show nationally while giving him the latitude to push the boundaries of acceptable broadcast practices. Never content with the status quo, he expanded his scope by forming the Wellington Crane Freedom Foundation to Promote American Values. The foundation provided unlimited opportunities to push his pet causes and make a few bucks—actually, lots of bucks—but, hey, that was the American way.
As he headed back to the war room, he shouted, “Get me a cup of coffee, Amanda.” It was time to prepare for another show.
As always, he checked his underground hotline before scanning the news services. The vast network of strategically placed informants on his payroll often provided him with scoops and insights not available to others. He was thrilled to see the hotline blinking and immediately picked it up and returned the call. He greeted his informant and asked, “What do you have for me?”
“Mr. Crane, I’m calling from the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and have information that might be of value to you.”
“I’m all ears,” Wellington replied excitedly.
“A very sick-looking man with a towel over part of his face was just admitted to the hospital under heavy Secret Service protection. That man is President Lyman Burkmeister. They whisked him away immediately to the VIP suites.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Wellington asked, not wanting to look like a boob by airing false information.
“Yes sir, I am. My girlfriend works VIP and confirmed it was him. You can take that to the bank.”
“Thank you for your good work. We’ll be sending you something you can take to the bank.”
Wellington hung up and took a moment to connect the dots. It all added up, he thought, recalling that more than one reporter had commented on Burkmeister’s sickly appearance in the Rose Garden. Eager to share this new detail with his adoring fans, he would once again scoop the major news networks.
It’s going to be a great day, he thought. He would start with the headline news and then move quickly to the tantalizing new tidbit on Burkmeister. His guest today, Senator Tom Collingsworth, despised the BM administration and would surely liven up his show with a vitriolic outburst against the BM boys. Collingsworth could be a bit of a bore unless aroused by a provocative story or personal attack, but his temper was legendary. The trick was to ignite it and just watch the fireworks fly.
Wellington could have hugged Burkmeister for his reference to Collingsworth in the Rose Garden today. He would spin the president’s remarks to suggest that he had called Collingsworth a loose cannon and buffoon. It would be more than Collingsworth’s fragile ego could take; the senator’s explosive temper would do the rest. The cable networks would play back Collingsworth’s contentious remarks and grudgingly attribute the setting of the remarks to his show. Free publicity from his competitors— Don’t you just love this country? he thought.
8
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
14 September 2017
P rince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz quashed an adrenaline rush as he impatiently awaited the arrival of his conspiratorial brothers. Much had changed in the last twenty-four hours, and timetables would have to be revised. The global preoccupation with the Chunxiao affair had to be a divinely given omen, and he was eager to assess their readiness for an attack.
Pushing back from his desk in their ramshackle headquarters, he took a healthy gulp of bottled water and pondered the new opportunities. The desert winds were now at their backs.
As Deputy Foreign Minister of the Gulf Cooperative Council, he was supremely confident in his skills as a shrewd geopolitical strategist. He understood the dynamics of global power and used his position on the GCC to gain a strong upper hand in OPEC. It is not rocket science, he thought, if one only keeps three things in mind: oil is the key driver in the global economy, OPEC is the dominant player in this dynamic, and
As he headed back to the war room, he shouted, “Get me a cup of coffee, Amanda.” It was time to prepare for another show.
As always, he checked his underground hotline before scanning the news services. The vast network of strategically placed informants on his payroll often provided him with scoops and insights not available to others. He was thrilled to see the hotline blinking and immediately picked it up and returned the call. He greeted his informant and asked, “What do you have for me?”
“Mr. Crane, I’m calling from the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and have information that might be of value to you.”
“I’m all ears,” Wellington replied excitedly.
“A very sick-looking man with a towel over part of his face was just admitted to the hospital under heavy Secret Service protection. That man is President Lyman Burkmeister. They whisked him away immediately to the VIP suites.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Wellington asked, not wanting to look like a boob by airing false information.
“Yes sir, I am. My girlfriend works VIP and confirmed it was him. You can take that to the bank.”
“Thank you for your good work. We’ll be sending you something you can take to the bank.”
Wellington hung up and took a moment to connect the dots. It all added up, he thought, recalling that more than one reporter had commented on Burkmeister’s sickly appearance in the Rose Garden. Eager to share this new detail with his adoring fans, he would once again scoop the major news networks.
It’s going to be a great day, he thought. He would start with the headline news and then move quickly to the tantalizing new tidbit on Burkmeister. His guest today, Senator Tom Collingsworth, despised the BM administration and would surely liven up his show with a vitriolic outburst against the BM boys. Collingsworth could be a bit of a bore unless aroused by a provocative story or personal attack, but his temper was legendary. The trick was to ignite it and just watch the fireworks fly.
Wellington could have hugged Burkmeister for his reference to Collingsworth in the Rose Garden today. He would spin the president’s remarks to suggest that he had called Collingsworth a loose cannon and buffoon. It would be more than Collingsworth’s fragile ego could take; the senator’s explosive temper would do the rest. The cable networks would play back Collingsworth’s contentious remarks and grudgingly attribute the setting of the remarks to his show. Free publicity from his competitors— Don’t you just love this country? he thought.
8
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
14 September 2017
P rince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz quashed an adrenaline rush as he impatiently awaited the arrival of his conspiratorial brothers. Much had changed in the last twenty-four hours, and timetables would have to be revised. The global preoccupation with the Chunxiao affair had to be a divinely given omen, and he was eager to assess their readiness for an attack.
Pushing back from his desk in their ramshackle headquarters, he took a healthy gulp of bottled water and pondered the new opportunities. The desert winds were now at their backs.
As Deputy Foreign Minister of the Gulf Cooperative Council, he was supremely confident in his skills as a shrewd geopolitical strategist. He understood the dynamics of global power and used his position on the GCC to gain a strong upper hand in OPEC. It is not rocket science, he thought, if one only keeps three things in mind: oil is the key driver in the global economy, OPEC is the dominant player in this dynamic, and
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