The Tonight Show
As the host began to wind up his opening monologue, the live audience was in an exceptionally festive and jovial mood. “Well, I see you people are really wound up, and just as well. We have a great show for you tonight. Of course, unlike Bill Clinton, we can’t get our current President on the show. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who’s even heard from him lately. And speaking of the President,” he said, with a wink, “I’ve been continuing my study of genetics. I find the subject fascinating.” Several in the audience jeered loudly, recalling his earlier jokes.
“My recent studies have led me to some startling discoveries. As you know, genes control such things as hair color, eye color, and even, I have recently discovered, behavior. Why just this afternoon I made a startling discovery while comparing the DNA of an ostrich and the President. They both contain the same gene for putting one’s head in the sand.”
The Oval Office, 7am
Horns from early morning traffic blared along 17 ^th Street. President Ross Pierce, insulated by thick glass from the outside noise and outside threats, sat alone at his desk in the West Wing. He looked straight ahead. A bust of Abraham Lincoln, sitting on the fireplace mantle, stared back. “I wonder which is better, Mr. President, to know you’re an assassination target or be taken by surprise?” Lincoln just kept staring.
Nearly three months after the suicide attack that killed Dr. Andrew Norman and so many others, he was still troubled. His minor flesh wounds were healed, but he still ached for all the people slaughtered. Even more troubling was how to respond. Congress, the press, the American people-indeed, the entire world-clamored for an official U.S. response to the attack, as well as a major policy statement on terrorism. Everyone demanded some type of action.
The hidden door next to the office of the Chief of Staff opened slowly. “You wanted to talk with me, Mr. President?”
Ross Pierce stood up and motioned to a chair. “Yes, Karl. I do. I thought maybe we could talk a little before the day really hits.”
Karl van Ness sat comfortably in the massive wing chair. “What about?”
“Why don’t you sit over here, out of the sunlight. It shows off your wrinkles, and reminds me of mine.”
“Both sets earned in the service of our country, Mr. President,” van Ness said gravely.
“Mine were earned getting my ass in a sling, and yours were earned saving it. For which I’m eternally grateful, Karl.”
“So, how can I help?” Van Ness sat uneasily now.
“Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Ross poured his mentor a cup of coffee, a touch of deference reserved only for this man he both trusted and needed.
“I want to talk about that female terrorist attack, how things are shaping up.”
Van Ness waited. His coffee was hot, and bitter.
“As you know, I’ve made dozens of speeches since the attack. I’ve promised the American people, and the world, that the United States would not stand for such cowardly acts.”
“And they’ve been good speeches, Mr. President. People can feel your conviction and..”
“My string is running out, Karl. I know it and you know it. People want action, not talk.” Pierce set his coffee mug on the desk, careful to place it on the coaster.
“And what are you not telling me?”
Ross stared, startled at the blunt question. Then he nodded. “Something big is afoot, something evil. I don’t know what, but someone tried to kill me once, and I don’t think they will stop. I got into this seat on promises of bringing about peace, one way or another. Now they bring the issue right to my doorstep, and I still don’t have a fucking plan of action I can believe in.”
“I understand, Mr. President. And I wouldn’t advise an approach like your predecessor launched in the wake of September 11. Costly and unfortunately ineffective.”
“I know. That’s one of the reasons I’m sitting in this chair today. However, in the eyes of the world it looks as if the war on terrorism is being lost, not won.”
Van Ness continued to listen. The coffee cup sat on the side table, ignored.
“Let me spell it out for you. The polls tell us the American people are fed up with the fear and uncertainty. Not knowing when and where the next attack will come. They’re afraid terrorism will reach into their local communities. No one feels safe anymore. And I don’t blame them. I’m practically a prisoner of this office. I can hardly go out and meet the people.” President Pierce stood up, clutching the large coffee.
“And the protesters. Have you seen those slogans, Karl? Nuke the Bomber Bitches, Fight Back Now Before It’s Too Late, and Don’t Wait for Another Pearl Harbor. ”
“They’re difficult to miss.” Van Ness watched the President move towards the windows facing the south lawn.
“I’m getting thousands of letters and e-mails demanding America take a firm stand to protect itself. Most of them want us to launch a retaliatory strike right now.” He shook his head. “In all my years as a governor, senator, and now President, I’ve never seen such vitriolic displays of public anger.”
“From my discussions, Mr. President, it appears the military, along with the CIA, fully support the public demands for all-out retaliation.”
“I know. I’ve been briefed until I can’t look at another slide. They keep saying they have the targets and the means. All they need is a thumbs-up from me and the righteous force of America’s high-tech weaponry will put the terrorists out of action forever.” He glanced at his mentor. “That’s a direct quote.”
