An end of the world black comedy
by William M Johnson

Sneak Preview

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5. The awful spectre of ‘SanPimenteGate’descends on the White House…

Two hours later most of the President’s inner circle burst into the Oval Office, panic etched onto their faces. "Sir! Sir!" they cried, gently trying to rouse the President from his afternoon nap. Initial unconfirmed accounts of a massacre in San Pimente had now been validated by fresh CIA intelligence reports. There was no doubt about it. A score of nuns and several foreign wildlife researchers had been slain by government-sponsored death squads.

"They were definitely rendered nonviable by US trained counter-insurgency forces, Mr. President, sir," the National Security advisor explained, while the Chief of Staff, CIA Director and Spin Control Officer looked on, wearing expressions of grave anxiety.

The President gazed up at them, bleary-eyed. "Now tell me once again, I forget why we’re paying for these here death schquads."

"Oh, but we’re not, sir, not officially," Ollie Rawson replied hastily, suddenly panic-stricken that the President might even broadcast the fact in a flush of campaign pride. "We are merely assisting them to defend democracy, but it’s highly classified… top secret," he emphasised. "Also, sir, ‘death squad’ is, we believe, an unfortunately pejorative term coined by leftist malcontent elements within the country, and does not reflect the gallant efforts of the special security forces which are mounting a difficult counter-insurgency campaign. But as in any theatre of military operations or active scenarios of this kind, there can be certain unforeseen difficulties sometimes resulting in terminal inconvenience to civilian personnel."

"Mistakes, sir," Dan Hoffman translated, ignoring Rawson’s scowl. "Resulting in the killing of innocent civilians."

"Mishtakes?"

"Inevitable, sir," Rawson maintained confidently. "Can’t throw the baby out with the bath-water simply because of a few inadvertent terminal episodes."

"But you know, it sheems to me that we have no control over who they’re killing out there."

"Essential to protect our national security interests in the region, sir. US multinationals are heavily involved down there, particularly in the banana and coffee industries. The terrorists are waging a war of attrition against what they call imperialistic exploitation."

The President blinked, still baffled. "Bananash? We’re killing people for bananash?"

"Well, it’s not as simple as that, Mr. President," the CIA Chief intervened authoritatively. "There are geopolitical forces at play in the region, exploiting an unstable situation."

"I mean, bananash are important. You know, boysh, it’s one of my favourite fruits… But I thought you said we defeated communism shome years back."

"Still a major threat in developing countries, sir, where the ignorant peasants are incited by unscrupulous forces to revolt against the status quo."

"What about our space defence system, Shtar Warsh?"

"Rather too technically sophisticated to be of use in this particular theatre of operations, sir. That’s why we helped the former interim military government in San Pimente establish an elite counter-insurgency force. The regime was becoming progressively weaker during its ten years in power as it strove to return the country to democracy."

"So what’s the problem, boysh? They need more weapons?"

"The problem is, sir, that the PLF controls cocaine production down there."

"Drugs? Just shay no!"

Fairchild sighed impatiently. "With all due respect, Mr. President, we need the cocaine plantations under our temporary covert control so that the General can buy the weapons that we’re offering, which are essential to take out the PLF so that, killing two birds with one stone, we can also terminate the drug traffickers. It’s all part of an intricate sting operation involving CIA dummy corporations, numbered offshore bank accounts and several governments hostile to the interests of the United States."

"You sure you boysh got it straight? Sheems darned complicated to me."

"Complexity is imperative in modern state-of-the-art covert operations, sir. In fact, the more complicated the better. Why, sometimes even we have difficulty keeping track."

"What about their human rights record?"

"No problem, sir. For the last four years we’ve been consistently assuring Congress that the human rights situation is improving. However, statements to that effect have been nonviable. We had no other option. We had to convince Congress to keep open the aid spigot."

