The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker

  Meanwhile. Flash Fern held the attention of several surgeons who crowded around him in an operating theater discussing ways to repair his jaw. There were multiple fractures that would require a complicated series of wires. But where to start?

  Outside the operating room lawmen from several agencies waited, hoping the doctors might give them some clue as to what had hit Fern’s jaw. Perhaps there would be tiny shards of something or other embedded in it. There had been a fruitless search at the Capitol as to what caused the loud bang that a host of witnesses said had panicked House members. But none had witnessed an explosion. Whatever remnants must have been carried off.

  Committee chairmen were busy mulling the idea of hearings, urging their staff members to come up with a list of witnesses.

  Three days later Jon Flash Fern was released from the hospital. He carried an ample supply of pain pills and could drink through a straw. Smoothies and daiquiris were his chief form of nourishment.

  There had been no breaks in the case. The finest investigative agencies in the nation were totally baffled.

  At the Washington Hilton, a Japanese tourist couple was having breakfast, the man reading The Washington Post. He remarked to his wife, “This business of the congressman with the broken jaw. It sounds to me like the work of a ninja.”

  He smiled and his wife laughed out loud.

  The patience of the press was running thin. They demanded that the press secretary produce the President, who might be a key to the puzzle. Possibly whoever was responsible for this obvious act of vengeance might have contacted him either before or after.

  To quash the hubbub, the President agreed to a late-afternoon press conference, scheduled well in advance so everyone might attend. It drew such a crowd that the venue had to be changed to the Rose Garden.

  When the President appeared the first question was, “Have you talked to Congressman Fern?”

  Brooking smiled, but suppressed laughter. “Flash cannot talk. So I said it with flowers.”

  “What kind of flowers?” came the follow-up.

  “Appropriate for the occasion.”

  “And what might they be?”

  “Whatever the florist and my secretary agreed upon.”

  The Baltimore Sun got right to the point. “Do you know who made this attack, or who planned it, or do you have any information regarding the attack?”

  “I have been briefed by the attorney general who is touch with the numerous agencies investigating. I seem to have been told precisely what has appeared in the papers and on TV, tweets, social networks and so forth. It seems to be a great mystery.”

  The Sunpapers reporter followed up. “Do you have any theories?”

  “None whatsoever. I know some have attempted to relate it to an incident at our touch football outing. But that’s simply foolish. A person like Flash, a public servant, has a voting record. He must make certain decisions. When that is done some are pleased, some are upset. My guess is that’s where the troublemaker comes in. Maybe even his home district. What’s being done there?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s gotten into that,” the CNN newswoman said. “So you think it might be his voting record?”

  “Possibly, or maybe one of his speeches. He’s quite an orator so I’ve been told. I’ve not heard many of his talks, I’m too busy to watch C-Span. He seems to be on the wrong side of several women’s issues.”

  The Fox TV newsperson snapped back, “What’s the wrong side?”

  “It’s the wrong side by my definition, not his. Abortion, birth control, job pay equality, things of that nature. We all know what they are.”

  “I don’t know what they are,” the Fox reporter replied, obviously miffed.

  “These are contentious issues,” the President replied evenly. “If you are unaware of the controversy you must have just flown in from Mars. Any other questions?”

  He pointed to an obscure reporter in the back, doubtless a one-man bureau probably from a fly-over state.

  “Do you consider this poetic justice, Sir?”

  “That’s an interesting question. I’ve not read a whole lot of poetry, but I do go for the term justice. So, poetic justice, I’m aware of the term. Now take Beowulf. Do you think that’s a poem or do you think it’s one of the first novels?”

  “I’m not certain, Sir. Is he a member of Congress?”

  A riffle of laughter swept the crowd.

  A CBS commentator shouted out that Beowulf was a novel because there was character development.

  A cable newsperson declared that Beowulf was an epic poem. Then attempted to elaborate. “Beowulf was the hero of the Geats who came to help Hroogar, king of the Danes, who had been under attack by Grendel. Beowulf slays Grendel whose mother takes offense…”

  At that juncture the speaker was shouted down and the news conference descended into disarray. Brooking took advantage of the turmoil to excuse himself, retreating to his office for the evening drink. There he found Tina waiting, drink in hand, watching a live feed of the press conference.

  “Quite a little melee,” she said. “It was a nice touch to invoke Beowulf.”

  “I thought so. I’m tired.” Brooking slumped in a comfortable chair. “Care to fix me a drink?”

  “Certainly, Master Bruce. It’s a strange, strange world that we live in.”

  Drink in hand, a couple of sips down, Brooking gave her the evil eye and said, “This Flash thing puzzles me.”

  “The authorities must have it well in hand. It’s no concern of yours.”

  “But it was slick. Well planned. Well executed. Who could have done such a thing?”

  Tina laughed. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It had been called to the President’s attention that ExxonMobil had been dumping oceans of cash into goodwill advertising.

  “For what purpose?” he asked his chief of staff, who had made the observation.

