The Ultimate
Aprodisiac
Trade Paperback
ISBN: 0732271673
President of the United States, Clifford J. Clooney, swung his black
leather cowboy boots off his desk, swivelled round in his chair and stared
out over the darkened White House lawns, effectively turning his back
on the five men in suits seated around the Oval Office. Secretary of State
Kedar Whitfield, Secretary for Defense Jack Werner, Attorney-General Joseph
Arnold, Director of the DEA Abelard Sisaric, and Director of the CIA Cutler
Holdstock. It hadn't been a very good day for the elfin-faced, balding,
ex-governor of New Mexico with the slightly mismatched eyes. It was now
eight in the evening and it didn't look like being much of a night either.
In fact, since he was inaugurated President of the United States of America
a month previous, it hadn't been that good a time at all for Clifford
J. Clooney, often referred to as CC.
In the end there were barely a few hundred votes separating the two candidates
and it all came down to one state, Utah. The vote had supposedly been
inaccurate. The result dragged on for weeks, before the Democrat nominee
Udell Ikin conceded defeat and CC snuck in.
Not that the Democrat nominee was any rocket scientist. He couldn't even
carry the vote in his own state, North Carolina. But Ikin did win the
popular vote, by almost a million. He just didn't win the election. So
staunch Republican and good ol' boy Clifford Clooney became President
of the United States. A man whose biggest claims to fame were winning
a line dancing championship in Texas, and a chilli dog eating contest
in Arizona. Now he was leader of the most powerful nation on earth, and
over half the country hated him. The world was laughing at him. He had
a hostile Congress and an equally hostile Senate. Even his own party admitted
if ever CC got an idea it would bust his head open. And the newspapers
lampooned him by saying that as well as having feet of clay he had matching
brains.
So in an effort to boost his sagging popularity, the newly elected President
went for the old White House special: get some military action going.
Nothing too major. Just a lot of bombing somewhere or a quick invasion
that could be completed without too many casualties. Then welcome the
heroic troops home, pin a few medals on some marines in front of the White
House, have a ticker tape parade down Fifth Avenue with the stars and
stripes flying everywhere, and the God-fearing, patriotic American public
automatically thought the sun shone out of your wahzoo. Unfortunately,
however, the only military action CC could arrange was to get a school
bus bombed in Kosovo killing thirty orphans, three Irish nuns and an Italian
doctor.
The President swivelled back in his chair and ran his eyes along the five
grim-faced men seated in front of him; coming back to Secretary for Defense
Jack Werner on the left. 'If these so called SMART bombs are so fuckin
smart,' asked the President icily, 'how come one of them just killed thirty
fuckin orphans? They were supposed to be Muslim terrorists smuggling chemical
weapons. For Christ's sake!'
Jack Werner nervously cleared his throat. 'It was just one of those things
that happen in war, Mr President,' he tried to explain. 'But it's okay.
Even though the raid was our call, we've managed to shift the blame onto
the French.'
'Oh great,' replied President Clooney. 'So what do I do now? Call in the
French ambassador for a meeting. Then arrange a press conference and offer
my condolences to the parents of the dead orphans?'
'Ahh, with respect Mr President,' said the Secretary of State. 'Orphans
don't have parents, sir. That's why they're orphans.'
'Kedar, don't bore me with friggin triviacitys. I'm not in the mood right
now.'
'Sorry, sir.'
As if to take control of the situation, the hatchet-faced Attorney-General,
Joseph Arnold, spoke. Arnold was pro-life, pro-gun, pro-death penalty
and that far to the right, his idea of a communist was anybody who didn't
eat at McDonalds. 'Mr President,' he said. 'I suggest we step back from
this for a moment and get down to basics.' He looked at the other men
next to him then back to CC. 'Now, apart from the collateral damage to
the thirty orphans, who were probably communist sympathisers anyway,'
he added, 'we all know why we're here.'
'Well of course we know why we're here, Joe,' replied the President, slowly
shaking his head. He pointed out the White House window. 'I gotta instil
some confidence in the American people. The sun's gotta start shining
on my back door. All those God-fearing Americans out there need me. And
they need a military response, to show they need me. And I intend to give
them a good ol' military response. But not thirty dead orphans on a school
fuckin bus.'
'I realise that, Mr President,' intoned the Attorney-General. 'And I believe
we have something for you, sir.'
'Yeah! What?' asked CC. 'Send another squadron of F-15s into Iraq? Jesus
H. Christ! That shitty goddamn pile of sand full of ragheads has been
bombed more times than the Grateful Dead. Get real, Joe.'
'Exactly, sir,' said the Attorney-General. 'What we have here, sir, is
better than an invasion or a bombing. It's a rescue mission.'
