ZURICH, SWITZERLAND - The fifty-five-year-old billionaire sat in the power bucket seat gazing out on the European Alps passing below. The CEO took no notice, instead staring off in stony silence at the growing darkness on the eastern horizon, detached from his surroundings deep in thought.
Living carried with it a heavy burden, a weight that every living person bore with them throughout their lives. Most would at no time acknowledge that most primal fear until late in their life. That millstone that grew heavier with age was the practical understanding that one's time in this world was not infinite, that people aren’t immortal. For Dr. Victor Magnason that final day would arrive thirty years too soon.
The CEO kept on peering off into the growing darkness struggling to come to terms with his own mortality.
In the short span of three decades, Victor succeeded in creating one of the most powerful venture capital companies in the world, Magnason Enterprise, Inc (MEI). The executive was a clear case in point of what someone with talent, remarkable ideas, ambition, hard work and a ruthless nature could accomplish in the one remaining bastion of capitalism, America.
The executive was gifted with extraordinary recall and highly developed deductive faculties, both of which lent themselves to seeing opportunity long before the competition. Victor was a maverick, a risk taker, and one who came out on top, way out on top.
Einstein once said, "The secret to being a genius is knowing how to hide your sources." This held true for the CEO. There was no such thing as faultless originality; instead the executive simply connected the dots, the disparate ideas of others, and created a more complex richer result. If someone got in his way he’d usually run them over.
Many of the companies MEI had taken public would become Fortune 500 companies. Most had started out as someone else’s properties, but once the CEO recognized their idea worked, he put his company into motion. Appealing to a person’s greed usually got MEI in the door. If that maneuver did not work, another avenue would be taken, usually involving tactics that bordered on the illegal. Once in, the executive would either pry the business from their hands, or find out just enough to create something better. Usually the target business never saw what hit them before it was long too late.
“Damn it!” Magnason muttered out loud, then thought quietly, I had such grandiose plans and they now count for shit!
The seven-hour flight from Zürich to New York would give him the prospects to reflect on his limited time ahead, and of the legacy he wanted to leave behind, something bigger than a venture capital establishment with his name attached.
The concluding diagnosis from Dr. Edsel Weinberg had only confirmed the earlier predictions by American neurologists; Creutzfeldt–Jakob was the diagnosis, a rare degenerative, nervous disorder that was not only incurable it was invariably fatal.
The CEO’s right hand quivered, and these tremors would become more pronounced with time, the pain more intolerable.
Dr. Weinberg had not sugarcoated things. The CEO had five, maybe six years to live. The trembling was the first sign his nervous system was beginning to deteriorate under the attack of the rare virus. Four years out the doctor expected the executive would need assistance getting around. Beyond that, Weinberg expected him to be bed ridden followed by a requirement for life support. The CEO's plans called for a different sort of ending. The last thing Victor was going to do was become a vegetable, and while Kevorkian may have lost the legal battle in America, there were plenty of countries abroad who were under no such constraints.
The thing that concerned the CEO most was not that he was going to die; it was that he had so little time to carry out his new idea. Taking on the media establishment was not going to be as easy a task as manhandling a Fortune 500 into his grasp. There were different things at play, including their hold over the Democrat Party.
No, the executive was not going to fritter away his time on building a bigger, more financially sound company in as much as he was conscious of the fatal flaw to that way of thinking. The title of Ray Bradbury’s novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes, best summed up the CEO’s thoughts on America’s future and that of his company. If the country succumbed to the liberals’ plan it was just a matter of time before the private sector would fall into their greedy hands. There was still something he needed to do before he met his maker. Something that would forever solidify his legacy.
The flight attendant returned to the cabin closing the door to the sleeping accommodations behind her. Liz was beautiful and full-figured with blue eyes and long, straight blonde hair. Liz was wearing bedroom slippers and a robe. “Here you are Dr. Magnason,” she said handing him a tumbler of mineral water.
“Thanks for remembering, Liz.”
“My pleasure Dr. Magnason. Do you mind if I join you?”
“No, of course not.”
