and remained calm.” Serge gave the engines full throttle back toward shore. “Panic causes more drownings. That’s what makes tonight’s tragedy especially senseless.”
Chapter Eight
The Next Morning
CNN.
“With the second oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico entering its forty-third day, Congressman Bugler continues drawing flak for apologizing to the drilling company during this week’s committee hearings, which political observers say could turn the balance in the upcoming elections… And now an odd news item from Tampa, where a dozen men are under arrest at a local hospital for illegally hunting coyotes within city limits.” The picture switched to a police spokesman. “I’ve never seen anything like it in the middle of a highly populated area. We caught them red-handed with banned game bait available on the Internet. They claim some mystery men gave them free mosquito repellent, but we’re not buying it. How do they explain the gun racks full of deer rifles in their pickups? And we’re tacking on littering fines for all the empty beer cans. Luckily they were too drunk to hunt effectively and the coyotes got the upper hand. We’ll be transporting them to jail as soon as their wounds heal.” The TV switched again to the anchor desk. “We’re going back again to Washington for continuing coverage of the political fallout from Congressman Bugler’s comments of sympathy for the oil companies… Wait a moment. We have breaking news. We’re taking you live to the Office of Homeland Security…”
Director “Rip” Tide walked briskly to the podium with a prepared statement. Behind him: twenty American flags and a large, vinyl thermometer.
“I’ve called you all here today to announce we’re raising the threat level. I can’t reveal the nature of our intelligence or where an attack is most likely, so all citizens must be on increased vigilance wherever they work, play, or sleep. God bless the United States.”
A reporter held up a hand with a pen in it. “But we’re already at the highest threat level.”
“That’s why I’m announcing a new color.” The director reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic square, and stuck it at the top of the thermometer.
Another reporter raised his hand. “It’s red, like the other one.”
“It’s a darker red.”
“Not really.”
“No, see, it’s clearly darker.”
Reporters scribbled on pads. Another hand went up again. “What’s the name of the new threat level?”
“Red.”
“Won’t that be confusing?”
“No more questions…”
Malcolm Glide turned the volume down on his office TV and picked up the phone.
“No, I will not be put on hold!” barked Glide. “I realize the congressman isn’t in. I want you to deliver this message to him personally: Tell him to shut his goddamn mouth!.. I know we’re working behind the scenes to protect the oil company from its victims. That’s exactly why he needs to go mute. Those were the strict ground rules from the beginning of his term: no press conferences, no interviews except Fox, and sit like a silent lump in the committee
… Because he’s fucking stupid! And I’m not going to let him throw this away! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a moron like that elected?”
Harder than parting the Red Sea.
But if anyone could do it…
Two years earlier, in a large hotel ballroom somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon.
Election night.
Anticipation built all evening through the packed crowd. Finally it burst. A mighty, wall-shaking cheer went up. With 82 percent of precincts reporting, all three networks had just declared the winner in the Thirteenth District.
Max Bugler was now a U.S. congressman.
Balloons fell. School bands played. Champagne corks popped.
In the back of the room, Malcolm Glide received an unending series of backslaps as he puffed a fat cigar from Cuba, the embargo of which he staunchly supported.
It was an upset. A big one.
When the race had started, Max was the darkest of horses. His first bid for public office, no experience or idea what district he was in. But Max had a firm jaw and the last name of his father, a former governor.
If there’s no hope of winning an election, a political party still needs to fill the ballot and turn out the faithful for other races. You use the strongest name recognition and hope for the least embarrassment. Max was a throwaway candidate.
They brought in Glide to minimize the embarrassment.
He burst through the doors at Bugler headquarters.
“Everybody stand up! Now!”
Chairs slid back. Staff glanced at each other.
“Thirty points behind! Have you all been circle-jerking in here? Where are we weakest?” He stretched out an arm. “You!”
“Me?” peeped a shaken staffer.
“You’re fired!” yelled Malcolm. “Get out of my sight!” A finger aimed at the next person. “You! And you better not say, ‘Me?’ ”
“War record?”
“Bingo! And don’t say it like a question!” Malcolm clasped hands behind his back. “Continue.”
“Well, our opponent, Hank Freeman, is a highly decorated Vietnam veteran. And our candidate’s dad used his influence to help him, uh
… not go to the war.”
“Say it!” yelled Malcolm.
“Say what?” asked the shrinking staffer.
“We shoot straight in here!” shouted Malcolm. “Don’t give some euphemistic ‘not go to the war.’ Say what everyone out on the street is saying!”
“He’s a draft dodger?”
“I never want to hear that slanderous shit again! Get the fuck out!”
Running feet. A door slammed.
Glide plopped down in the chair at the head of a conference table. Other chairs began to fill.
“Did I say you could sit?”
They popped back up.
“Sit down!” Malcolm rubbed his cheeks hard with his palms. “So Freeman’s a hero and our guy’s a faggot. We got ’em now!”
Expressions around the table said they didn’t understand.
“Who doesn’t understand?” said Malcolm.
Nobody made a sound.
“Good. Because we don’t need any amateurs who’ve never read Orwell.” Malcolm pointed again. “You’re fired!”
“What did I do?”
“You look weird to me. Out!”
The door slammed.
“We’re going to flip this thing,” said Malcolm. “Patriot is wimp. Wimp is patriot. Ideas?”
Silence around the table.
“Do I have to teach you everything?” He pointed again. “What’s Freeman most known for?”
