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Chapter 1 of Mr. Tucker’s novel 2065, which we will serialize in the coming months.
(Page 2 of 4)
“Massa President, your National Security Adviser wants to talk to you right away. Something in the Pacific.”
“You know I don’t want to be bothered before 7 o’clock,” s/he said testily.
“We know. But this seems like an emergency.”
“Well, it will just have to wait. I’ll see him in five minutes.”
Over the Intercom Jean could hear a buzz of voices. There seemed to be a lot of scurrying up and down the hall outside as well. Maybe something unusual was happening.
“Alright, Massa President. We’ll do as you say.” The sarcasm fairly dripped from the Intercom.
“It’s ‘Mizza’ President, if you don’t mind,” Jean shot back. “If you can’t master that maybe you’d better find yourself another job. I don’t want any of this ‘Massa President’ stuff. It makes me sound like a 19th century slave-owner.”
“I’m sorry,” said the voice, only half contrite. “But the NSA says it’s urgent. He’s outside your door right now.”
“Tell him to knock.” Jean switched off the Intercom.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said President Jean Armageddon.
It was Darwin Slater, herm National Security Adviser. Completely bald except for a monk’s tonsure, he was a frumpy, disheveled man of about 60 who always seemed to have just brushed crumbs off the front of his baggy suit. Slater was the rarest of birds — an old white male who seemed to have survived on servility. Jean had intended to replace him with a person of color but he had been the first of herm inner circle to master the “Mizza” protocol and Jean appreciated that.
“Mizza President,” he began with perfect diction, “we have a serious situation in the Pacific.” He fumbled through his armful of briefing papers. “The Chinese Navy has sailed into Pearl Harbor…” he struggled to find the right place… “with three battleships, two destroyers and two troop transports carrying an unknown number of infantry.” He looked apologetic. “We knew they were doing naval exercises in the region but had no inkling there would be anything like this. They seem to have hacked our satellite system overnight. We had no reports of movement in the area.” He was a bit embarrassed. “They have two aircraft carriers waiting outside the harbor as well.”
Jean stood dumbfounded. “What’s going on? What are they trying to do?”
“I’m told there’s a hologram communiqué from the Prime Minister,” said Slater. He began fishing into his pants pockets, finally pulling out a shiny black obelisk, the latest version of i-World, along with a few crumpled Kleenex. “I’ll play it for you if I can figure out how this thing works.” He fumbled with the gadget, pointing it toward the wall and jabbing the screen to no avail. Then suddenly there was an effect. The neatly tailored figure of the Chinese Prime Minister appeared before them — but only from his waist down. His top half was missing. “CShitizzdenf offfff thehia Undietedf STatjls …” began an obviously garbled audio transmit. “Just a minute,” said the flustered National Security Adviser and ran to the door and called outside. “Madam secretary, could you send in that intern?”
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?