Jennifer Government

  “Did you?” John said. “How strange.”

  “Perhaps I’m mistaken…but was Alfonse unaware of our operation involving Private Billy?”

  “I think you are mistaken, Li,” John said. “US Alliance is totally unified on this one. The Government has to be stopped. They’ll come for you, too, unless we hit them first.”

  Li said nothing.

  John leaned forward. “If we go to war, which company becomes more important than any other? Which company becomes the most powerful on the planet? It’s not McDonald’s. It’s not Nike.”

  Li looked at him for a while. Then he said: “We have jets.”

  “Good,” John said. He began to feel a little better.

  He had half an hour in his hotel room before the postconference meeting. He loosened his tie, poured a scotch from the bar, and walked out to the balcony. It was dark and cold, with a light wind sliding past, but the view was glorious. He sipped his drink and stared at the curve of London Bridge, the light from Parliament House bouncing off the Thames. When he felt calm enough, he flipped open his cellphone and dialed.

  “Georgia Saints-Nike, hello?”

  “Guess who I saw today?”

  “Oh, John…” She sounded cautious. “Um…”

  “I’ll give you a hint: it starts with Jennifer and ends with me in jail.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry, John, I did everything you asked.”

  You couldn’t rely on anyone, he thought. You had to do everything yourself. “Georgia, you’ve been talking behind my back, haven’t you?”

  “No, John!”

  “Always asking where I was. And suddenly Jennifer pops up. You told her how to find me.”

  Silence. Then: “I tried to tell you not to do that Mercury campaign, John, I told you it was—”

  “You’re fired. And let me give you some advice: vanish. Because if I find you, I will take you apart.”

  “John!”

  He killed the call, disgusted. Georgia Saints-Nike. He should have known. She’d never been the same since she took up volunteer work.

  He went back inside and fired up his e-mail. He sent one to terminate Georgia’s employment, and another to get security to throw her out of the building. It was a pity he couldn’t arrange for John to ensure she never made it home, too. He sighed. He needed a new PA.

  He had an e-mail from Hack Nike. He read it, growing amazed at Hack’s arrogance. He tapped out a reply, then checked his watch. It was time to go.

  US Alliance had commandeered the hotel ballroom for its post-conference meeting, and the place was already full of suits. People looked around as he entered. Conversations faltered. He took a seat near the front. The Pepsi kid dropped in beside him. “Kick-ass speech, John. You really told the Feds where to shove it.”

  John dropped his voice. “What do the other Liaisons think?”

  “Some think you’re a genius. Others think you’re nuts and the Government’s going to lock us all up.”

  “Well,” he said, “let’s just see what the Government is capable of, after tonight.”

  The Pepsi kid’s eyes widened. “You’ve got something planned! What’s happening?”

  “Shh.” Alfonse was opening the meeting, talking about the new competitive environment. But John couldn’t stop thinking about Jennifer Government. He would never be safe while she was after him, that was clear. He needed to get her off his back, no matter what it took.

  “Hey,” the Pepsi kid whispered. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” John said. “I just—had an idea.”

  “Something good?”

  “Very good.” Kate: that was her name. Jennifer’s daughter. John couldn’t imagine why he’d never thought of using her before.

  56 NRA/Air

  Some pilots didn’t like flying on moonless nights. They wouldn’t admit it, of course, but night flying was very different to cutting open a blue sky with the world spread out below. On black nights, visibility outside the cockpit was reduced to your own helmet looking back and down at you, illuminated by the glowing instruments. Any good pilot could fly blind without raising a sweat, but there was something fundamentally different about pushing a metal can through five hundred miles per hour when you couldn’t see.

  Jackpot had been in the air for two and a half hours. Eight hundred feet to his right, according to his instruments, another F/A-18 hung alongside him. They’d been scrambled too early and spent ninety minutes circling, waiting for the target. Both were approaching their fuel limit. “Jackpot to ground control, request variation of mission parameters.”

  “Go ahead, Jackpot.”

