Fake News Read online

  Mac leaned back, “Not even with your hand.”

  Lande shook her head in disbelief.

  Novak, casting dubious glances at his colleagues’ pettiness, wondered if they realized the depth of the moment at hand. Probably not.

  He leaned over his desk and smiled at Lande, “So, Babs, how is this media plan of yours proceeding?”

  “Maavaalaas, on track, shooting video in two weeks, unload the video to the TV guys Labor Day weekend.”

  Mac sat up and folded his arms across his chest. “I gotta tell ya, I still think this pissing with the television people could blow up in our faces.”

  “Relax, General, relax.” Lande smiled. “Just be sure the Internet, satellites go out.”

  “They’ll be out, but I’m skitty.”

  “Have some more Long Island Tea,” Lande said.

  Novak ogled Lande’s cockiness. “You do understand, Ms. Babs, if this doesn’t work we will all be hanged.”

  MacCallister unfolded his arms. “By the nuts.”

  Lande smiled. “Maybe you guys.”

  Chapter Three

  Three weeks later

  4:45 p.m EST

  Sunday, July 6

  Biscayne Bay, Florida

  A black T-shirt hanging loose over his khaki shorts, Zack steered Veracity past Elliot Key heading toward Fender Point and Pompano Marina.

  A weekend of boating coming to an end, he moved thoughts ahead to the upcoming evening:

  First comes a Bohemia at The Bimini Road , maybe two, then dinner, then, seven o’clock this very night Armstrong’s much ballyhooed TV speech touted to be his definitive solution to international terrorism and world democracy.

  Zack shuddered at what Armstrong’s concoction of political thinking and evangelical rhetoric might be.

  Moving on to the future things, he had to get Veracity’s engines tuned soon. Then there was that editorial he could never get finished, and, like a splinter in his thumb, the Mary O’Brien thing. He had to pull the plug on that.

  “Like, yesterday,” he said, “Old enough to be her grandfather.”

  An urge to turn around, chart a slow trip to anywhere, moved the moment like a giant manta ray swimming in the wake of Veracity. But, the moment fleeting, he eased Veracity toward her mooring, touched like a feather, turned the engines off, stepped to the dock and, tying off, began sparring with his dinner palate––lemon chicken at Gum Do, or arroz con camarones at The Bimini Road? It took only seconds. Rice and shrimp it was, at his favorite spot, The Bimini Road.

  After hosing salt water from Veracity’s decks, stowing gear, a shower, shave, he pulled on a pair of faded Wrangler jeans, a clean black T-shirt and, san socks, his dine-out brown deck shoes. Walking the narrow dock’s weathered planks to the marina, he stopped to note the stillness in the late afternoon air. Cirrus clouds hung high in the winsome sky. A feeling of anxiety came over him. He shook that off and, at the end of the wharf, stopped at a row of metal dispensers that offered various local Florida publications. Noticing that The Boca had sold out, he smiled and ambled across the white crushed-shell parking lot to his sun-faded 2010 silver Subaru. The windows left down a quarter-inch to dissipate heat, he got in, cranked the rebuilt engine to life, turned the air to max and headed, just north of Little Haiti, to The Bimini Road cafe.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, he worked on that endless draft-editorial in his head:

  Analogous to the famous falling tree that supposedly makes no sound in a people less forest, would time cease if Homo sapiens were not around to notice? That is, the evidence seems to suggest that the sons and daughters of Adam, Eve, Noah’s three sons or a monkey’s uncle are in deep doo-dah-day. That is, the human race is prepared to become extinct over religion, sex, and lines on a map. Some incestuous hate seems loosed in the world, and where did that come from? Gene pool regressing. Evolution in reverse. Entropy full tilt. Stuff and religion is making us nuts.

  He tapped his steering wheel and made a mental note: do an Internet search: Animal kingdom, homo sapiens, lines on a map, territorial something. Do other species hate?

  He answered himself, that’s more sophisticated, requires a higher awareness. Reserved for humans. What about religion? I think we up-right walkers have a corner on that. How far we have come.

