Read an Excerpt
Kill the Boomers
By Herb Boyce iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2013 Herb Boyce
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-8102-5
CHAPTER 1
Cynthia Wood
Cynthia Wood gazed southward through the Oval Office windows. She stood alone in total silence with arms folded across her chest. This was her favorite time, that time of day when the last vestiges of evening light almost imperceptibly transition into total darkness. For a brief moment, she could still make out various gloomy objects in the distance, and then, in an eye blink, everything turned to black. A few moments later, she caught her breath, gave out a full-body shudder, and came out of the light trance she had just been in. She walked purposefully across the room to the disguised electrical panel and flicked on all the room's lights.
It had been barely a year since she became president of the United States, but Cynthia still especially liked what she had done to put her mark on the Oval Office. President William Howard Taft had had the office constructed in 1919, and she silently wondered if he would have approved of the recently painted deep rose-pink walls and the portraits of Dolly Madison, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Kennedy, and Michelle Obama now occupying prominent positions on the office walls. Since Cynthia was the first woman president of the United States, she wanted to honor other female White House occupants. Since there were no other female presidents, she focused on distinguished first ladies instead. She had probably been more hands-on in the interior decoration of the White House than any of her male predecessors. A recent television special and a Better Homes & Gardens article had given her the opportunity to show off her handiwork. It was important to Cynthia to show she had a softer, more feminine side, as her detractors claimed these traits were nonexistent. The TV special was expertly choreographed and to a great extent had silenced, or at least toned down, some of her more vicious critics.
Two things had squeaked Cynthia into office by the narrowest of margins. One was the overwhelming white, black, and Hispanic female vote; however, the centerpiece of her administration was her promise to fix Social Security and Medicare solvency once and for all. This task was proving to be much more difficult than any of her campaign advisors had imagined. Additionally, the male-dominated media was just beginning to snipe at her recent attempts to move matters forward. The negative press was not yet oppressive, but she knew she wasn't going to be given a full term to accomplish this campaign promise. She would have to provide positive news before the next midterm elections or her party might lose their thin margin in the House.
If her staff wished to stay on the team, every one of them was expected to adopt Cynthia's grueling work schedule. Her Monday-through-Friday routine was strict: up at 5:30 a.m. with a morning workout at 6:00 and a working-breakfast at 7:30, followed by the beginning of the official business at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Her normal ten-hour day included a working-lunch and concluded, generally, around 6:00 p.m. Depending on what was happening, she could, and often did, hold working-dinners or evening staff meetings. She might not have realized it, but after barely a year, several of her staff members were experiencing the initial stages of job burn-out. Cynthia seemed to thrive on her schedule, but twelve—to—thirteen-hour days, counting commuting time, didn't leave much time for anyone else's personal life, let alone for sleep. Cynthia's commute home consisted of a brisk one-minute walk inside the White House. Everyone else had to contend with the horrific DC traffic. Additionally, her staff was required to be at their posts from 8:00 a.m. till noon on Saturdays. If warranted, in Cynthia's opinion, Saturday mornings could easily morph into a sixth weekday. Sunday was the only day her staff could reasonably expect to have a full day off. Reality occasionally collided with expectations, and even this precious day could be interfered with.
Tonight, Cynthia was having dinner with Carrington B. Massengale, III, her White House chief of staff. The topic, once again, was going to be Medicare and Social Security. If Cynthia was seen as a bit ruthless in getting things done her way, by comparison, Carrington was a cold, calculating, autonomous, killer robot. To Cynthia, he was her alter ego and had just the sort of personality she needed to run a tight ship and maintain a high level of discipline and order within her staff. With him, she could be out cutting ribbons and kissing babies while he stayed back and did her dirty work. She had a large and complex political agenda, and Carrington—CB to the rest of her staff and his political enemies—ran interference for her.
Forget all the management books. Carrington believed only in –"management by fear," and just about everyone in both parties disliked him intensely. More important, he knew that above all, they really did fear him. It was often mentioned—off the record, of course—that CB was the most powerful man in Washington, as well as a first-class son of a bitch.
Cynthia stood in front of her bedroom mirror with a look of approval. She had been a stunningly beautiful younger woman, and now, at fifty-five, in spite of a few age lines and a bit harder edge to her facial features, she still turned heads. By anyone's standards, she was still an extremely attractive woman. Years ago, her good looks, blonde hair, and those piercing blue eyes helped launch her political career, but it was her cunning nature and ability to work with people that got her all the way to the highest office in the land. She touched up her lipstick and then checked the rest of her makeup. She knew very well that Carrington was as dangerous as a pit bull and could just as easily turn on her, if he deemed it to his political advantage. Because of this, she always kept him close to her and made sure he was duly recognized and rewarded for his work.
Cynthia checked the private monitor she had had installed in her bedroom. One of the CCTV cameras was picking up Carrington as he entered the Oval Office. She watched him for a few moments and then proceeded down the hall. As she walked into the Oval Office, she decided to feign surprise.
"Oh, you're here; you always seem to get to our meetings ahead of me."
Carrington gave Cynthia a reserved smile. He had known about the president's little secret CCTV system five minutes after it had been clandestinely installed.
"Oh, you know me, Cindy. You're the boss, and part of my job is to never keep the boss waiting."
Cynthia cringed slightly when he called her "Cindy". Since the sixth grade, she had never allowed anyone to call her by that name. However, she suffered Carrington just because he took great pride in being the only person not sternly corrected when doing so. It was one of those little things she did in order to indulge his considerable ego and to keep him thinking he had some sort of special relationship with her.
