching jungle. It wasn’t possible to see just how far the v-shaped ditch ran as it was heavily shrouded by towering trees and lush foliage, eventually disappearing from view, after no more than fifty yards.
The cops on the barricade opened fire now, wild bullets singing past in all directions. It hardly mattered. Small caliber handguns couldn’t touch them at this range and even if there were any sharpshooters scoping in on them, they were moving too fast. Course, there was always a chance someone would get off a lucky shot, but what the hell, that was the gamble.
Karyn eased back on the throttle a mere fraction of a second before the motorbike careened off the pavement. She had done calculations fast in her head, just enough speed to launch them on an upward trajectory, so they would mount the top edge of the retaining wall that bordered the storm drain, but not so much that they would wipe out against the concrete wall. It was an almost impossible call that would have killed an inexperienced rider. But Karyn showed no fear. She drove hard and fast, twisting back viciously on the accelerator just as soon as the bike mounted the top of the wall. She powered the bike forwards, giving it just enough speed to move onwards and upwards, but not so much that they spun out into the bottom of the ditch.
Behind, in the pillion seat, Truman Whittaker was screaming wild words of protest. The exact nature of these protests Karyn could only guess at, as the roar of the motorcycle drowned out specifics, but she was sure that whatever he was squawking at her wouldn’t be pleasant. At this point she hardly cared. She pulled the throttle back once again, and headed into the centre of the ditch, which provided ideal purchase for the fast burning tires of the Chinese cop bike.
The drainage channel swept up the hillside, in a series of sharp-angled zigzags. The corners were hard to make at speed, but Karyn steered the bike through them, like a motocross champion, climbing ever higher up the mountainside.
As they swept up the smooth concrete channel, the jungle reached down, with wet, palm-fringed fingers, to slow their progress. Karyn bowed down over the handlebars, whilst Whitaker swept the low-hanging fronds away from his face with obvious disgust. Out of immediate danger for the moment at least, the fear and frustration broiled up with in him, until he finally found he could constrain his opinion no longer. “Where in the hell are we going Kane? I don’t know what your plan is, but we are in the middle of some snake-infested jungle, with every law enforcement official in Southern China bearing down upon us. How long do you think you can keep up with this pointless
charade? They will find us sooner or later, like it or not.”
“You better hope not Truman, because the way I read it, we are caught in the middle of a nasty game with big people. Now, you can call me paranoid, but paranoia is my business and I can tell you right now, the Chinese state will do anything to see its interests served.”
“Big people? What are you talking about Kane? The Chinese government are our allies—they may not be our friends, I grant you, but at least they pretend to be our friends in a very amicable way, which is the most one can expect in today’s political climate.”
“Hey, you are not talking to some haddock-brained TV anchor Truman, you are talking to the sharp-pointed end of the spear, and I know every dirty little reality regarding your so-called friends in the Chinese government.”
“You are not paid to have opinions Kane, you are paid to do your job. So why don’t you ride me out of this God-forsaken jungle right now. I need a massage, a warm bath, and a soothing drink. I would ask you to join me but you don’t seem like the type.”
“I have no idea what that pretty little wife of yours sees in you Truman, you are some kind player aren’t you? Problem is you got no class, only money and some phony job your rich friends bought for you. What are you going to do when it all goes wrong Truman, there is going to be nowhere left in the world for you to bail out to, is there?”
Truman Whitaker gave her a petulant look. “You might be the cutest chick in the gym right now Kane, but you don’t have any idea about the real things in life. The things that make this world of ours turn on its axis. It is people like me, who make that happen, day in day out. I don’t ask or expect to receive thanks for what I do, but I deserve your respect at least.”
“You are some kind of self-righteous prick Truman. I will certainly give you that. Last time I saw your wife Lauren, she was about to get shot to pieces, and here you are, philosophizing about what a great guy you are. Well, blow it out your ass loser, because if we ever come out the other side of this little hell-ride, my guess is that pretty wife of yours will get some fancy west-side lawyer to tear you into pastrami sized snack cuts, and feed every sordid detail to the media.”