Karl van Ness nodded. “The major defense contractors are pressing their Congressmen. And several senior politicians are afraid of losing their hefty PAC contributions. It’s not pretty on the hill, Mr. President.” He stood by the fireplace, waiting for the name he knew would come up.
“And that arrogant asshole, Mason Stevens, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, has been meeting with the press almost daily. He’s leading the crusade for retaliation. Shit, his office phones here just about every hour for another meeting to press his case.”
“He has a point,” van Ness said. “If there is fresh intelligence data identifying the nations harboring and actively supporting terrorist networks, it could become obsolete if we don’t strike soon.”
“I know it, Karl, that’s what worries me. And he’s whipping the American people into a frenzy. Just watch this tape of the Larry King show last night.” Ross Pierce walked over to the wall unit and grabbed the remote control. A large flat screen TV boomed to life. The tanned face of Senator Stevens emerged. “Watch this sonofabitch. And look at that hairdo. Coiffed for the occasion.”
The Senator’s deep voice boomed out. “The reason we’re confronted with increasingly bold and bloody acts of terrorism is because terrorism works,” the senator barked. “Blatant acts of murder and mayhem get these cowards an enormous amount of attention from the liberal media and catapult them onto the world stage.”
“Whoa, Senator,” replied King, pushing back his chair. “Are you saying terrorism is also a propaganda tool?”
“That’s right. Then the ineffective United Nations and certain cowardly members of the international community go soft whenever there is an opportunity to prosecute and put the terrorists in jail.” Senator Stevens pounded his meaty fist on the table. “Their lame excuse is that they need to better understand the causes of terrorism. Some governments even express the stupid opinion that these groups must have some validity to their grievances if they engage in such open displays of violence. It’s all just rhetoric-what they’re doing is avoiding the real issues.”
“And your solution, Senator?”
“The time for talk is over, Larry. These murderers grow bolder by the minute. If the President doesn’t strike now, and strike hard, I fear that American soil will become a prime target for every half-crazed terrorist on the planet. Some of whom our intelligence tells us already have access to deadly biological weapons and makeshift dirty bombs.”
The senator, his face red, gazed directly into the camera. “Swift and severe reprisal is the only language these international criminals can understand. It’s time President Pierce showed some backbone. We’ve got to convince the terrorist organizations and their backers-not to mention those spineless nations hiding within the United Nations-that we mean business.”
Ross Pierce threw down the remote control. “I’m not a coward, Karl. And by God I do have the force of character and courage to unleash the wrath of America’s military and technological might on these bastards. I’m even willing to support targeted covert operations and assassinations if necessary.”
“But…?” Karl van Ness watched his protege.
“When I was in Vietnam I saw first hand the senseless futility of war. No outsider can really force a country into submission. Hate and violence only breed more hate and violence, never peace.”
“But this isn’t a conventional war.”
“I know. The terrorists have moved well beyond seeking recognition or understanding for their cause. By amassing body counts, their goal now seems to be to destabilize the global economy and weaken the willpower of the West.”
“So what keeps you from letting the military strike?”
“A couple of things. For one, the polls are pretty evenly split. While half of the American people favor retaliation, the other demand a peaceful solution. They believe its time the United States took a stand for what is right. To stop the global escalation of terrorism, retaliation, more terrorism, and more retaliation. Look at the mess the Israelis are in. Tit for tat, bodies for bodies. And it spills over to other parts of the world as well.” President Pierce sat down in his chair once again and closed his eyes.
Karl van Ness waited, his coffee cup still untouched. “Let’s have your views, Mr. President.”
Ross Pierce spoke again, much calmer now. “The solution is really straightforward, Karl. Recognize the State of Palestine and stop giving support to Israeli aggressiveness.”
Beyond the bulletproof glass traffic honked on 17 ^th Street and protestors chanted and carried signs in front of the White House. Van Ness listened, trying to make out the words, but only the anger came through clearly. “That wouldn’t be a very wise political move.”
“I know that, Karl. But a growing percentage of Americans feel that Israel’s true purpose is not self-defense, but territorial expansion. And full recognition would immediately erode Arab sympathy for the terrorists, whose stated aim after all is recognition of the rights of the Palestinian people.” Ross took a sip of coffee. “Once we’ve recognized Palestine, the Arab nations will have to withdraw their support of terrorism, or face being branded by the UN as terrorists themselves.”