  “To give the public a warm fuzzy feeling about the company.”

  “Do you own stock?”

  “No. Maybe I should. Advertising is a legitimate cost of doing business. If your profits are huge, you really don’t miss the cost.”

  “Possibly that’s true, but oil firms, speaking generally, don’t market their products retail.”

  “They do,” Curtis German said. “The various companies have service stations. They compete.”

  “You call that competition? Gasoline prices go up and down in lock step, station by station.”

  “True. But they peddle credit cards, discounts for cash. Of course prices near expressways are usually a little higher. You might write that off to the properties being more expensive.”

  “Or you might write that off to greed,” Brooking said. “But the country’s been struggling with this for some time. Someone once wrote that there are short spaces of time when our minds are spotlessly clear of worry. At those intervals panic has taken over.”

  “A wise man.”

  “Or woman. You well know that maybe sixty percent of federal spending, maybe $2.1 trillion, goes for social programs – including Pell Grants, Medicaid, food stamps, Medicare. Social Security. Then tax codes may favor the rich. Then there’s the military, a standing military and gadgets far beyond our needs. We could fix the problem if all parties could get together, but no one wants to give an inch.”

  “You said a mouthful.”

  “Sadly, maybe I did. But I suppose I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for all those problems. Problems that while campaigning I promised to remedy. Of course the other candidates did too.

  “You’re working on it, Mr. President.”

  “Bit by bit. One step at a time. A famous author once voiced a belief that if the military would give up its glitzy uniforms with all that gold, brass and ribbons; if they would dress in tacky coveralls, or as lumberjacks in second-hand garments, those problems might vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak.”

  “We could start the trend, Sir. Lead by e
xample.”

  “Sure.” Brooking laughed. “Me, you and the vice president can dress like the three stooges.”

  “I’ll be Moe.”

  “No. I want to be Moe. You can be Curly. Wasn’t he bald?”

  Later that day, far into the evening, following a reception honoring Habitat for Humanity volunteers, Brooking and Tina Geer got together for a drink and some brie and crackers she had rescued from the reception.

  “I thought you’d get some shrimp,” Brooking said.

  “They were all eaten. Those volunteers eat like construction workers.”

  “They are construction workers,” the President said. “They are construction workers who eat like ravenous wolves. It’s difficult not eating or drinking during those things, but it’s the best idea. Stuffing one’s mouth makes speech and small talk a problem. Drinking without eating tends to damage one’s equilibrium.”

  “At least we have each other and our cheese and a few broken crackers and a fairly good bottle of wine. In truth, three bottles of wine. I like the Pinot Grigio, the red tends to catch me by the heels.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank God for the Italians.” He smeared Brie on a cracker, popped it in his mouth and took a sip of white wine. “I’ve been thinking of doing a number on one problem facing the nation. Of course not ignoring everything else, but bringing one problem into focus.”

  “And attempting to solve it?”

  “At least lessen the burden. If we could solve one problem totally and then go on to the next, it wouldn’t be long ‘til our country was perfect. But we can at least take our best shot.”

  “You mean jawboning?”

  “No. Talking won’t cut it. Maybe later on. But we need to do a little spade work initially.”

  “I’m assuming when you say ‘we,’ you mean the two of us?” Tina refilled her glass and dabbed at her face with a cocktail napkin.

  “Of course. We’re in this together. Can you guess what the problem might be?”

  “I could, but I’d rather have you tell me. You’re such a big, brawny, handsome brainy fellow. You have it all figured out don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does it involve sex?”

  “Maybe.”

  “OK. Out with it.”

  The President drained his glass, refilled it and raised it as if to toast. “The biggest problem facing this country and the world in this decade, in this century is…drum roll please…energy.”

  “Right on target,” Tina agreed.

  “But first I’d like to get something off my mind. If I’m a fair-minded individual with the good of the country at heart, why doesn’t everyone think like me? Why don’t we all pull together?”

  This brought a chuckle and an eye roll from Tina. ”Should I go along with the gag?”

  “Please do.”

  “Greed and power.”

  “Do you mean the accumulation of money and the longing to be admired by one’s fellows?”

  “Admired, respected, feared. Does that sum it up? Can we open another bottle?”

  “Easy,” Brooking said. “Screw caps.” He lifted one from the floor by his chair and twisted the top off, handing it to Tina who poured herself a full measure. She loved philosophy and ethics. He added, “Conscience does make cowards of us all.”

  “Thank you, William S. But as a paragon of virtue myself, I will not lead you awry, despite your best-laid plans.”

  It was the President’s turn to roll his eyes. “I think we’re both getting slightly trashed, or tipsy, whatever. Let’s have sex on the floor, kill the wine and take up the topic tomorrow. I’m working on a plan and may need help.”

  “Are you talking ninja?”

  “At the moment it’s nebulous pie in a cloudy sky. Embrace me, my sweet.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Brooking wished to continue his conversation of the night before, this time without alcohol. He had fitted Tina in after a luncheon with a diverse delegation of fishermen, which included those who trapped lobster and regular fisher folk from Alaska and New England, prior to a cabinet meeting.

