Blowback

SIX

WASHINGTON, DC

Pe

She had known it was only a matter of time. The man’s approval ratings had been ridiculously high. It started with sympathy over the loss of his wife to breast cancer during the first campaign, then it followed him through his first term as president with his kidnapping, his dismantling of several high-profile terrorist organizations, and most recently a successful showdown against the Russians. It had seemed as if the man could do no wrong. And then this. The heavens had opened, and God had handed Helen Remington Carmichael the one thing she had been praying for since considering a run for the vice-presidential slot on the Democratic ticket.

One step at a time, she had told herself. She knew how the press perceived her. She was the power-hungry bitch who had used her successful husband to catapult her into a Senate seat. She didn’t even like Pe

The people of the state liked her fire, and Murphy had thrown not only his endorsement but all of his political weight behind her. The young Republican the GOP put up against her never had a chance.

Ever the savvy politico, Carmichael had been working hard to soften her image, but no matter what she did, everything about her still screamed bitch. While some of her aides privately debated whether or not she should ditch the pantsuits and grow her hair out, there were others who said none of it would matter. No matter how you dressed or coiffed her, the woman not only acted like a bitch, she just plain looked like one.

The word among her staff was that maybe all she needed to soften her up was a little sex, but her husband was too busy chasing other women.

The fact of the matter was that the only way Carmichael was going to get elected to the presidency of the United States was to serve as one hell of a vice president first.

But to even get that far, there was something very serious standing in her way-Jack Rutledge. The Democrats didn’t have a single candidate they could stand up against him and hope to win with. The only way they were going to win was to politically batter the incumbent president until his numbers were so low they could walk in and take the office right away from him.

SEVEN

THE WHITE HOUSE

President Jack Rutledge waved his chief of staff, Charles Anderson, into the Oval Office and signaled that his phone conversation was almost complete.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I realize that, and we appreciate the lengths you have gone to to keep militants in your own country in check. Your help in the war on terror has been invaluable. Let me assure you that this is one of my top priorities and we are going to get to the bottom of it,” the president said. He paused and then said, “I’ve heard that rumor, too, and I can understand why your people would be upset, but let me again state that there are always two sides to every story. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, and as soon as we do, we’ll brief you on our findings. I guarantee you that we are taking this very seriously.”

The president paused again and then answered, “And I thank you for your time as well. Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

As the president hung up, he turned to Anderson and said, “This is an absolute nightmare. That’s the sixth call I’ve had today from an Arab head of state. You know what they’re calling it over there? The showdown at the al-Karim corral.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard that one,” replied Anderson. “Not very original, if you ask me.”

“Original or not, this is a big black eye for us. The Muslims take an extremely long view of history, Chuck. Much longer than we do. To many of them, the crusades are as fresh in their minds as if they happened last week. All of this on the heels of the whole Abu Ghraib prison fiasco. That might as well have happened ten minutes ago as far as they’re concerned.”

“Abu Ghraib was bad. No question about it. And this al-Jazeera thing has got the potential to be much worse-”

“The potential? Chuck, I have no idea how the view is from where you’re sitting, but this has gone way beyond the potential for being worse. It is worse. Monumentally.”

“I’ll admit it doesn’t look good, but I want to remind you, as you yourself just said, we don’t have all the facts yet.

“That soldier is an American. That’s all that matters,” said the president. “We’re not fighting this war on terror in a vacuum. Every single move we make is watched around the world. Every single thing we do has countless repercussions. It takes us years to gain a mere foot of credible ground in that region and only seconds to lose it.”

“Agreed,” said Anderson, “ but the Muslims’ long view of history notwithstanding, I don’t think the United States should have to wear the weight of the crusades around its neck. America didn’t even exist in the eleventh century. Europe launched the crusades.”

The president leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter. In their minds we’re an extension of Europe. Everything the West does, whether it’s Europe or America, is co

“Nobody thinks the way we do. We have a unique spirit, and that spirit is what defines America. Freedom, democracy, liberty, and the willingness to use force when necessary to help preserve those ideals-that’s what we’re all about. You pick any man or woman on the street in the Middle East and give him or her the option of staying put or coming to America to start their lives over again with the rights and freedoms we identify ourselves by, and they’ll choose the good ol’ USA every time. They might burn our flag for the cameras, but throw a handful of green cards in the air and they’d cut each other’s throats to get their hands on them.”

“I wonder what al-Jazeera would do with that footage,” said the president as he shifted his gaze and focused on his chief of staff.

“Don’t get me started on al-Jazeera. We could be passing out blankets, medicine, and gold-plated copies of the Koran over there, and they’d still find a way to make us look like the bad guys.”

“Too true,” replied Rutledge, “but lack of journalistic integrity at al-Jazeera is a conversation I’m tired of having. What did you want to see me about?”

“I take it that was King Abdullah you were speaking with?” asked Anderson.

The president nodded his head.

“And the rumor you were referring to was that the man seen being beaten by our soldier was just a nobody, a fruit stall vendor, right?”

Again the president nodded.

“Well, that’s not a rumor any longer. He is a fruit stall vendor.”

“That’s fantastic,” said the president, as he threw up his hands and stood up from behind his desk. “It couldn’t have been a terrorist off our most wanted list, could it? That would have been too easy. Heaven forbid we get an opportunity to bolster our credibility in the region by taking a known killer out of circulation.”