Van Ness nodded. “Believe it or not, Mr. President, I do see the logic of this approach. For years the United States and the international community have seen the recognition of Palestine as the only real solution, the only path to lasting peace. The problem was none of our politicians and elected officials had the courage to make the final decision. In fact, as we both know, several times over the past fifty years the United States, on the verge of official recognition, has pulled out at the last hour. Always for political reasons.”
“I know, Karl. But it is the right decision. If we hope to maintain a position of positive influence in the world, then we must take the high road in times of international crisis. Especially now.”
“You may be right, Mr. President. But you certainly won’t be very popular with the supporters of Israel. You know as well as anyone the financial muscle and political strength of the Jewish lobby. And the fundamentalist Christians, another strong lobby, also back a strong Israel.”
“So what’s your advice, Karl?”
“The peaceful path might work. But if you chose to follow it, you need more political ammunition than you have at the moment. A lot more. You also need some leverage. Big leverage. Against Israel. Against the Arabs. And here in the U.S. Otherwise, you won’t survive your first term in office.” Karl van Ness now stood directly in front of the President.
The intercom buzzed, breaking the mood. “Your next appointment is waiting, Mr. President.”
“Have them wait a little longer.” He watched his mentor.
“Not only would recognition be political suicide, Mr. President, but there’s no telling what the Israeli secret service would do if they got wind of it. Many influential and powerful people depend on America’s financial and military support of Israel. A third of our annual foreign aid-close to seven billion dollars-goes to Israel, a country no bigger than the state of Kentucky. They definitely wouldn’t take it lying down.”
The deadly Mossad. “Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve got another reason for seeking a peaceful solution.”
Van Ness remained quiet.
“Oil. And the oil lobby is even bigger than the Jewish lobby.” Pierce stood up and came around the wide desk. “Imagine the potential, Karl? With skillful negotiations, we could obtain massive concessions, even partial ownership of vast oil fields. And to complicate matters, these same oil fields have long been coveted by the Russians. It would definitely be in the long-term interests of the United States to keep the Russians away from the Middle East’s massive oil deposits.”
“Then you are going to need some very big leverage.”
“Just what kind of leverage, Karl?”
“I might have a few ideas. If you will excuse me, Mr. President, I have some work to do.”
Long Beach, California
“Thank God I arrived last night.” Brian Walker was being escorted through the basement from the hotel to the main hall of the Long Beach Convention Center. “What do you make of the mobs out there?” The two heavyset security guards shrugged. Walker had a resume a mile long-among other things, he was a professor of law at the University of California, Berkeley, an internationally recognized expert on terrorism, and a renowned criminal defense lawyer- and today he was scheduled to give the keynote address at the Southern California Convention of Palestinian-Americans.
“I’ve been working as a security guard at the convention center for nearly ten years, and this is the biggest and meanest crowd of protestors I’ve ever seen,” said one of the guards, fingering his holstered gun. “I’m expecting that mob to come rushing through these underground corridors any minute now.”
“You sure picked a crappy time to give a speech, mister,” the other guard said. “I hope you got a helicopter waiting.”
Protestors began arriving several days before. Campers, vans, rented buses and motor homes were filled with people from all walks of life who had an opinion to express about terrorism and America. Some traveled for days to reach the southern California beach community. By 9 A.M., the official start of the convention, over four thousand people were pressed together in the grounds surrounding the convention building. More spilled over onto Ocean Boulevard. The undermanned and inexperienced Long Beach police force had given up trying to control the swelling throng. At the moment, they were just waiting, and hoping the day wouldn’t turn ugly.
“Support Israel,” shouted some. “Recognize Palestine,” shouted others. The mob had separated into two camps. On one side were those deeply concerned about terrorism on American soil and blindly opposed to anything Arab. This noisy, unruly group included rednecks, bikers and NRA supporters hoisting incendiary placards, Get a Free Carpet, Shoot a Rug-Head. On the same side were zealous, vociferous supporters of Israel carrying equally inflammatory banners: God Chose the Jews-Not the Palestinians and Support Israel, Attack Now.
And strangely, nestled within this camp, was a large contingent of fundamentalist Christians, clean-cut God Bless America types led by a charismatic minister who loudly belted out ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. They carried their own posters: Jesus Died for Our Sins-It’s Time the Arabs Died for Theirs.
In a small bricked area in front of the brightly painted convention center, the smaller half of the crowd, mothers with young children, college students, liberal ministers with congregations from numerous faiths, as well as Arab-Americans of many backgrounds, were equally loud and committed to the ideas indicated by their placards: We’re American Citizens, Not Terrorists; Stop the Madness-Recognize Palestine; Support Peace-Not Israel; and Down with Zionist Imperialism. There were numerous women’s rights advocates protesting the exploitation of women in both America and the Muslim countries.