  “Target is moving very slowly, request permission to approach early.”

  “Negative, Jackpot. Wait until they’re over sea.”

  He chewed on that. “Then we’ll need to land somewhere closer than Luton, base.”

  “Roger that, Jackpot. We will advise new runway. Out.”

  They hung there, he and his twin, while twelve miles ahead a Boeing 737 trawled westward.

  They crossed the coast twenty minutes later, then the two-mile exclusion zone. The fighters pushed forward. Pretty soon the 737 would see them on scope, but Jackpot didn’t think it would matter. There wasn’t much an airliner could do in the way of evasive action.

  He covered the instrument lights with his arm and peered forward. He could see the Boeing’s running lights dancing in the night.

  “Jackpot to Liontamer, do you have visual contact?”

  “Roger that, Jackpot.”

  “Launch, launch,” he said, and flipped the switch. He barely felt the uncoupling, but the instruments let him know all about it, bleeping and squealing. “Missile away.”

  “Missile away.”

  The two wing-tipped Falcons took eight seconds to eat up the distance, then they caught the Boeing and broke it open. The sky flared momentarily yellow, and Jackpot saw the airplane lose a wing, begin to pitch. Then the F/A-18s shot past it.

  They came around in time to see it hit the ocean. They circled until even the flaming debris had sunk, then opened up the engines and headed home.

  When they crossed back into England, Jackpot said: “You ever done anything like that before, Liontamer?”

  There was a pause. “Negative, Jackpot,” Liontamer said. He sounded emotionless and professional. Jackpot took his cue and shut his mouth.

  57 Hack

  Hack started varying the way he drove to work, to pass billboards. It was partly for practical reasons: the sooner he knew a company had replaced one, the sooner he could hit it again. But it was also pride. He liked to admire his own work.

  The Gap billboard they’d done a week ago was still tagged, which was amazing because it was the biggest of them all, a four-story monster. Then there was a Nike poster on the freeway that used to say: I CAN SHOOT THE MOON; now it said: I CAN SHOOT 14 KIDS. Beneath it was the line: NIKE KILLS ITS CUSTOMERS. Hack wasn’t so pleased with that. The kid, Thomas, had added it. It was too blatant, in Hack’s opinion.

  He passed a medical insurer that now boasted: WE CARE ABOUT YOUR WALLET. On the corner of Springvale Road, Coke told people to ENJOY STOMACH CANCER. A tire retailer advertised: 25% MORE CARBON MONOXIDE, and CARS = DEATH! Thomas again! Hack was going to have to speak to him.

  He parked and went into the Nike building, nodding to the receptionist. He felt more energetic these days, much more confident. He was friendly to people he previously hadn’t had the nerve to talk to. The funny thing was that his boss thought Hack had become dynamic and effective, when Hack was doing less work than ever before. In fact, he was hardly working at all.

  At his desk, he powered on his computer and started going through his mail. There was a thick, personally addressed letter from Human Resources. He tore it open as the phone rang. “Hack Nike, Merchandise Distribution Officer.”

  Claire said, “Hi! It’s me.”

  “Hi!” He flipped open the letter. “How are you?”

  “Good. I missed y
ou.”

  “Aw.”

  “Are you coming straight home tonight? I thought maybe we could go out somewhere. You know, for dinner.”

  “Sure, that would be—” Hack read the first line in the letter. Then he read it again. “Uh…”

  “What?”

  “I think I’ve just been fired.”

  “What?”

  “Nike’s fired me.” His eyes scanned the page. “‘Annual Headcount Consolidation’! What bullshit!”

  “Hack, are you okay?” “No,” he said. “I have to go.”

  He went to Human Resources and asked to speak to Lillian, who had signed his letter.

  “I’m Lillian,” a woman said. She looked crotchety to Hack. Everyone who worked in HR looked crotchety.

  “I’m Hack, Merchandise Distribution Officer. Did you write this?”

