Lamden had the schedule in front of him. The schedule prepared by Lynn Meyerson. “Yes. It’s in ink on my calendar.”
David Foss was a career politician and Lamden’s senior by a decade. Like the American president, he had military service, retiring with the rank of general from the Royal Australian Army, Royal Queensland Regiment. During his tour of duty he served in East Timor, Malaysia. As a civilian he became a military analyst for Australian television, a political commentator, and eventually the host of a weekly newsmagazine before he launched his own grassroots campaign for political office. Now, nine years later, he was head of the Liberal Party, and Prime Minister of Australia.
There was a “but” coming. The president could sense it.
“Very good. We’ll have much to talk about then. But…”
There it is.
“…there’s something we need to discuss in advance of our session.”
“Certainly, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“As I’m sure you know, a number of years ago Australia entered into the MOU.”
Lamden was familiar with the term, but only because Billy Gilmore made sure he had all the PM’s possible agendas in front of him. MOU referred to the Memoranda of Understanding on Combating International Terrorism. Australia, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Thailand signed the agreement in 2002. The teeth of the bilateral pact came from the commitment to combat terrorist financing and money laundering in the South Pacific, another outgrowth of the 9/11 and Bali attacks.
“Yes,” was all the president said.
“Well, the Ville St. George discovery has us rather concerned. We don’t know who is responsible. However, our neighbors, some of them heavily populated by our Muslim friends, have confidentially shared with us an increase in telephone and Internet chatter that we all deem disturbing. My own intelligence contacts from my Royal Army days claim that all is not well. Al-Qaeda, Abu Sayyaf, Mora Islamic Liberation Front, and many others are growing richer through drug trade. They all seek glory and much more than — what do you typically call it? Fifteen minutes of fame?”
“That’s it.”
“We may strike down one evil serpent, but this Medusa springs forth another…and with it, long tentacles that reach well within our infrastructure. This week, the Ville St. George. Next week, who can say?”
“Truly worrisome, Prime Minister Foss. You have identified a threat that we must join hands to destroy.” Lamden felt the discussion was about to take a more serious turn.
“What a perfect segue, Mr. President. And quite to the point of my call,” Foss replied. “As a signatory to MOU, I am prepared to invoke the terms of the ANZUS Treaty. We view the St. George bomb as an attack, foiled perhaps, but an attack nonetheless. An attack on Australian soil. An attack on the Australian people. Conceivably, Mr. President, even an attack intended for you.”
Henry Lamden couldn’t disagree. “What level of assistance are you requesting, Mr. Prime Minister?” he directly asked.
“Mr. President, nothing short of a greater presence by the Seventh Fleet. We need help covering the territory.”
“Try thinking like a liberal. Don’t hurt yourself. But try. Oh, you’ll have to throw all reasoning out the window. But for the next hour, let’s see if you can. It’s open phones, and I want you to call in and try out any bit of liberal logic you have for keeping Lamden and Taylor in office.”
It was another one of Elliott Strong’s games: a reliable trick that would serve to ridicule his targets and rile his audience. For the host, it was a sucker pitch to the plate. His listeners would hit it out of the park.
“No one?” he said, baiting them. “Come now, millions of you out there and no one wants to be a liberal? How did these guys get in office if there’s no one to support them?”
Of course, callers were lined up. He just wasn’t ready to release them.
“Maybe you need a little nudge.” He cleared his throat and added a phone filter to his own voice with the flip of a switch on his audio board.
“Hello, Elliott?”
He cut back to his normal voice. “Yes, you’re on Liberal Notion.” He laughed at his own creativity.
“Yes, I represent the Urban Spotted Owls League,” he mockingly offered.
Then another dialect: “Hello, Elliott, I think we’ve got too many prisons.”
“And I’m a truck driver,” he added as a woman long-hauler on a cell. “I personally feel we should cap interstate highway speeds at 45 mph. That or give California back to Mexico, which would shorten the mileage cross-country.”
Strong gave it a good five minutes. Then he went to his calls. Calls like, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s good that the president hired foreign spies. That way the enemy doesn’t have to subscribe to The New York Times.” And, “You want to know why Lamden always looks so good on TV? Just ask his Taylor.”
After an hour, Strong called an end to the fun.
“Stop! I can’t take it anymore! It’s too hard to think so idiotically. I know you’re asking yourself, how do people do it? We’re all the same, but how can we be so different? So different in the same country? How can we see things so clearly, but your liberal neighbor, or your kid’s teacher, or that anchorman, or the bank teller who takes your money, see things so wrong? How do Lamden and Taylor still have their jobs?”
Thanks to the current law, everything Elliott Strong said was protected speech. It didn’t require rebuttal.
“It’s beyond me.” He shuffled some papers. “Gotta go to a commercial. When we come back, I’ll tell you about a call from the White House press office today. You’re gonna love this.”
“So listen to this. A junior level White House press flak calls and says, ‘Mr. Strong, you’ve clogged up our fax lines, and there are too many e-mails for us to conduct the nation’s business.’” The host put extra sarcasm on “the nation’s business.”
“I replied in my most courteous voice, ‘Why, isn’t it the nation’s business to consider what Americans have to say?’
“‘Yes, but….’ the press aide tried to blabber. I’ll spare you the rest of his whining. But let me tell you, I got the same thing from twenty-seven members of Congress today. ‘Can’t do our work. Overloaded the fax machines. Can’t get through the necessary e-mails.’
“Ladies and Gentlemen, citizens of Strong Nation, this is unbelievable. We are the nation’s business. We are their work. We are necessary. We are the boss. Not them. They serve at our pleasure. By our vote. They represent us. We are the constituency. They are the representative arm of the people. Where do they get off? Where in hell do they get off telling you that your letter isn’t necessary? It’s not America’s business?”
Listeners heard Elliott Strong take a long, quenching sip of water.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so wound up. These people. They’re not in charge. They’re not the boss!” he repeated with more conviction. “They are not my boss.
“And this idiot at the White House told me to stop handing out the phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Can you believe that? Their own published numbers.” He cleared his throat to make the next point. “Excuse me, our own published numbers. The White House. Each and every member of Congress. Those are numbers we use to communicate with the government — the government we put there! But guess what? You haven’t done it enough! Let them complain. Let them realize this is just the beginning. Because maybe one in ten thousand of you wrote or called to state why you want a Constitutional Amendment to end this mess. But that’s not enough. They haven’t even seen the iceberg yet, let alone what’s under it.
“Well, I’m keeping the numbers on the website. You go there and get them. No, let me make it easier for you. We’ll go to a commercial and when we come back, I’ll read them to you. And I’ll do it at the top and bottom of every hour. Because this administration is the Titanic, and you’re going to send that iceberg right in its path.