Elliott Strong was clearly the most influential talk-radio host in the nation, conservative beyond definition, successful beyond the competition. Nobody on the left could touch him. But there was nothing new about that.
Liberal or progressive hosts pretty much faced an uphill struggle. Their primary challenge: attract like-minded listeners to talk radio, and away from news, classical, oldies, and rock stations.
Generally speaking, they weren’t as good as their ultra-conservative counterparts at manipulating the facts and turning public opinion in their favor. Only a few influential voices emerged. No superstars like Limbaugh or Strong. Why? Because too often they used humor, a poor defense against hate. They appealed to logic, easily dismissed by the opposition. When a progressive host succeeded in building a constituency, he or she, became a target, systematically ridiculed, criticized, demeaned, and, if possible, destroyed. Many didn’t have the stomach for it. Most willingly stepped out of the line of fire.
Strong loved letting his rage fly. “Look, I know you liberals don’t like me. You’ve taken great pains to label me the king of hate radio. You think by calling me that you’ll rally support for yourself. You think that hate will get your leftist buddies in Congress all worked up. You go on and on, whining how Elliott Strong needs to be muzzled. Well, my friends, let me tell you. It’s not going to work. Hate’s not the issue — truth is, and I’m the king of truth. You come to me for the truth. I’m here to give it to you. It doesn’t get any simpler than that, not if you care about your country. So listen to old Elliott, the real heir of America,” he said mocking the progressive radio network.
“Now, let’s talk about the truth. Here’s what the liberals and the centrists are doing.” Strong stepped up the pace. “They’re attacking me, which I really don’t give a damn about. But I do care that they’re trying to discredit a true patriot — General Bridgeman. When liberals can’t defend their own flimsy positions, and they can’t admit that all they care about is tax and spend, tax and spend, tax and spend, they go after the messengers. Well, Mister Taylor” — Strong rarely called him president and always stretched out Mister — “we do have a message for you: You and your imperial cabinet don’t represent the American people. You do not represent the majority. Give America back to the people. It’s not yours!”
Strong felt he had stirred the pot enough for a while. “Let’s go to the phones.”
All the lines were lit up. He’d have another entertaining show, heard across the country and online around the world.
Air Force One gently lifted off the ground with President Morgan Taylor in the forward compartment of Level 2. He’d said his hellos to Rossy, Colonel Lewis, and the rest of the crew before takeoff. Now he wanted to get caught up on his reading. Taylor brought aboard a file from the CIA. It was marked Libya. Operation Quarterback, Post Game.
In it were copies of materials extracted from the raid in Tripoli, and a summary of opinion collected by Jack Evans.
Original documents were in Russian and Arabic. Taylor perused the English translations. He was most interested in information pertaining to Russian sleeper spies trained at Andropov Institute under the Red Banner 101 program. The names Teddy Lodge and Geoff Newman were highlighted throughout the document. The president skipped them now. He wanted to re-read the sections that dealt with other sleeper spies still at large in the United States. The documents indicated the presence of men and women trained to advance in state legislatures, Fortune 500 corporations, the media, federal bureaus, Congress, and the courts.
There were five different references. Nothing specific anywhere. Evans had gone to former KGB agents now residing in the U.S. for information. Either no one had anything or they weren’t talking. The U.S. Ambassador to Russia made specific inquiries to the FSB, but the intelligence chief of the new Russian spy agency claimed to have no knowledge of other sleeper spies.
And yet, here was the red flag in the recovered documents. Elected officials, businessmen, who knows? Nearly a President of the United States.
Taylor wondered whether he had any latitude under the Patriot Act to intensify a national search.
“Okay, Penny. What do you have?”
“Nothing you’re going to get anymore.”
Ordinarily, Roarke enjoyed the playful, sexual tension from his former partner. Not today. He’d been through too much recently. He nearly lost Katie, and Depp got away.
“Right,” he grunted over her shoulder.
She swiveled around in her chair, away from the computer screen. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“Sorry. Can we just get to what you’ve found?”
Captain Walker took Roarke’s hands and looked deeply into his hazel eyes. “Scott, I know you better than almost anybody in the world. I know when you’re hurt and when you’re angry. I even know when you’re ready to kill. But before I tell you what I’ve found, which you’ll want to discuss with your friend Parsons, let me ask you one important question.”
Her warmth broke through his concentration. He didn’t say yes, but he gave her a trusting smile.
“You don’t have to go after him, Scott. You have so much more in your life now. We can give all this to someone else. Let the FBI track him down, bring him in, or take him down. You finally have someone you love, someone who makes you happy. Why don’t you just go to her?” Penny choked on her own words and squeezed his hands, showing how much she cared. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. But now there’s someone more important than me.”
Penny could still touch Roarke, almost as deeply as Katie. He nodded, stifled an affirming sigh, and smiled at her.
“You know, I’m a very lucky man. You’ve reminded me. I promise you, if I need help, I’ll call for the cavalry. I want to get Depp, and if both of us walk away alive, all the better.” He let go of her hands. “Does that help?”
“No, you asshole,” she chided him. “But I’m sure it’ll be the best I’ll get from you! Now here, take a gander.”
The captain swiveled her chair back around and punched up a master file she’d assembled. “I’ve sent each of the pictures and backup information I’m about to show you over to your buddy. He’ll do more with it than I ever could. But if you want my two cents…”
“I do,” he interrupted.
She smiled again. “I thought I’d never hear those two words from you,” she said, speaking into the computer screen.
“Oh, you’ll trick some innocent fool into saying them, someday,” he added. “Besides, I think Parsons wants to meet you.”
“Oh? Tell me more.”
“Later. Show me what you have,” he appealed.
“Okay, like you’ve said, we’re looking for a man highly trained in the fine art of killing. He’s also an accomplished actor, probably professionally or collegially trained. Proficient in makeup and dialects.”
“Right, and…”
“I followed up on schools, then I thought, how do you go from acting to military service?”
Again, Roarke asked a simple question. “And?”
“Where are you likely to find practical training in both disciplines?”
“I’ll bite.”
“Come on. Think, sweetheart. Acting and military training?”
“Well, not the Army. Special Forces doesn’t have a program of that sort. Neither do the Marines or the Navy. As far as I know, same for the Air Force. I’d have to check if the Pentagon or the NSA has anything.”
“Think….”
“Help me out, captain.”
“ROTC, Agent Roarke. ROTC. He’s in college. The service is helping pay for school. I don’t know, maybe he realizes he’s not going to really make it as an actor. He advances, moves into one of the special forces divisions.”