The flight attendant took a seat across from him. “I can’t help but notice you appear a little dejected. Did it have something to do with your meeting?”
“I would rather not talk about it.”
“Okay. So, what do you want to talk about?”
“Liz, are you a Democrat?”
“Heavens no. I’m a red-blooded traditionalist.”
“Then let me ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you think of our news industry?”
“What do you mean, the newspapers?”
“Everything, tabloids, cable and network news, do you think they’re fair in their coverage of events?”
“Ha! You’re kidding, right?”
“I take that to mean no.”
“Of course, no. They’re as biased as any group could be.”
“If you can see it so easily, how is it that nearly half of all Americans don’t see it?”
“I chalk it up to ignorance, or stupidity.”
“I know my next question isn’t going to be a fair question, it requires you to put yourself in their shoes for a moment. Try to answer my question through the lens of your emotions.”
“Okay?”
“If you all of a sudden had things you thought to be true challenged and proven to be wrong, how would you respond?”
“Emotionally?”
“Yes, emotionally.”
“I’d probably feel like I was being personally attacked. I’d probably get angry and feel like fighting back.”
“What if what you believed in was proven to be irrefutably wrong, without question?”
“I’d have pretty much the same reaction.”
“Why?”
“Just take the subject of God for instance. I’m going to continue believing in God no matter what the atheists and agnostics have to say and if they try to impose their beliefs on me I’m going to get angry and fight back somehow. What is it that you’re trying to understand?”
“Emotions are something I’ve always found hard to grasp. You’ve been helpful.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, but go ahead, help yourself.”
Liz stood from the leather chair then stretched her back upward. “You know you’re a real animal.”
“Yes,” the CEO smiled, “I’ve heard that.”
“Sure, you don’t want something to eat now?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“Okay then.” Liz re-crossed the cabin floor then turned and smiled as she opened the rear cabin door. “I’ll have something ready in a few minutes.”
The CEO smiled in return. “Thanks Liz.”
Over the past three decades this executive had seen where the ultraists’ actions were leading the country. In Europe an almost identical fraternity had succeeded in creating a society where liberty and freedom were overtaken by the call for fairness and equality. The changes required ever-expanding regulation and growing entitlement programs, both of which caused government to grow at the expense of the private sector. The costs of the mistakes were now beginning to surface in countries like Greece, Italy
, France and the United Kingdom.
The CEO was convinced those responsible for the debacle, the elitists, were motivated in the main by their own self interests. Liberalism, socialism, communism all created as a natural byproduct of their existence either a permanent governing class, bureaucracies and autocrats where power rested permanently in the hands of a few. Victor understood the reason the small clique of revolutionaries succeeded, and it was not owing to the fact that the broader public naturally embraced their beliefs; the real reason behind their success was their complete domination of the press.
The European media had succeeded in duping the citizenry who even today did not understand the reasons for their rampant unemployment and collapsing economic systems. The same thing was now happening back home, and like in Europe, the same type of people now had their eyes set on taking America down an indistinguishable path using their tried and proven means.
The CEO had first thought of countering the encroachments through the defense of the U.S. Constitution. The executive envisioned a major law practice to take on anything like the ACLU, the NAACP, and other iconoclastic, activist groups. In Victor’s spare time traveling about the world, he had even attained a Scientiae Juridicae Doctor (S.J.D.), so that he could become personally involved in the more consequential cases.
His motivation came from the recognition that over his lifetime, the lower courts were being used to change the original meaning of the founding document. Part of the reason for the elites’ success were appointments to the bench, judges who were allowing case law to advance an open interpretation of the U.S. Constitution. The CEO understood what their actions would lead to; he had seen what happened in Europe.
Victor understood it was only through the protections and freedoms of the founding document that people like himself were able to succeed. Having seen what the ultraists had done to business enterprises abroad, the CEO recognized if the movement succeeded in the states, the days of MEI would be numbered, and it would very likely be forced into bankruptcy by onerous taxes and the unions as had happened throughout Europe. The executive fully expected for MEI to disappear not long after the blue bloods succeeded, not many decades after he was gone.