'A friggin rescue mission,' exploded the President. 'Holy shit! The last
time we tried that the planes crashed into each other and all we finished
up with was photos of some fat-assed Iranian mullah doing the dipsie doodle
on our dead soldiers. Jesus! Are we all singing out of the same prayer
book here?'
'No, sir. I mean yes, sir. What I mean, sir,' replied the Attorney-General,
'is this time, it's nowhere near the Middle East. It's in Micronesia.'
'Micronesia?' The President screwed up his face. 'Isn't that Australia's
turf? Ain't they doing something there in West Timor?'
'That's East Timor, sir,' said the Director of the CIA. 'And it's Indonesia.'
'Same fuckin thing, Cutler.'
The Attorney-General turned to the Director of the DEA. 'Sir, I think
it might be best if Abelard explained things.'
'Okay, Abelard,' gestured CC. 'You got the chair, boy. Start explaining.'
The crew-cut Director of the DEA stood up and unfolded a map on a metal
stand. He pointed to a barren expanse of blue on the map. 'Sir. There's
a small island in Micronesia called the Republic of Lan Laroi. Their government
is holding two of our DEA agents and a member of the French secret service,
and it appears they're going to execute them. Time magazine found out
about it. But it's only just come to our attention.'
'Executed?' Being the ex-Governor of a state with the highest execution
rate in America, CC looked interested. 'What for?'
'Bogus drug charges,' replied the Director of the DEA.
'While at the same time,' snarled the Attorney-General, 'the President
of the republic is a notorious drug dealer.'
'A notorious drug dealer?' said CC. 'What are we talking here? A cocaine
cartel? Another Pablo Escobar?'
'Not as such, Mr President,' said Director Sisaric. 'They don't deal in
cocaine or heroin. They sell marijuana.'
'That's still drugs,' said the President.
'It sure as hell is, sir!' thundered the Attorney-General.
The President peered at the map and shrugged. 'Lan Laroi? Never heard
of the goddamn place. But keep talking.'
'Thank you, Mr President.' The Director of the DEA placed three dossiers
and a thin folder containing a small map and a photo on the President's
desk. The President flicked through the folder while Abelard Sisaric spoke.
'Like I said, sir, this only just came in and basically, information on
Lan Laroi is limited. It's not a tourist destination and there's only
a thousand people on the island. However, it used to be a United States
protectorate until we granted them independence not long after the Vietnam
War. Now it's a republic with its own President. An Australian Vietnam
veteran named Ronald Milne. He's a recluse.'
The President glanced briefly over the map of Lan Laroi then looked at
the photo of Ronald Milne standing at an airport. The photo wasn't very
good and Milne was wearing sunglasses. But under his T-shirt, he looked
about medium build, with fair hair and a square jaw. The President perused
the remaining contents of the folder and something caught his eye.
'It says here Lan Laroi got a million dollars from the United States government
and a quarter of a million dollars from the French government when we
granted them independence. Then after that this Milne guy got elected
President.' Clifford Clooney looked directly at the Director of the DEA.
'What's all this about?'
'I was coming to that, sir,' replied Abelard Sisaric. 'In the fifties
America and France were conducting nuclear tests and other experiments
in the Pacific. One of our ships, with French help, dumped six containers
of radioactive waste on Lan Laroi. The containers eventually started to
leak and some of the natives started getting sick. Somehow this Milne
guy showed up on the island after the Vietnam War and discovered the containers.
He got in touch with Greenpeace and some other environmentalist groups.
And to make a long story short, sir, we and the French had to go in and
remove the waste. The pay-off to the natives to keep it quiet was a million
and a quarter dollars compensation, and independence. Milne organised
everything and I guess his quid pro quo was to be elected President of
Lan Laroi.'
'He sounds like a bit of a slick dude, this Milne guy,' said CC.
'Apart from his war background, we don't have much of a profile on him,
sir,' confessed the Secretary of State. 'To be honest, Mr President, Lan
Laroi got swept under the carpet. We thought it would be covered over
with water by now due to global warming.'
'Don't talk to me about fuckin global warming, Kedar,' said the President.
He turned back to the Director of the DEA. 'So what did Milne, or Lan
Laroi, do with the money?'
'Milne bought an old tugboat and a second-hand seaplane. Some went on
local infrastructure. The rest was used to start growing and exporting
marijuana. And even though they're low-key in the grand scheme of things,
what's happening on Lan Laroi is contrary to America's interests in the
area.'
'In other words,' said the President, 'Milne's tweaking our noses. Lan
Laroi's dealing dope and getting away with it.'
'Actually, Mr President,' said the Secretary of State, 'they manufacture
mostly Indian hemp products such as cloth and rope. Something like they
do in parts of Europe. But as well as exporting hemp, Lan Laroi does sell
quantities of marijuana in drug form.'
'That's all drug dealing as far I'm concerned,' scowled the Attorney-General.