  There was adequate time for a long chat. “I believe I know what’s wrong with this country and the rest of the world,” the President began.

  “A revelation?” the Vice President questioned.

  “Something of that order. The problem lies in the Industrial Revolution.”

  “Can it be fixed?”

  “No. Too late.”

  “You’re talking about the revolution itself, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Brooking replied. “When people stopped farming and started making stuff to sell to one another. The end was inevitable.”

  “And that end?”

  “We would run out of things to buy and sell. No one would really want much of anything. There would be no money to buy things. The so-called economy would slowly grind to a halt. Take paper. A few years ago we were worried about harvesting forests for newsprint. Now newspapers are fading away. Electronic news delivery is king. Very little typing paper still used.”

  “There will always be a demand for toilet paper. Maybe even more so as primitive countries develop. Do you think we should all go back to farming and drive horse or goat carts?” Tina questioned.

  “That would be an answer, but again too late.”

  “Then you are content to face things as they are? I mean there’s a certain reality out there.” She waved her arm toward the window.

  “You mean in the Rose Garden?”

  “Well, yes, but also in the wide world as we know it. But confined to this planet.” Tina smiled a delicious smile. “So what’s your answer?”

  “Once again, energy. I’m placing it at the top of my agenda for the immediate future and maybe beyond.”

  “Beyond what?”

  “Beyond the election. I think the American people owe me a second term. I’ve only just begun.”

  Another broad smile. “Let’s hope a majority of the American voting public feel the same way.”

  “You’ll be by my side,” he said cheerfully, “A staunch vertical supporter and a comfort horizontally.”

  “Plus a trusted advisor and campaigner.” Tina bridled at the thought of being simply a sexual partner. She demanded a full partnership in every way. Brooking was keenly aware of her value in that capacity and had voiced it time after time. Academically, she was his senior.

  “I’d be lost without you. Now let me throw out a few thoughts on the energy thing. Just trying to clear my head. I’ve made a list.”

  Brooking picked up a paper from his desk, glanced at Tina and said, “This is a short list. I’ve condensed it from a longer list. Electricity, biomass energy from plants, geothermal energy, fossil fuels, coal, oil and natural gas, hydro power and ocean energy, nuclear energy, solar energy, wind energy and transportation energy.”

  He looked up and shrugged, as if expecting a comment.

  Tina responded. “I don’t understand transportation energy because transportation eats up energy, but I am fascinated by ocean energy. Not only is it not fully exploited, it’s hardly exploited at all. Agreed?”

  “Totally, the oceans and seas are powerful forces, driven by tides and other factors. I think you can trace all energy back to the sun. But think of the heaving masses of great waters, pulled by the moon, whipped by the winds, the great northern force of tides and consistent sea currents. Day and night, twenty-four/seven. These forces were known to those who manned sailing vessels thousands of years before the birth of Christ.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “There’s been consistent criticism of coal and nuclear power. Hydro dams also meet with opposition wherever they’re proposed. We have natural gas and oil, but it won’t last forever.”

  “But it should see us through our lifetime,” Tina tossed in.

  “True. And this is what we must deal with. Big oil, you might say ExxonMobil and a few others, seem to think they’re above the fray. Administrations come and g
o, but they go on forever. But they are peopled by ordinary people remarkably like you and I. So our flaws are their flaws.”

  “And my house is your house, whatever that means. I believe that I have flaws that are unique to my being. Don’t go selling me short.”

  “Tina, I apologize, you have remarkable flaws, some yet to be detected. I’m merely saying that big oil is made up of mortal men and women. They walk among us. Collectively they provide us with a valuable necessity. Something at the moment we would be hard pressed to do without. But they drag their feet in certain areas. They might be more helpful.”

  “Do you have specifics?”

  “Of course. The obvious. They are seldom out in front when it comes to oil spills. Despite this they enjoy excessive profits and too kindly a treatment by the government. If they could just make certain adjustments to their outlook and be a bit more helpful. Is that asking too much?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A crisis a day would not be an understatement for the person who fills the power chair in the Oval office. Some major, some quite minor. It was a seemingly minor matter that might turn into something major if blown out of proportion by the opposition and the opposition press.

  That there was an opposition press seemed an oxymoron. Traditionally the press had vowed to publish the news without fear or favor while comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable.

  Neither of those seemed to apply in this particular case, brought to the President by his press secretary, Tutor Conlon.

  “I thought I’d better tell you, Mr. President.” Conlon spoke in a barely audible voice, throwing furtive glances this way and that.

  The President interrupted him to say, “We’re alone here, Tutor. There are no bugs. Please have a seat and speak up.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll come to the point. I’ve had sex with an underage intern, and she’s threatening to expose me. I don’t know which way to turn.”

  Brooking was not aghast at the confession. This was Washington, but it could also happen in Peoria, or Yellow Knife. “As I recall, Tutor, you’re married.”