Unfortunately, with the bad news confirmed, the law firm Victor envisioned would not have the impact he wanted within his remaining life. Time was short, the clock ticking and yet, the executive recognized the elitists could still be stopped from succeeding. He had a new idea on how to derail their movement. There was one last thing he needed to accomplish before he could die in peace. America had given him so much. Now, it was time to give something back.
The executive picked up the financial report for World News Network from the seat next to him and cracked it open.
Victor sighed to himself, It was not be going to be easy.
Those in power would fight tooth-and-nail to hold on to everything they had gained. The little exercise with Liz, however, confirmed what he had long suspected. The media establishment could be dethroned, but not by attacking the ideology itself. The only way his plan would work was by attacking those responsible for decimating the lies.
A few minutes later the executive set the report aside and stood from his chair, stretched out and smiled.
I think I am a little hungry, now.
----------
BIG CANOE, GEORGIA - Company President Jack Newman peered out over the southern Appalachian Mountains watching the latest cold front making its presence felt. Ribbon lightning danced about the heavens, occasionally followed by the muffled clap of thunder. Rain pelted the double-pane windows of his second-story corner office and when the racket died down for a moment, it was replaced by the crackling noise of an oak-wood fire, burning away in the stone fireplace. The smell of the burning timber filled the room while a muted, flat-screen TV tacked to one of the knotty-pine walls aired one of the financial networks.
Jack was idly watching the spectacle of nature in solitude, using the excuse of preparing for the annual stockholder's conference when his desktop phone rang.
He pressed the speaker button. “This is Newman.”
The voice of the Executive Vice President came over the speakerphone, “Jack, this is Pete. I just got off the phone with Victor. He’s flying in from Europe and wants you to drop your homework and catch up with him in New York.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Thank God, I can escape, Jack thought. “Really, what’s up?”
“It appears the boss wants to look at acquiring a news company.”
“That’s a bit odd.”
“It was a bit baffling for me as well.”
“Did Victor say why he was in a rush?"
“No, just that he wants to look at obtaining majority interests in one of the chief news networks. Victor said he would fill you in on the details tomorrow. Kate has her people engaged in the research on the three companies he wants to pursue." (Kate was Katharine Tate, part of Jack’s executive team.)
"Who are they?"
"World News Network, American News and World Tribune.”
Today, the three principle news conglomerates were in effect one of the largest monopolies in the country: hundreds of national, regional and local gazette and broadcast operations where power, command, morals all resonated at the top in the hands of the publishers and from those lofty heights throughout America. All source materials– the stories, the editorials, the polling– it all originated at the headquarters level. When it came to news on economic, social, or political matters, the proprietor’s ideology drove the messaging. The publishers, their companies, were also the unseen reason for the expectant Democrat Party successes in the upcoming midterm elections.
"Wow, those are some big names."
Jack quickly looked out his office window; the rain was turning to sleet. It was not like Victor to call for a face-to-face meeting so spontaneously, so something urgent must have come up, something that was time sensitive.
He needed to get going right away if he wanted any chance of avoiding sliding into a ditch, or off a precipice as he came down the mountain.
“I’ve got to get out of here before it's too late, send me what you and Kate come up with. Can you have your secretary wake up the flight crew?”
“Jasper airport?”
“Yes, why not. It’s the closest airfield.”
“Okay Jack, I’ll take care of it.”
“Pete, I’ve got to run before it starts becoming worse.” Jack did not wait for the executive to reply; he hung up the phone and raced to his bedroom where he grabbed the handle of the pre-packed bag for just such events. He made his way downstairs to see his wife, daughters and in-laws sitting about the fireplace watching an NFL game: Atlanta was at home against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
"Gang, something urgent has come up. Dear, I'm going to have to run off to New York."
“Aw Dad, you promised,” said his youngest daughter, still trying to sell her spouse’s positive qualities to him even at this late stage of courtship.
"When will you be back?" asked his wife who, with years of familiar situations, had grown used to her husband being called away frequently. It was the nature of Jack Newman’s business.