'So what are these drug charges they're holding the three agents on?'
asked CC.
'Well, sir,' replied the Director of the DEA, 'the three agents were apprehended
on a yacht in Lan Laroi with a kilogram of cocaine. They claim they bought
it there. Milne claims they tried to plant it on the island. The agents
were found guilty and now they're in a gaol awaiting execution. President
Milne left a formal letter with our consulate in Konipeau. Oddly enough,
Lan Laroi's got very strict laws when it comes to drugs other than marijuana.'
The President opened a dossier. 'Let me see who these agents are.' He
looked at a photo of a jowly, thin-faced man with steely grey hair, labelled
Deputy Assistant Director DEA, Pacific Region. Then CC roared laughing,
'Tanton Lee Britt. Christ! I know this lecherous, wife-bashing sonofabitch.
He's an asshole and a drunk. He'd screw anything with a pulse. Jesus!
If that prick's worth saving, I'm Larry out of the Three Stooges.'
'He's got five children,' said the Attorney-General.
'That he knows of,' replied the President, opening another dossier. 'Kendall
Taggart. Can't say I know him, but he looks like he's a french fry short
of a McHappy meal.'
'He's got two children, sir. And his wife's just had another baby,' said
the Attorney-General.
The President pointed to the dark-haired woman's photo in the remaining
dossier and started laughing again. 'Clarice De Andrade. She was a goddamn
two-bit hooker in Marseilles before she screwed her way into the French
secret service. Christ! She's blown more field agents than the White House
Christmas tree's blown light bulbs.' The President closed the dossiers
and pushed them to the front of his desk. 'Boys,' he said, shaking his
head, 'drugs or not, this thing stinks worse than week-old road kill.
Let the diplomatic service sort it out.'
'Sir,' said the Director of the CIA, 'do you know how they execute prisoners
on Lan Laroi?'
The President shook his head. 'No. How?'
'They feed them to the sharks.'
'They what!? Jesus H. Christ!' exclaimed Clooney. 'What kind of barbarians
are we dealing with here? Ain't these people got an electric chair? A
gas chamber?'
'They feed them to the sharks, sir,' repeated the Director of the CIA
with a little more emphasis. 'It's a native law going back hundreds of
years. This much we do know about the place.'
The Attorney-General leaned towards CC's desk. 'Mr President, if you go
in there and get our agents out, you'll go down in history as the President
who saved the fathers of eight children, and an unfortunate woman just
doing her duty, from the jaws of death. The jaws of death, sir.' The President
stared at the Attorney-General as he continued. 'And also, Mr President,
think of the photo opportunity. You, sir, standing tall and proud on the
White House lawn with our troops, pinning medals on the agents' chests.
And all those little children holding flags and looking up at the man
who saved their daddy.'
The Director of the DEA tilted his head sadly to one side and made an
open handed gesture. 'Or, on the other hand, sir, you can simply forget
about them. Bow to a bunch of savages and their native law. And say it's
not our business. There's nothing America can do about it.'
The President looked at the men in his inner Cabinet for a moment. Then
his jaw firmed and he banged a fist down on the White House desk. 'Nothing
America can do about it, my ass!' he thundered. 'We gotta get in there
and get those brave boys out. And that poor woman, too.' CC ran his eyes
over the five men again. 'Okay, gentlemen. What's the plan?'
The men all looked at each other and smiled. A collective sigh of relief
ran through the inner Cabinet. The Secretary for Defense spoke.
'Sir. It's dead easy. The prisoners are being held on a small island,
roughly a kilometre off Lan Laroi. The helicopter carrier USS Clarke is
currently at the Marianas naval base in Guam. We steam to Laroian territorial
waters and send in three Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters. Eleven
men apiece. The French want in because one of their agents is involved.
So one Blackhawk will be crewed with French Legionnaires, the others with
American Special Forces. And also, sir, a joint effort with our NATO ally
will show there's no hard feelings on our part for them bombing the bus
full of orphans in Kosovo.'
'Good idea,' nodded the President. 'Very diplomatic.'
'Sir,' continued the Secretary for Defense, 'it's doubtful the Laroians
will put up a fight. But if they do, so much the better. We'll obtain
a good body count. We get the prisoners out. Fly them back to the USS
Clarke, then we go in again with a battalion of marines and demand they
hand over President Milne. If they don't, we'll take him by force. We
liberate Lan Laroi from Milne's dictatorship. Destroy all the drug crops.
And return democracy back to the people of Lan Laroi.'
'Sounds good to me,' said the President. 'What about Milne? What do we
do with him?'
'We bring him back to the United States, sir,' said the Attorney-General.
'Make sure he gets a fair trial. Then if we don't execute him by lethal
injection, see that he gets life imprisonment.'