  “Let me see it.” She studied the paper for much longer than Hack could believe was necessary. “I issued this, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “When departments reduce headcount, we handle the formalities.”

  “So who actually fired me?”

  “You should already know. The correct procedure is for the manager to discuss the transition with the employee before we draw up the documents.”

  “Well, that didn’t happen.”

  Lillian sighed. “He really should have discussed this with you first. It’s not our job to break bad news.”

  “Who?” Hack said. He was having trouble remaining dynamic and effective.

  Lillian eyeballed him, but Hack was pretty worked up and she didn’t do it for long. “John, Liaison.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He returned to his desk and started typing.

  Dear John,

  Apparently you’ve decided to fire me. This is a BIG MISTAKE since I know all about you and the Nike Town BUSINESS. Maybe you think I’m going to keep my mouth shut but you should think AGAIN because I’ll tell the Government and the MEDIA everything I know. So don’t try to push me around anymore!!

  Hack.

  He spent the rest of the day browsing the web for new billboard targets. There were six good webcams around the city that were ideal for planning purposes. One, he noticed, showed a new poster being pasted up, patch by patch. It featured a scowling, pointing Uncle Sam, and the copy read: UNCLE SAM WANTS YOUR PROPERTY. Hack blew air between his teeth. That one was definitely getting it.

  At five o’clock, an e-mail arrived from John. Hack clicked on it, pleased by the quick reply. Even John was taking him seriously now.

  The e-mail said:

  Fuck off. John.

  Then Hack started to get really mad.

  58 John

  John arrived at US Alliance twenty minutes early and rode to the twenty-ninth floor. He was expecting to be shown straight through to Alfonse, but a young woman with a black bob and natty glasses made him sit out in the corridor. He felt like a naughty boy summoned to the principal’s office. After a while, he walked back to the woman’s desk. “I am John Nike,” he said. “Did I mention that?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re to wait out here.”

  He returned to his seat. He had been sent to the principal’s office. But then, he supposed he had been very naughty. After the NRA whacked the Government jet, every high-ranking US Alliance suit—including John—had scrambled to get the hell out of London, most heading here to the headquarters in L.A. Nobody had wanted to hang around in a city with twenty thousand pissed-off Government agents.

  Twenty minutes later, the woman said, “You may go in now, John.”

  He stood, brushed down his suit, and tugged open the oak doors. The room was a piece of sky with furniture. Forty or fifty suits were arranged along tables that looked as if they’d been carved from thousand-foot trees: there were gold desk plates that read MCDONALD’S and MONSANTO and IBM. John had never been around so many good pairs of shoes.

  “Wow,” he said. “It’s like the United Nations in here.”

  Alfonse said, “Have a seat, John.”

  He looked around for a NIKE plate. Alfonse cleared his throat and gestured to a plastic chair that was sitting against a glass wall, facing the tables. “There?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat with as much dignity as he could manage, which wasn’t much. The plastic chair squeaked. He glanced over his shoulder. He at least got a great view of downtown Los Angeles from here.

  For a moment, nobody spoke. It was unnerving: John had never been to a meeting that wasn’t a fight for conversation space. He spotted the Pepsi kid toward the back. John couldn’t work out what was odd about him, until he realized it was the first time he’d seen the kid in a suit. “Okay, so everyone’s a little surprised about the jet thing.”

  Snorts of outrage. The McDonald’s Liaison looked like she wanted to leap across the desk and slap him.

  Alfonse said, “John, in case you haven’t already gathered, we’re here to vote on your expulsion from US Alliance. If this vote carries, UA and its member companies will disown any responsibility for your actions. We will deliver you to the Government and negotiate compensation for the damage you’ve caused.”

  “So I was right,” John said. “It is the United Nations.”

  “He doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong,” the IBM Liaison snapped. He was an older man with white hair and a dark blue suit; John had never met him. “Look at him. He’s turned the world’s most distinguished corporations into criminals and he’s smirking.”

  “You’re right. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.”