"I'm sorry, but it sounds urgent. I'll be back day after tomorrow. How are the Falcons doing?"
“We’re behind by twenty-one,” replied his eldest daughter’s spouse.
“What quarter?”
“Fourth,” came the reply.
“Damn, oh well. Maybe next week.”
"Drive safely dear," his wife responded with a slight smile.
"Has the Bimmer still got gas?”
“Full tank,” responded his youngest daughter.
“Very good, I'll see everyone day following next."
----------
Jack ran to the jet, passing the copilot who could not keep up with his long, lanky strides. Jack could just make out the pilot pushing open the cabin door through the driving
rain.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Newman," yelled the Captain over the noise of the engines as the executive scampered up the stairway.
"Thanks, Jerry," Jack responded as he passed the pilot, half drenched.
The pilot struggled to close the cabin door against the wind after the copilot made his entry.
"Jerry, do you need a hand with the door?"
WHAM!
"Never mind, looks like you got it."
"Here you go, Mr. Newman," said the copilot as he threw him a dry towel. "Do you need anything else while I'm up?"
"I'm okay, let's just get this over with."
"We're on our way," the pilot responded and disappeared behind the cockpit door followed by the copilot.
Jack plunked himself down in one of the cushioned leather chairs, breathing somewhat heavily following the recent exertion. Boy, I'm really out of shape, it's time for another one of those New Year’s Resolution.
Moments later, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Newman, you better tighten up your seatbelt, things are going to get a little rough.”
Wow, that's an understatement, he mused as the aircraft buffeted in the high winds as it made its way to the end of the runway. It did not take long before the Rolls-Royce turbofans began to whine as the pilots added power. The brakes let go with a jolt and the aircraft promptly began to pick up speed. The thumping noise the tires made rolling over the runway joints began coming in ever-increasing succession, until the aircraft pitched up into what seemed an impossible angle, accelerating at full power. The light aircraft was tossed about violently as it tenaciously climbed in the struggle against the forces of nature. The executive tightened his grip around the armrests as he watched the wing flex under the stress of the load being placed upon it from his port-side window. Ten minutes later, the turbulence began to subside. Jack’s grip began to loosen. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.
----------
MANHATTAN, NY - “Mr. Newman?”
"Yes, I’m Newman."
The driver turned and grabbed the door handle and opened it with a slight tug. Jack half heard the driver say, "I understand you’re going to the Belmont?"
"Yes, the Belmont."
Jack spent time looking over what Pete sent him during breakfast; nothing he read gave any indication why Victor would be interested in a news company.
"First time to New York?" asked the driver when he retook his seat.
"Yes, I mean no.” Jack was paying little attention save for the business algorithm running through his thoughts.
“Been here many times?"
Why the interest? Kept running through the executive’s mind.
The driver continued to strike up a conversation without success. "I hear the Belmont is a grand old place. It's private isn't it?"
Now the driver was becoming annoying. "Look, I've got a lot on my mind, so if you don’t mind, just drive."
The driver nodded he understood; this was, after all, New York where everyone naturally tended to be a little blunt.
A half-hour later Jack arrived out front of a four-story Brownstone with a red-painted door.
“Here, take this,” said Jack as he pushed a hundred-dollar bill into the driver’s hand.
“Well, thank you. Do you need any help?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
The bellman for the club now opened the limo door saying, “Welcome to the Belmont Club.”
“Thank you,” replied Jack stepping briskly from the limo and up the stairs where another attendant was waiting.
“Welcome to the Belmont Club.”
Jack nodded.
Jack was greeted by the concierge as he entered the foyer, “Hello, may I help you sir?”
“Hello, I’m Jack Newman here to see Dr. Magnason.”
“Yes, Mr. Newman, Dr. Magnason is expecting you. This way, please.”
Jack was led down a series of long hallways with walls of dark-stained, hardwood, tastefully decorated with framed black-and-white photos of past NYU rowing teams, and then into a private study.
“This way, Mr. Newman.”