The President thought for a moment. 'What about all those bleeding heart
liberals in the press and everywhere else?' he said. 'They're just as
likely to take his side and make us out to be the bad guys.'
'Sir,' the Director of the CIA edged a little closer to the President's
desk. 'You never know what our Special Forces might find once they start
searching that island. When we've finished putting the spin doctors through
President Milne, he'll look like a cross between Manuel Noriega, Osama
Bin Laden, and . . .'
'Charles Manson?' suggested the President.
'Precisely, sir. Who knows what Milne's been up to out in the Pacific
these past years. Remember Grenada, sir?'
'Well, this is right,' agreed the President, looking around his inner
circle 'He's probably pals with Castro, Gadaffi, even the goddamn North
Koreans.'
'Exactly, Mr President,' nodded the Attorney-General. 'And in the eyes
of the American people, sir, between freeing our agents, capturing the
drug dealer Milne, and liberating the islanders, you'll look like John
Wayne, David Letterman and Elvis all rolled into one. They'll love you.'
President Clooney beamed. 'I like it,' he hooted. He rubbed his hands
together and stomped his cowboy boots on the floor of the Oval Office.
'Okay, boys. Let's saddle up and cut these dope-growing pointyheads off
at the pass.'
'Leave it with us, sir,' said the Secretary for Defense. 'The chairman
of the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be back from Europe day after tomorrow.
And we'll have Operation Jaws organised and ready to rock 'n' roll before
you know it.'
'Operation Jaws?' queried the President.
'Yessir,' replied the Director of the DEA, folding up the map. 'We feel
the name gives a definite veracity to the exercise.'
The President looked at Abelard Sisaric for a moment. 'By golly! It sure
does,' he agreed. 'And anybody'll tell you, ol' CC don't goddamn veracitate
unless he goddamn has to. Hooee! You boys sure are cooking with gas on
this one.'
'In the meantime, sir,' said the Secretary of State, 'your Press Secretary
will start arranging the various media hook-ups. And we'll ensure she
gets the right information about everything.'
At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the President's
Press Secretary, Arlene Tandiero poked an attractive face topped with
a tousle of short dark hair into the room. She caught the President's
eye, pointed to her watch, then quietly closed the door behind her again.
The President looked at his own watch. 'Well, gentlemen, I gotta go to
some shindig at the Japanese embassy. Any questions before I leave?' There
was a general shaking of heads as the members of the inner Cabinet picked
up their briefcases. 'All righty.' The President got to his feet. 'Then
I suggest we roll our blankets and talk some more on this further down
the trail.'
The meeting broke up and the President went upstairs to get ready for
the soiree at the Japanese consulate. The other men congenially farewelled
each other and went their various ways also. Fifteen minutes later the
Director of the DEA and the Director of the CIA were in a black limousine,
motoring out of Washington along New York Avenue with a secret service
escort. They were heading upstate to the Director of the DEA's beach house
in Delaware Bay to discuss the evening's meeting and other matters over
a couple of days' fishing. The two men were seated comfortably in the
back, ties undone, sipping Gentleman Jack bourbon from silver hip flasks.
'Well, Abelard,' said Cutler Holdstock, the warm glow from the bourbon
easing through his body, 'if Operation Jaws doesn't get ol' CC back as
flavour of the month, I sure's hell don't know what will.'
'Yeah,' replied the Director of the CIA. 'Good ol' Looney Clooney. Our
boy in the White House.' He took another sip of bourbon and laughed. 'Christ!
I sure would love to have called this thing Operation Looney Tunes. That
would have given it veracity.'
'Veracity. Christ! We all know that bonehead Lee Britt tried to plant
the cocaine on the island.'
'Yeah,' agreed Director Holdstock. 'I wonder why he's got such a bug up
his ass about this Milne guy?'
'I don't know. But now we gotta go in and save his sorry butt, put Milne
in gaol and screw the country while we're at it.'
'It wouldn't be the first time,' said the Director of the CIA. He turned
to the Director of the DEA. 'But ain't it nice to have the power to do
it.'
'Ain't it, indeed,' nodded the Director of the DEA.
Cutler Holdstock clinked his flask against Abelard Sisaric's. 'To power.'
Director Sisaric clinked back. 'The ultimate aphrodisiac.'
The Robert G Barrett collection:
And De Fun Don't Done
Between the Devlin & the Deep Blue Seas
Boys from Binjiwunyawunya
Davo's Little Something
Day of the Gecko
The Godson- Goodoo Goodoo
Guns 'N' Rosé
Leaving Bondi
Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker
Mud Crab Boogie
Mystery Bay Blues
The Real Thing
Rider on the Storm
Rosa-Marie's Baby
So What Do You Reckon?
Ultimate Aphrodisiac
White Shoes, White Lines & Blackie
Wind & the Monkey
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids audio
Bob's books can be ordered from:
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