  “Then let me help you out, you moron. First, the Government is going to arrest us. All of us. Second, if they don’t, the public is going to annihilate us. You want to see a marketplace backlash? We just assassinated the Government President. Let’s see how that affects sales, shall we? Third, you killed people. I don’t know if that’s a problem for you, John, or for Nike, but it’s a big goddamn problem for IBM, for me, and for everybody else here. Does that help? Does that clarify the situation for you?”

  Silence. “Okay, then.” His career depended on his answer, John realized. It was time to pull out all the stops. “Three points. Okay.”

  He rubbed his palms on his pants. “One. The Government is not going to arrest us. They tried in London, and failed. Now, you can bet they weren’t going to pack up their toys and go home. They were going to try again, and again and again, until they’d gotten us. But now, thanks to me, they’ve lost half their executives. They’ve lost their ability to coordinate, at least for a while. The Government is not going to arrest us because the Government is no longer able to.”

  A wall of stony faces looked back at him. He spotted the NRA plaque, off to the left, but there was an empty chair behind it. He guessed that meant the NRA were in the shit, too. “Two. There will not be a consumer boycott. The public will not suddenly start buying Whoppers instead of Big Macs or Apples instead of IBMs. Trust me, I’m from Nike. Nobody actually swaps brands because they heard the company did something bad. They keep on buying their favorite product at their favorite price. Yes, there is going to be a media backlash. But there is not going to be a consumer backlash.

  “Three.” This was the tough one. John got to his feet. Mercifully, the chair didn’t squeak. The room was dead quiet. “Yes, some people died. But let’s not pretend these are the first people to die in the interests of commerce. Let’s not pretend there’s a company in this room that hasn’t had to put profit above human life at some point. We make cars we know some people will die in. We make medicine that carries a chance of a fatal reaction. We make guns. I mean, you want to expel someone here for murder, let’s start with the Philip Morris Liaison. We have all, at some time, put a price tag on a human life and decided we can afford it. No one in this room has the right to sit here and pretend my actions came out of the blue.”

  He took a risk and paused for effect. If the IBM Liaison was going to preach at him, now was his chance. But he didn’t. He just sat there. Pussy, Jo
hn thought.

  “Look, I am not designing next year’s ad campaign here. I’m getting rid of the Government, the greatest impediment to business in history. You don’t do that without a downside. Yes, some people die. But look at the gain! Run a cost-benefit analysis! Maybe some of you have forgotten what companies really do. So let me remind you: they make as much money as possible. If they don’t, investors go elsewhere. It’s that simple. We’re all cogs in wealth-creation machines. That’s all.

  “I’ve given you a world without Government interference. There is now no advertising campaign, no intercompany deal, no promotion, no action you can’t take. You want to pay kids to get the swoosh tattooed on their foreheads? Who’s going to stop you? You want to make computers that need repair after three months? Who’s going to stop you? You want to reward consumers who complain about your competitors in the media? You want to pay them for recruiting their little brothers and sisters to your brand of cigarettes? You want the NRA to help you eliminate your competition? Then do it. Just do it.”

  Their faces; ah, their faces. They hadn’t seen this coming at all, John realized. He was opening the door to a brave new commercial world and they were transfixed by the pure, golden light of profit spilling from it.

  “I’m a businessman. That’s all. I just want to do business.”

  He spread his palms. For a long time, nobody spoke. It was a much better silence than before. John enjoyed every moment of it.

  Alfonse said, “We will need to consider—”

  “Fuck that!” the Pepsi kid said. “Let’s vote now!”

  The room was full of nodding heads. “Very well. All those in favor of expelling John Nike from US Alliance?”

  Four hands went up—no, five. John felt warmth steal up his body.

  “It seems you stay with us, John.”

  “I am pleased and humbled,” he said. He couldn’t control his smile.

  The meeting raged for three hours. The Liaisons were electrified by the possibilities; it was so cute. They threw around outrageous marketing plans, deals for customer referral, for market leverage, segmentation. By the end of it, even John was sick of talk about money.