  His cell phone began to ring. Ninety percent certain who it was, he didn’t answer. After twenty-five rings it stopped. He had a pretty good hunch who it was, Mary O’Brien.

  His editorial thoughts hopelessly scrambled, his thoughts went the speech to be given by President Armstrong at seven o’clock this evening.

  He pulled to a familiar newsstand, lowered his window and spoke to a Miami icon: “Afternoon, Gus.”

  “Mr. Zackary, beautiful Sunday.” Gus handed him The New York Times and, familiar with Zack’s weekend routine, asked, “Catch anything?”

  “Naw.” He paid for the paper. “Gonna listen to the President tonight?”

  “Ah, that Benny.” Gus smiled.

  “Have a good day.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Zack pulled away. “Gus knows more than he lets on.”

  Chapter Four

  Ten minutes after his newsstand stop, Zack pulled into the crowded sand parking lot of The Bimini Road and squeezed between a white van and a vintage Chevy pickup.

  The café occupied the first floor of a cement block two-story building, with a one-bedroom apartment upstairs. The exterior’s stucco, painted chalky white, flaked to the ground. A purple neon sign above the entrance, blinked: THE BIMINI ROAD CAFÉ. Many people called the tiny restaurant a dump. Zack had seen haute cuisine as the guest of bishops, cardinals and wealthy widows. He preferred dumps.

  Another reason for The Bimini Road allure, belly up to the bar, he enjoyed the cafe’s notorious reputation as the hangout for a group called The Pi Underground. Sometimes referred to as 3.14-Under, Pi members abhorred anyone who began a conversation with “clearly.” Neither liberal, conservative or in between, Pi members envisioned a world void of religion, isms, and lines on maps; and were worshipers of the mysterious underwater stone formation off the coast of North Bimini Island which they believed held the key to lost Atlantis relatives, the Bermuda Triangle, and UFO’s.

  Even though he was certain the walls of The Bimini Road café emitted strange vibrations, Zack dismissed the Bermuda Triangle UFO stuff as mulligan stew. Nevertheless, he would tolerate Pi members espousing the nonsense if, for no other reason, to get at The Bimini Road café’s matchless zesty shrimp and rice specialty of the house–arroz con camarones.

  Almost as important as the culinary delight itself, Zack revered the vigorous intellect of The Bimini Road’s owner, cook, and dishwasher, Joe Case.

  Standing a little over five-eight, Joe beamed pride when talking of his mother. From Tampico, he had learned his culinary skills and fluent Spanish from her. His father, one time Commander of Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Joe's military career flowed out of family tradition.

  Talking with Joe over not a few Bohemia beers, Zack recalled Joe talking about his life and career:

  A graduate of West Point, Joe rose to Colonel, Special Forces, wrote the book on desert survival. On his way to becoming a General, he was recruited and joined the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency). But after a TV interview in which he condemned U. S. military intervention in foreign affairs (he pointed out direct ties to capitalism and sleazy monetary interests leading to the overthrow of “non cooperative” foreign governments, accusing the White House of “hypocrisy and crimes in high places”), U.S. officials branded him a renegade and he officially “retired.”

  In a subsequent book, Spy Diary, Case cited misdeeds against Latin America’s so called “leftists” that included a list of purported U.S. government operatives whose purpose was to stir up anti-government demonstrations. The list created an uproar prompting U.S. officials to brand Case a traitor linked to Russian and other foreign intelligence agencies. Case denied the allegations and said he though
t of himself as a latter-day signer of the Declaration of Independence.

  Joe, for a time lived in Hamburg, Germany and frequently traveled to Bimini as part of what he called ‘business.’ Most recently, in his words, “piss on the fear of retribution,” he began spending more time in Bimini where, scuba diving, he met his twenty something wife, Kim, and moved to Miami.

  In chats with Kim–blond hair in a long ponytail, more than not, pulled through the back of a black Pi baseball hat, thick horn rimmed glasses, brown eyes, narrow nose, mocha complexion–Zack learned she had been in an Ensign in the U.S. Navy for six years, had been involved with the Pi group since college, inherited The Bimini Road café from some distant relative. No children, she and Joe lived in the apartment above the café.