"Categorical inaccuracy, sir," translated Hoffman with a helpless shrug. "Because we couldn’t afford to go soft on communism we’ve had to be economical with the truth."

"You mean the situation down there hasn’t improved like we said?"

"Security forces are facing hostilities on at least three fronts, sir. Increased terrorist attacks by the PLF, an expanding drugs trade, and subversion by native Indians."

"Injuns? Boy, that sounds mighty dangerous."

"It’s a highly complex theatre of operations, Mr. President," stressed Marshal P. Waxman, striving to bring some degree of honesty into the briefing. "Because land in Indian reserves can’t be sold legally, drug barons have resorted to eviction by elimination as they try to gain more land for coca plantations and cocaine-processing laboratories. Land-grabbers are doing the same. According to intelligence reports, over a hundred Indians have been killed so far this year. There has also been a marked increase in the number of violent clashes between Indians and gold prospectors in the more remote, inaccessible parts of the country. Although they have no legal rights there, the Indians are on the warpath, trying to drive the settlers out of the area. Naturally, the security forces are trying to subdue the uprising."

The President shook his head in sympathy. "Shounds like the old frontier. Those renegade Injun braves were always a heap of trouble. Let’s hope the Cavalry can sort them out."

"That’s right, sir," Ollie Rawson said encouragingly. "The deployment of the security forces has led to some inadvertent health alteration of civilian personnel and the occasional servicing of soft targets by helicopter gunships. But I don’t think this amounts to systematic human rights abuse. Criticising the imperfections of these authoritarian regimes will only undermine them."

"All this is connected to a more critical dilemma, Mr. President," cautioned Ed Walsh, his face grave and furrowed with anxiety. "The problem is that the administration could be implicated in the recent slaying of Dr. Walters and his team of parrot researchers, not to mention the nuns. This could therefore impact negatively on the campaign."

"That’s putting it mildly, sir," Dan Hoffman declared. "Believe me, if this story gets out, the press are gonna go nuclear."

"Hey, but these nuns were all terrorist sympathisers," objected Ollie Rawson. "Can’t we say they crashed a roadblock?"

Hoffman snorted derisively. "No fucking way! Who the hell’s gonna believe that crock of shit?"

"Did you find the boy yet?" demanded Walsh, glaring at the CIA Director. "That little squirt is the one that’s gonna get us all hung out to dry."

"We have our agents working on it night and day," Fairchild replied for his spooks down at Langley. "We’re following up several promising leads and the search has been assigned top priority. As soon as we find him, he’s gonna be signed over to the protective custody of the government."

"Yeah, like he’s gonna be history."

"Which boy?" the President asked blankly.

"The sole surviving witness, sir."

"Well, this sure seems to have stirred up a whole heap of trouble. You know, I just don’t like the idea of these death shquads."

Rawson blanched. "But… you gave the order, Mr. President, to train and arm the counter-insurgency units."

"Strange, I sheem to have no recollection of that."

Rawson stammered a few incoherent words of protest before finally admitting defeat. Crestfallen, he made a mental note to shred the incriminating evidence.

"My political instinct tells me that thish shounds real bad. I mean killing terrorists, OK. But murdering nuns?"

"Asking for it, sir. In cahoots with the terrorists."

"I just don’t like thish here raping business," protested Heston obstinately.

But Fairchild was phlegmatic. "Well, boys will be boys, sir. Nuns probably led them on."

"Yeah, guess they were really asking for it!" rasped Rawson maliciously.

"Bet they spread their legs real wide!"

"Yeah! All right!" There were several resounding guffaws accompanied by various lewd gestures that the President couldn’t quite grasp.

"Steady on, boysh. I mean, this is darn serious. I can’t countenance something like thish."

"You bet," Hoffman growled, glaring at the loose cannons. "The press are gonna go fuckin’ ballistic. One hundred fuckin’ megatons. Like we’re talking major fallout here. SanFuckingPimenteGate."

