Patriots, Dial 911

“I wouldn’t exactly call it intelligence gathering. It’s more like intelligence cherry-picking. And if they don’t find any cherries they just grab a piece of shit, and they paint it red, and they stick it in the Shirley Temple.”

- from the film Shock and Awe

1999, just outside of Crawford, Texas:

The tobacco of the custom-ordered, hand-rolled cigarettes now tastes stale. Not even the Macallan satisfies anymore. What he once sucked and gulped down with relish is now consumed out of mere habit. If he’s telling the truth, only power brings him any sense of satisfaction anymore. Power, and his patriarchy perched atop the most commanding political clan in all of America, past or present, rivaled only by the Kennedys, those sanctimonious simps. He’s walled-in by reminders of his position, of his presidential past, of his responsibility to the political and business leaders of his, the greatest nation on Earth. And while they’ll never be able to see it as clearly as someone of his experience, insight and informativeness, his responsibility to the American People, a number of whom appear in the background of those pictures, surrounds him as well. His naïve, defenseless children, forever in the dark.

A couple of the Kennedys are actually in those snapshots as well, shaking his hand, fake smiles on their faces, for its common knowledge that politics pretends friends of enemies. The intimidating photos lining the walls represent his declaration of supremacy, demanding the paying of homage to anyone honored by an invitation to enter. They cover almost every inch of wall space in his stately study, situated at the back of the expansive craftsman home, itself overlording the sprawling fifteen-hundred-acre ranch. Every photo is framed in polished, solid wood, for those they contain deserve no less.

Pictures of he and his fast-ascending sons riding their favorite horses, playing cowboy. Pictures with the politicians and tycoons, the peacekeepers and Nobel Prize winners sprinkled between the oil barons and aerospace execs and assorted influence-peddlers. One or two were even taken in the redwoods during those overblown exclusive extravagances during which, in their smoke-filled dugouts, some of those depicted devised their future, slyly suggesting that he’s the one best positioned to make those futures a reality. Pictures with the Saudi Royal Family whose vulnerable position surrounded by mutual nemeses permitted him to exploit billions of dollars worth of oil out of the regime during his presidency, making fortunes for friends and family members, most of whom found a way to express their gratitude.

And now the Saudis have offered-up the perfect patsy for what’s quickly becoming inevitable. Once close to Saudi Royalty, the radical became a nuisance for them near a decade ago, when he himself was president, declaring that the United States’ sending troops into Saudi Arabia in preparation for Desert Storm and an invasion of Iraq was a violation of Islamic Law. And the one blemish on his record was not finishing that job when he had the chance, letting the dictator and disgraceful former ally remain in power.

As the one-time President of the United States and Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, he’s still briefed daily on matters of vital intel, and receives reports from all the major intelligence branches. One report in particular made its way to his desk recently that he’d found especially rousing, bringing contextual illumination to the fact that the crux of the global conflict is the instability and unclaimed wealth and allegiances of the Middle East. That, combined with his confidence that he can sneak his fawning, feckless son past the Democrats during the next campaign, and his meetings with the elite of the nation ever hinting that the big picture still lacks its final rendering, has brought into focus the completion of the American Agenda and the wiping away of anything even hinting at a stained legacy.

But they first had to prevail in the next election. With his son in the highest post in the land, everything else would fall into place. True, if pressed, he’d be forced to admit that Junior has not the commanding air of a Cub Scout troop leader, much less the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth. But what did that matter, really? He had the name; wore the exclusive coat of the clan. They’d vote for who the party told them to, for that’s the way of this ‘democracy.’ And those controlling the party were in his pocket.

With discolored fingers, his receding skin reminding him of his short time to act, he thumbs through the rousing report. Entitled “Economic Assessment of the Middle East,” it points to the market value of the amazingly replete raw resources of the region, plus the profits that might be produced by a modern consumer marketplace falling on the heels of the regional installment of democracy, plus the possibilities for defense contractors that would be needed to pacify and keep the region stable for those democracies and their freed consumers. The numbers are staggering. ‘And they’ll go to one of us. If not us, the Russians, or the Chinese. And we can’t afford to relinquish the power that they’d buy with it.’