Victor was initially seated in one of the leather chairs facing the doorway when Jack entered. The CEO slowly stood when he saw his partner enter the room.
Victor was stocky, of average height and maybe a little overweight, a stark contrast to Jack’s slim, tall build. Victor’s features were rounded, his shoulders a bit bowed, overall an unimpressive physical specimen. Jack, on the other hand, looked like an athlete with his angular, chiseled body, tight-fitting suit, perfectly combed hair. In the extreme, Victor looked like Hardy, Jack like Laurel.
It was the eyes, however, that really set the two men apart, the mirrors into their respective souls. Those dark brown, piercing eyes of Victor’s were menacing, shifty, never letting any detail, even the slightest, escape notice. They were eyes that cut right through a person, saw their fears, their over confidence, their humanity, all on display without a word being said.
Jack, on the other hand, had an amiable, friendly demeanor with bright, cheery, blue peepers, and smiles that naturally came easy to him. Victor usually wore something resembling a scowl. Anyway, the two men could have not been further apart in appearance and demeanor, again, kind of like Laurel and Hardy, but without the goofy personalities.
“Good to see you, Jack.”
“Hello, Victor.”
The two shook hands, Victor with a tired, but genuine smile that was born from years of familiarity and trust.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
The president noticed his partner was wearing his usual business-casual ensemble with what remained of his hair roughly combed in place, probably using the palm of his hand.
“Please, take a seat,” said Victor pointing to an empty leather chair opposite his. The room was not well lit, and Jack’s eyes took a little time to get adjusted to the darkness. There was a centerpiece lamp on a coffee table between the two chairs up against the wall. The lighting it cast illuminated the surroundings just enough for Jack to notice his partner's hand was trembling, almost uncontrollably as if shivering from cold.
Victor ignored his glance, fully aware his associate had noticed and started the conversation by asking about the family.
“So, Jack how’s Susan and the family?” Victor smirked, adding, “I understand you’ve got a wedding coming up.”
Jack nervously interlocked the fingers of his hands at the thought of the long-haired university dropout his youngest daughter was about to marry. “Yes, Sybil’s engaged and the wedding plans have overtaken everyone’s lives. Sybil has caught a real winner this time, Victor. A regular long hair, weirdo.”
The CEO smiled, “You really don’t remember much about what you and I looked like back at the university?”
“Of course I do, but that was back in the seventies when everyone had long hair.”
Victor chuckled with that grin which every time reminded Jack of Disney’s cartoon character, the Cheshire Cat. “I suppose you have a point. Oh well, don’t forget a prenuptial agreement before all is said and done. That girl’s going to inherit quite a bit when you’re gone.”
A wry smile came to Jack’s face. Both men were now billionaires several times over thanks to their long and profitable relationship.
“Enough about all that, you’ll figure it out. Now, on to why you’re here. It was important you and I come face to face as soon as possible. What did you hear from Pete?”
“He mentioned you wanted to look into acquiring a news company."
"Yes, but not just any news company. One of the ‘big three.’"
"I heard, why?”
"Because Jack, I have one last remaining goal I want to accomplish in life, and acquisition of one of the leading news companies is the first logical step to getting things rolling.”
Jack thought Victor's statement odd. What did he mean, 'last remaining goal in life?' Oh well, he
would be informed soon enough. Leave it to his partner to keep him in the dark until the last minute.
There was a knock at the door and a waiter appeared. “Good afternoon Dr. Magnason, Mr. Newman, am I intruding?”
“No, go ahead,” replied Victor.
“Lunch will be served at one o’clock as requested, Dr. Magnason. In the meantime, may I get the two of you something to drink?”
“Jack, what are you having?”
“A coffee please.”
“Decaffeinated tea for me,” added the CEO.
“Very good, gentlemen.” The waiter turned and departed the study, quietly closing the door behind him.
“So, Victor, where might we be rolling to this time?”
Victor’s expression changed, a heavy weight seemed to descend upon his features.
“Before I explain my reasons I must get something off my chest. You noticed my trembling hand."