Inside the round convention hall gathered nearly six hundred of southern California’s most prominent Palestinian-Americans. During the 1970s when Israel shoved Palestinians out of their homeland and neighboring Arab nations failed to offer them refuge-in the Arab world Palestinians are looked down upon as dirty, uneducated troublemakers, common laborers, housemaids, and garbage collectors-a large number of wealthy and educated Palestinians had moved to southern California. The group assembled inside the convention center were the elite; doctors, pharmacists and successful business people. A large number were Armenian Christians. No matter what their faith, all the delegates that morning were committed to one objective, the restoration of the State of Palestine and an end to conflict in the Middle East.
It was hoped that this convention would help raise awareness and understanding among the American people that Palestine was not a terrorist state. Terrorism was the desperate act of a handful of deranged people. The overwhelming majority of Palestinians were willing to find a way to live with their new neighbor, Israel. All they wanted was their country back.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. It is time to begin.” As the chairman of the convention welcomed the attendees, the muffled chants from the growing crowds outside formed an eerie backdrop, a faint threat rising and falling against the walls. Dr. Ahmed Khoury quickly finished his welcoming remarks and introduced the keynote speaker. Thunderous applause momentarily drowned out the chanting outside.
Dr. Brian Walker strode confidently up to the lectern, shook hands with his host and acknowledged the enthusiastic applause of the crowd with a nod of his head. At fifty-five years of age, Brian Walker portrayed a commanding presence. His long black hair tied in a ponytail showed striking silver streaks at the temples. He still had the easy gait of an athlete. Accustomed to controversy as a result of his radical views on freedom and international law, he had accepted this speech as an opportunity to address not just these Palestinian expatriates but also the American people. Numerous reporters from the major print media were in the audience, as were camera crews from CNN and the other major networks. A team of reporters from the Arabic news network, Al Jazeera, had their TV cameras ready. With all the exposure, Dr. Walker was looking forward to helping America understand the gravity of the country’s growing tide of hostility towards foreigners.
“During my lectures at Berkeley, I’m used to the angry mob being on the inside instead of the outside.” The crowd laughed nervously.
He stared at the audience filling the circular hall, then his voice boomed out. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, and that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” After a long pause, during which the only sound was the muffled chanting outside, Dr. Walker continued. “So begins the second paragraph of one of the most important political documents concerning human freedom ever written. The Declaration of Independence, signed on July 4, 1776, by fifty-six courageous individuals representing the original thirteen United States of America.
“What a powerful and visionary document.” he declared, his voice gaining in intensity. “It’s a shame America won’t live up to it.” Many in the audience gasped, several murmured angrily. “And I’m not talking about those people outside. I’m talking about our elected officials, the supposedly courageous upholders of our sacred Constitution. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States of America, and the Bill of Rights were intended to be guidelines to help this nation live its values. But they have become a collection of highly malleable words that can be interpreted to fit the needs of whoever is in power at the time. Let me explain. And listen closely, because it is about to happen again.
“It is early 1942. The days following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor witnessed a great drop in American resolve. Unable to strike back effectively against the mighty Japanese empire, America instead lashed out at fellow U.S. citizens and peaceful resident aliens of Japanese descent. Executive Order 9066, signed by President Franklin D. Roosevelt on February 19, 1942, called for the deporting of all Japanese and Americans of Japanese ancestry from the Western coastal regions of the United States to concentration camps in the interior. Canvas-tented camps ringed with barbed wire and armed guard towers were hastily erected in such garden spots as Posten, Arizona, Manzanar, in the cold and bleak California high desert, and Topaz, Utah.
“The sad truth, as this deplorable act proves, is that constitutions and laws are not sufficient of themselves to protect the citizens of a nation from their own government. Despite the clear and concise language in the U.S. Constitution that writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, and despite the Fifth Amendment’s statement that no person shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law, these constitutional safeguards, these inalienable rights, were denied to over 110,000 people, many of whom were American citizens, under Executive Order 9066.
“Then in 1944 this travesty, born out of fear, was upheld by our Supreme Court in a 6-3 decision against an American citizen, Fred T. Korematsu, convicted in a federal court in 1942 for refusing to report to a relocation center, instead remaining at his home in San Leandro, California, a designated ‘military area’ at the time.” Dr. Walker paused, sweeping the room with his dark eyes. Suddenly, as if on cue, the assembled throng outside the convention center let out an angry roar. “In the not too distant future,” Dr. Walker went on, unfazed, “I suggest our Constitution will again be grossly violated, except the names will not be Korematsu, Kodani or Yamamoto, but Hussein, Mohammed, or Markarian.