But even with all those trillions, this seminal point in history won’t end there. He can see it all coming together in his mind, one thing falling into the next; a chain reaction reaching every part of the planet. ‘We need control of the information as well,’ he thinks. ‘And this is the chance. Our only chance, and we can’t let it pass us by. If we’re going to do this, we have to go all the way. No American lives can be sacrificed in vain. Like a domino, control of the information must fall along with the rest.’

He pushes the report between two open books on his desk: “The Nuremberg Trials” and “The Aesthetics of Emergency.” He imagines the three writings to be dominos in this global game of brinkmanship. It’s the game of life and limb, of power and purpose and global positioning, and it’s been played since the end of World War 2, mostly unbeknownst to the public depending upon his paternalism. ‘If they only knew all that was at stake, perhaps then we wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to convince them.’

He pulls the book “The Nuremberg Trials” in close, rereading a pair of quotes that he’s highlighted, written upon opposing pages; quotes that the author has attributed to Nazi leader Hermann Goering:

“It was very easy. It has nothing to do with Nazism, it has something to do with human nature. You can do it in a Nazi, socialist, communist regime, in a monarchy and even in a democracy. The only thing that needs to be done to enslave people is to scare them. If you manage to find a way to scare people, you can make them do what you want.”

On the opposing page, Goering adds:

“Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for a lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."

‘Leave it to a Nazi to cut-through to the cold-hearted truth,’ he thinks. Pushing the book aside, he grabs the other, “The Aesthetics of Emergency,” which he’s tabbed in several places. He turns to one of the tabs. The page heading reads “Emotional Triggers,” and contains several words and phrases that he’s highlighted and underlined: terrorist; patriot; 911; yellow to red; Axis; Evil; weapons of mass destruction.

It has to be extremely visible. It has to point to the right enemies. What’s destroyed must be iconic, as if the patsies are attacking all of America. Many will have to be killed, as the outrage must be sufficient to push us through some grueling times. The growing pains will be painful, indeed. Excruciating for some, especially the liberals. But once the fire is lit, it must be stoked for all that it’s worth. Because once it’s put out, and the dust has settled, that’ll be the end of it. The chips will have fallen, to be set in the cement of the future’s foundation.

Glancing at his trigger terms again, his hand reflexively reaching for the gold-plated six-shooter perched upon its polished walnut holder at the end of his desk, he turns the developing strategy over in his mind:

It must be made clear, and repeated until only the enfeebled few have any doubt, their voice boxes torn from their throats by the easily-manipulated masses: there are terrorists killing Americans, and states sponsoring and harboring terrorist organizations; there are patriots going overseas to fight back, and supporting the fight here at home, and only traitors failing to support our troops dare say otherwise; in order to track current and future threats and protect the lives of innocent Americans, the government must have access to any and all intel that will allow them to intercede in planned terrorist attacks; this is a national emergency not only threatening the lives of every American, but our freedom and very way of life; the threat will be loud, visible and colorful, capturing eyes and ears; the fight is nothing less than good versus evil; there’s a league of evil-doers and good-doers comparable to WWII’s ‘Axis versus Allies;’ there’s no greater threat of evil possible in today’s world than the use of weapons of mass destruction.

Picking up the phone, he dials the four numbers that patch him through to his contact in the CIA brass:

“Bring me the operator that we spoke of. The one advocating the remote war game. It’s time to greenlight the training. And I hope that I don’t have to remind you to stay off the radar. No phones. No computers. Tell him in person, and bring him here yourself. Oh, and start dropping hints to your so-called ‘technician.’ We’ll need him as well. See if he’s open to reassignment, and what his price will be. He’ll have to officially quit, of course. And we’ll need to start cultivating allies across all the services and agencies; those that won’t shy away from what must be done. So start making a list. We’ll bring everyone here, to the ranch.”

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Author’s Admonishment:

If you immediately disqualify an idea because it qualifies as a ‘conspiracy theory,’ then you’re a pawn of the plutocratic status quo, entirely oblivious of the fact that the quest for the consolidation of wealth and power inherent to capitalist conquest is conspiratorial in nature, even in those cases when it’s not deemed illegal, or is ‘borderline,’ and that detectives seek to solve crimes by looking at motive, means and opportunity. And amongst these motive is always the starting point, and the most revelatory.