  In around and amid all the talk with Kim and Joe, in Zack’s mind; despite the widespread rumor of Joe’s crackpot reputation, Joe’s sense of urgency and mission could be summed up in two words–penetrating bluntness. More so when the discussion went to politics.

  * * *

  Approaching The Bimini Road entrance, Zack read the familiar sign on the front door–THIS IS A SMOKING ESTABLISHMENT, there are no no-smoking sections, if you don’t smoke or don’t like smoke, go someplace else!

  He smiled, entered the café and stopped. Not only were all thirteen booths, lined up against the right wall, occupied; but more alarming, the previously natural wood booths had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink.

  He looked to his left. At the far end of the sweat-worn wooden bar, sitting on the last three of thirteen red-topped plastic bar stools, three males sat. They wore black Pi baseball hats, sipped beer and, between words, teetered on the wobbly stools.

  Calling to mind a few alcohol facilitated late-night arguments with Pi members, “Don’t get involved with those guys tonight,” he thought and sat on the first barstool near the entrance.

  Waiting for a booth to open, anticipating other changes in the decor, he surveyed the surroundings.

  One thing unchanged, separating bar and booths, a four-foot wide strip of avocado green linoleum rippled like waves on a small pond. Also, hanging from rusty chains, flyspecked fluorescent lights cast a familiar yellow glow. And there, glowing in the aged haze, balanced on a triangular platform over the last bar stool, the same ancient TV flickered a baseball game. He sniffed. The familiar odor of beer, tobacco, garlic and humans blanketing everything, also unchanged.

  He glanced upward, whispered, “Thank you,” then waved to, half way down the bar, Kim, who was busy drawing draft beer.

  Kim called out, “Zackary, how are you?”

  “Great.”

  He started to ask about the booth’s new paint job, but noticed the people at his favorite far-end booth standing.

  New York Times in tow, he ambled over the rippled floor, settled behind the booth’s greasy table top, pushed the dirty dishes aside and laid out the newspaper. In a moment, Joe Case, in stained white polo shirt, navy shorts and crusty white sneakers, came table-side with green check-pad and pencil in hand.

  “Champ,” he said.

  “Case, you painted the booths.”

  “What you eating?”

  “Why did you paint the booths?”

  “Kim thought they needed it.”

  “Pink?”

  “What you eating?”

  “I liked the warm feel of the natural wood”

  “What you eating?”

  “You waiting tables tonight, too?”

  “Butch called in sick. You want your regular?”

  “Bohemia, yes, and arroz con camarones.”

  “You had a call ’bout an hour agoyour editor, Mary O’Brien.”

  Ignoring him. “See you’re very busy tonight, that’s good.”

  Joe grinned and left.

  A tall skinny male arrived, cleared Zack’s table, left and a young female wearing a black Pi baseball hat, arrived, served his Bohemia along with salsa and a basket of hot tortilla chips.

  Not recognizing her, Zack said, “You’re new, how’s it going?”

  “Busy.” She smiled and left.

  Awaiting his shrimp and rice entree, Zack drank the cold Bohemia straight from the bottle. As he savored the clean taste, his intense eyes worked The New York Times like he was searching for semicolons in a reporter’s piece. Devouring, scanning, skimming, he absorbed various sections at differing points of interest. Twice he slapped back to page one. One story, above the fold, top right, sparred with his thoughts. The article concerned the man whose thinking he had great difficulty with (actually, despised), the current President of the United States, Benjamin P. Armstrong. The article a topic in news circles for days, various reports indicated profound Armstrong related things were happening on Planet Earth, but nobody knew for sure what Benny was up to.

  “Whatever it is,” Zack whispered to himself, “I don’t trust the silver-tongued sonofawoman.”

  He browsed around the Times’s advertising, inserts, editorials, politics, business, technology, sports and opinions. In the middle of an opinion piece, the young female with Pi hat arrived and presented, on a large white platter, his arroz con camarones and a second bottle of Bohemia.