“Let me be perfectly clear. Even though all of you here today are American citizens, some naturalized and some born in this country, you must stand up for your constitutional rights. If you don’t, the crown on the Statue of Liberty will be tarnished once again by the fear and ignorance of our elected officials. As you know, attacks on those of Arab descent in the United States are dramatically escalating. Some Americans, in their ignorance and insecurity, are lashing out at anybody with dark skin and an Arab-sounding name. Just as in 1942, the first attacks will come from frightened citizens in local communities. These will be followed by military intervention, and then an executive order.”
A woman in the audience began to weep. The chants from the angry mob outside swelled to a frightening crescendo.
“You think it can’t happen? That America has learned from its prior mistakes? Well, think again. It can happen again, and it will.” Professor Walker’s voice, strident at the microphone, was drowning out the noise of the crowd outside. His hands clutched the lectern.
“And who are these people who will trample on your constitutional rights? They are the individuals, the political organizations, and the nations who profit from terrorism. The Palestinian people are not terrorists, they just want their homes back. No, I am talking about greedy elected officials, entire countries, and highly sophisticated criminal organizations who profit from war and international upheaval. They don’t want peace and will do whatever they can to perpetrate unrest, generate fear, and provoke conflict. And, believe it or not, one of those countries is the United States.” Walker coughed, then paused for a drink of water from the cold sweating tumbler atop the lectern.
“Yes, our country is no longer free, but held hostage by special interest groups-the Jewish lobby, the fundamentalist Christian lobby, the defense and aerospace industry lobbies. All pour massive amounts of money into the coffers of politicians across the nation, many of whom are now so deeply indebted that they no longer represent the will of the American people. Our elected representatives have become political pawns of special interest groups, and if unchecked, these servants of the people will take away your inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Dr. Brian Walker paused to sip some water. All at once the heavy double doors to the convention hall crashed open, startling him. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, as the water glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the stage.
For a few frozen moments, no one moved. An eerie stillness gripped the convention hall as it dawned on both groups that an ugly scene was about to explode. The emotional venting outside had gone unchecked for too long. Someone hurled a flaming Molotov cocktail up onto the stage. In a panic, one of the security guards drew his pistol and fired in the direction of a tattooed biker, poised to throw a second gasoline-filled cocktail. Before the biker released it, the bullet struck, spraying flaming gasoline all over him, instantly igniting his long greasy hair and beard. He dove to the floor, screaming and rolling, while people nearby backed away, protesters and delegates alike, shoving each other in an attempt to flee to safety. The shoving quickly escalated to physical blows.
For a select group of well-paid men posing as protestors, the moment for action had arrived. Knives, brass knuckles, lead-filled pipes and hammers suddenly appeared. Their first targets were television cameras. Each was expertly put out of action. Then they turned their attention to the Palestinian-Americans and the protestors, tearing into the defenseless men and women with ruthless efficiency. Many of the elderly delegates never saw the clubs that struck the deadly blow on the back of their head, or the knife that punctured a heart. In less than ten minutes, fifty of the delegates and two dozen protestors lay strewn about the convention hall, most of them already dead.
With two short blasts from a small whistle, the men dropped their weapons and melted away into the crowd. By the time they slipped out into the relative calm of the convention parking lot, sirens were blaring as police raced to the scene. Invisible in the turmoil, the provocateurs climbed into several large 4X4’s and sped away among other vehicles fleeing the scene. Their thin rubber gloves, which left no fingerprints on the weapons, would be incinerated later. “Pretty easy way to make a couple of thousand bucks,” one of the men marveled as he clicked on the radio, a heavy metal station blaring out a savage beat.
Back in the hall Dr. Walker, crouching behind the lectern, glanced nervously from side to side. Just then one of the security guards ran up and crouched down behind the lectern. “You need to go, Dr. Walker.” he shouted over the noise of chairs being overturned, fists flying, and people screaming.
Walker nodded, expecting the guard to lead him to safety. Instead the man, his hand covered in a thin latex glove, reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small-caliber pistol. “What I mean, asshole,” he hissed, “is you need to go, permanently.” He pumped a bullet into Dr. Brian Walker’s forehead, tossed the gun out into the roiling crowd, and moved toward his partner, the other fake security guard. Both vanished in the turmoil. With the money now in an account in the Cayman Islands, they were set for life. The bodies of the two real security guards would never be found.