"Yes sir, that’s my gut instinct also," declared Ed Walsh. "We’re gonna spend the rest of our term in damage-control mode."

A stunned silence fell over the room as the full repercussions dawned upon the Cabinet.

"Sir," Walsh announced gravely. "I believe National Security is at stake here."

The President nodded sagely. "It sure looks that way."

"There’s no doubt about it, Mr. President," Ollie Rawson insisted. He was already breaking out into a cold sweat, his paranoia envisaging a congressional witch-hunt in which he became the administration’s only fall guy. "This suboptimal activated scenario calls for a major information-control operation, at least for the duration of the campaign. We’d better classify this incident at the highest levels."

"But that’s only one small part of the problem," Hoffman reasoned. "We can keep the lid on it here, but what if news leaks out down in San Pimente? Just one murmur and there’s gonna be a fuckin’ feeding frenzy."

"Now slow down, boysh. Before we make a move I wanna know exactly what’s happening down there. Get me that General what’s-his-name on the phone right now."

"But sir!" they protested in unison, aghast that the famously disengaged President was suddenly taking policy into his own hands.

"Right now!" the President insisted, several isolated cerebral synapses connecting in a flash of inspiration to remind him of his executive authority.

"But sir, protocol really demands that you speak to the President."

"I wanna speak to the guy who’s really in charge. He’s the strongman down there. We gotta make these guys shay ‘uncle’! I’m gonna be shootin’ right from the hip!"

The aides watched in stupefied panic as the President began speaking with grave determination down a crackling line to San Pimente. Only the CIA director seemed to have any remnants of faith in the President’s capacities. "Lay down the law, sir. Don’t forget, Mr. President, he’s really fucking us over."

"Don’t you worry none, boysh. I have a reputation for thish kind of thing. Speak softly and carry one helluva big shtick… General?" he began sternly. "Yesh, it’s me. Reg… No, no, she’s fine. Kids too… ’Course I remember the fishing trip. That was one helluva marlin we landed… Yeah, I’m really lookin’ forward to the trip… Yeah, campaign’s in full shwing… Well, that’s mighty generous of you. Bank transfer from Shwitzerland? Guess sho. Hope it ain’t illegal, ha ha! …Yeah, well, it’s this story with the nuns… I have to level with you, it just doesn’t look good… Yeah, yeah, I mean I appreciate that. They’re young boysh, I appreciate that… I mean we all know you weren’t involved personally… No, I mean my boysh here are really all riled up…"

The Cabinet groaned in disbelief.

"…No, I mean our media people don’t think that’s gonna fly. I mean these nuns had a good reputation. No one’s gonna believe they were in cahootsh with them terrorists down there. You know how these presh people blow things up out all proportion… What’s that? Yeah I know they’re communishts…"

"The boy, sir! Ask him about the boy!"

"Hold on a minute, General… Which boy?"

"The witness, sir, the one we told you about…"

"General, my people are asking about shome boy who witnessed the whole thing… Aw, an orphan you shay? What a shame! …An exclushive orphanage? Taking him out of circulation? A permanent solution? A final reshting place for the little nipper? Why that’s real nice… You give my best to your family too, you hear? …Yeah, yeah, I look forward to it… That’s real swell! No, no, of course we’re not gonna lay any blame on your boysh. Accidents will happen. Yeah, yeah, young studs… Sure, boysh will be boysh…"

He replaced the receiver and beamed at them. "Boysh," he declared. "That’s one helluva nice guy!"

"But what did he say, Sir?"

There was a long pause. "You know, boysh, I sheem to have forgotten."

"Time for your evening nap, sir," Ed Walsh announced firmly. Resigned, they led him towards the First Family’s private quarters.

"Now what was it he did shay…? Yeah, maybe I will get a little shut-eye. Feel a little fuzzy. Boy, you should have sheen that marlin we landed on my last trip. Now don’t you worry none, boysh. He’ll take care of the shituation."

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