  “Kim said Bohemia is on the house,” she said.

  “Thank you, you’re new here...”

  She hurried to another table.

  The Bohemia chilled just right, he slapped back to scan the Times’s Armstrong headline:

  President to Outline Thousand Year Peace Plan

  Zack shook his head in quiet amazement, chewed a shrimp and read the article a third time.

  Sunday, July 6, 2024 Washington, D.C. — After spending what his aides describe as “countless hours in thought, prayer and meditation” President Armstrong is scheduled to address the nation tonight at seven o’clock EST. Billed as a special address, the speech is reported to contain the President’s final and definitive foreign policy position. Armstrong, reportedly distraught over the recent terrorist attack in Paris, would not comment on specifics of his plan. He did say he had prayed about the matter for countless hours and truly believes his speech has been divinely inspired. White House media guru Dr. Barbara Lande promises the address will offer “dynamic hope” in the face of rogue nation nuclear proliferation and “cowardly acts by international outlaws.” Major TV broadcast networks, cable and direct satellite plan live coverage.

  Zack slapped the paper and repeated Lande’s promises:

  “dynamic hope…nuclear proliferation, rogue nations, cowardly acts from international outlaws.” He wiped his face with his palm, mumbled, “What do you morons expect after cruise missiles in the night, toppling governments not to your likingan invitation to dinner?”

  He spoke to his estranged God. “Benny, cruise missiles, dronesdangerous mix, don’t You think? Or do You care?”

  After five seconds of silence, he said, “That’s what I thought.” He picked up a shrimp with his fingers and, waving it in the air, continued the conversation with the Almighty. “Did You ever think, somewhere back before You did the rough cut on this fifteen-round thrilla, You might be making a mistake? You knew the outcomewasn’t there a better way? And another thingnever mind, free will, right?”

  He noticed the three Pi beer drinkers at the bar looking at him. He saluted with his Bohemia, smiled and ate the shrimp he had been waving in the air.

  Just then Joe came out of the kitchen and eased in opposite Zack. Sweat rings under his white T-shirt arms, he lit a cigar.

  Smelling the cigar smoke, Zack said, “Why are you tempting me?”

  Joe–sharp chin, arrow-straight nose–his best defense in a one-on-one encounter would be his penetrating, deep-green eyes that hypnotized you, Zack thought. He also figured Joe’s shaved head would dazzle, or at least blind, any opponent.

  “How’s the shrimp?” Joe asked.

  “Perfect.”

  Joe glanced at The New York Times’s front page and said, “The silver-tongued sonofabitch speaks tonight, huh.�
�

  “Joe, you’re not supposed to talk about your Commander-In-Chief like that.”

  Joe smiled, looked over his customers then winked at Kim.

  “That Kim is something else.” he said.

  “I could never understand, why don’t you just take Kim, go to Bimini Island and cook for her.”

  “Too much to do.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Not done yet.”

  “With what?”

  “Other things.”

  Zack wondered about thathad heard Joe say it several times. This seemed a good time to open it up.

  “Joe, you never told meI always wonderedwhat are those other things?”

  He smiled. “Let’s just keep it at ‘other things,’ many, here and there.”

  Zack, chewing, “I seeokaycall Armstrong anything you want.”

  Joe noticed a couple getting up to leave.

  “Be right back.” He went to the cash register, rang up their check and returned.

  Puffing his cigar, he said, “So, what’s Ben going to say tonight, you think?”

  “Dr. Lande promises” Zack read from the Times article. “the speech to offer dynamic hope in the face of rogue nation nuclear proliferation and cowardly acts from international outlaws.”

  Joe smiled. “You think Armstrong is insane?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Your editorials.”

  Zack bit the end of a shrimp. “You take my stuff too seriously.”

  “But you’re wrong.”

  Zack paused in mid-chew, “Me?”

  “He’s not insane. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “Let’s just say something’s up.”

  Zack wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “The newspaper person in me is asking, could you please be more specific?”

  “The Pi peoplethey’re putting some pieces togethergot a recording.”