"Anything wrong?"
Victor chuckled with irony in his tone, "Just a bit, it's the first sign that my body is beginning to lose the battle. It's called Creutzfeldt–Jakob Disease and it’s terminal. Doctors say I’ve got five, maybe six good years."
A look of shock came to the president’s face. “It's terminal...five, or six years. For God’s sake, surely there are still other options?”
“No, unfortunately the Swiss neurologists were my last hope."
Jack's look of shock became slowly replaced by sadness as Victor’s situation began to sink in. Jack had been aware his friend was seeing specialists, but he was a private man. Jack struggled to maintain his emotions for the moment, as the CEO was truly his one and only real friend.
What seemed like an eternity passed before Victor broke the silence.
"Jack, I’ve already got our attorneys working on the transfer of power to you. I will be removing myself from the day-to-day business activities and board meetings when the paperwork is complete. I want to concentrate all my remaining time and energies on the one last thing I want to achieve before I come face to face with my maker.”
Victor's expression all of a sudden began to radiate as he thought of his latest, greatest and final ‘big idea.’ “Jack, I want to knock off those rascals now running the Democrat Party. I want to send them backpacking and the only way to do that is to cut off their air supply.”
“Let me guess, buying a major newspaper, then turning it into a conservative powerhouse would do that?"
“Yes, there’s only one way to beat those bastards before they change the nation for good, and I think I’ve come up with the way to do it: by beating them at their own damn game, by creating our own news operation. It’s the only way. If we can make a big enough splash, we could end their heydays, and for good."
"Do you really believe one of those hardcore, enlightened do-gooders would sell out to someone like you, or I?”
"Hell no, I don’t expect them to, but the acquisition route is the first logical step. Yes, we might be wasting time with our overtures, but the two of us will not be idling waiting with bated breath. Instead, you and I will begin building something revolutionary, something that will end the monopoly they have held much too long."
“I long ago realized that without the news industry, the elitists running the show would lose their means of manipulating the American people. They should fall like a house of cards with the competitive venture I’m envisioning. I am convinced there is a chance that someone with my financial resources can bring about their demise, to prevent the same kind of debacle we’re witnessing in Europe taking place here. America is the last bastion for people like you and I and if we lose it, if it becomes like Europe, you, MEI, everything will be eventually lost.
“Before I reach my final hour I plan to devote my energies and fortune to attaining the one solution I know is needed to save the country from those ignoramuses. I want to leave the American people with something they have not seen in over a century, a major news enterprise that will level the playing field and provide conservatism with an equal voice. What’s more, you and I will make a mint in the process.”
Victor was cognizant of something with respect to liberalism that most revolutionaries never wanted to admit: their beliefs could not stand on their own merits. The doctrine required the purveyors to lie, to distort the facts, to completely overlook any truth that conflicted with their own convictions. Right now, there was no countervailing force, nothing to dispel their lies. Victor’s future news company would fill that void, bring forward an honest portrayal of events, and force the publishers out of business thereby changing the present course of the republic.
There was little time to waste; the country was worth preserving, worth fighting for and if need be, worth losing everything to protect...the CEO just hoped it was not already too late.
“Jack, are you ready for the biggest fight of our lives?”
----------
Jack departed soon after lunch, while Victor remained at the Belmont sitting motionless in that same study, deep in thought. The publishers would naturally blow off any offer MEI tendered, but just the same, the CEO wanted to be able to personally meet the newsmen. Victor could already see them in his mind, all three - arrogant individuals who, like most dogmatists, would imagine they had the world by the throat. The hubris of the publishers, he was confident, would be their failing weakness. The newsmen would be alerted of his intentions, and they were bound to learn of his efforts sooner, or later anyway. By his playing the part of inept executive on a fool’s errand now, Victor would give the three ultraists a false sense of security; their very imperiousness would be put to work against them blinding each to the real threat he posed. With luck, only too late would each discover the err of their ways...before they had time to marshal Washington and the Democrat Party.
COMING STORM
LIARS the News Industry Page 5