They both started in on their light dinner of chicken salad with raisins and small pieces of apple.
"Okay, Carrington, what do you have for me this evening? I hope we're finally making some headway on this mess."
Carrington took out a dark-blue folder. "We—and by we, I mean every knowledgeable person I could find—have looked into this. Economists, scientists, and just about every echelon of the medical profession have come to agree that Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security are unfixable without a major funding expansion. When you get down to the bottom line, it means a hefty boost in everyone's taxes."
Cynthia stiffened. "You know I can't do that; it would be political suicide! The cornerstone of my platform was that I would fix Medicare and Social Security through other than increased taxation. We have midterm elections coming up next year. If we are to maintain, even our thin majority in the House, we must have this fixed or at least be able to show significant and verifiable progress."
Carrington re-crossed his legs and leaned back further in the leather wingback chair. "I don't know what voodoo budget guys you've had advising you, Cindy, but I assure you, without a substantial tax boost, you will never be able to fix this. The think-tank group I recently chaired was able to come up with only one idea of how to fix this if taxation was not an option, and even it is not wholly in our control."
By Cynthia's body language and expression Carrington knew she wanted to know more. "Okay, Cindy, now please remember this was just a think-tank exercise and we put all ideas into play, no matter how silly or even draconian.
If there were to be a major disease outbreak, which mainly affected our senior population, something like the long-anticipated avian flu, Mother Nature would automatically fix this problem for us. Many distinguished scientists are still predicting some sort of major, near-future pandemic that will end up making a drastic worldwide population correction, something on the order of the Black Plague back in the 1300s. That one plague and its spin-offs reduced world population by millions. In Europe alone, an estimated 30 percent of the population succumbed to it. However, the problem with this sort of catastrophe is that, up to now, no one has been able to predict, with any accuracy, when or where it's going to happen. The only thing the scientific community can agree upon is that many of the things they are currently observing point to ole Mother Nature gearing up for a way-overdue human population correction. In 1950, there were about 2.5 billion humans on the planet, and it's now estimated there will be 8.5 billion of us by 2025. That's not all that far away, Cindy. Just think of it! The world's population will have more than tripled in just seventy-five years. We know Mother Nature has her finger on the population correction-trigger and she's now pulling back on it; but until now, just when that gun will actually fire has been the big unknown."
Cynthia uncrossed her legs and sat bolt upright in her chair. "You mean to tell me you gathered together the best and brightest you could find and after two months all you could come up with is a half-baked pandemic boogeyman scenario of what could possibly happen sometime in the future? To put it mildly, Carrington, I'm totally under-whelmed and very disappointed in you."
Carrington drew in a deep, irritated breath but contained himself. "What I said was that this pandemic thing is coming; the top folks in the CDC and the WHO agree that it is. All I said, was that Mother Nature is probably going to fix our problem for us. Cindy, if we were somehow able to predict approximately when this pandemic will start—and there are some interesting predictions—we can take advantage of this terrible calamity and, as a byproduct, fix health care once and for all." Cynthia visibly cringed, and Carrington just started talking faster. "We would be seen by the people as being on top of this thing. Within reason, we could somewhat control its devastation so this disaster isn't seen as another 'Katrina' or Gulf oil spill situation fraught with government indecision and inaction. Something as big as a pandemic will tax our country's abilities to administer emergency medical treatment to all who've contracted the avian flu. If before the event we have written triage protocols in place that say children and younger adults will be administered to first, it would greatly simplify the process. These procedures would also spell out, based on medical care availability, that senior citizens would be the last to be taken care of. If we look at this logically, and keep emotions out of it, it makes sense for us to concentrate on saving our younger, more productive, and physically stronger population. By the time most seniors reach the age of sixty-five, their immune systems have already started to break down, so this group would have a much higher mortality rate during a pandemic. Our medical efforts should concentrate on the young and strong first as we can save many more of them."
"Let me get this straight, Carrington. You're suggesting we say, in the event of a pandemic, 'screw the old farts'! Do you know what would happen to our approval ratings, not to mention our voter base? Are you crazy?"
Now leaning forward, Carrington continued. "Of course we would have to keep this hush-hush. The document would be kept secret until needed, and only a very select number of our closest and most trusted people would have advance knowledge of the triage procedures. Again, Cindy, this pandemic monster is coming, and coming soon. Either we get our heads out of the sand and address it by making the hard decisions now, or we totally fail and end up looking like the Bush and Obama administrations did several years ago with Hurricane Katrina and the BP oil spill. Seldom does any leader have advanced knowledge of a disaster of this magnitude, and you now do. I'm told this pandemic will hit before the third year of your term of office, maybe even sooner. If we plan now, when it does hit, you are going to be seen as a strong and decisive leader. The silver lining or byproduct to this horrible calamity is the 'boomer' population is going to be drastically reduced and the solvency-wolves will be removed from the doors of Social Security and Medicare. Forget emotion, Cindy, and you'll see the logic in all this. Just look at it logically."
"Carrington, you're asking me to take emotion out of this! Just what proof do you really have that this pandemic boogeyman is coming before the end of my term in office?"
Carrington held up the large blue file. "Just read this and you'll see the whole picture. If this doesn't satisfy you, we can visit with some of the scientists who authored these documents. I've seen enough to know what I'm telling you is true; so much so that I'm willing to bet my job on it. If I'm wrong and nothing happens—"
Cindy peered at him over the blue folder and broke in. "Carrington, I've been around you long enough to know there's also something you want if you're right; what is it?"
"Well, Cindy, since you brought it up: once you're swept back into office for a second term—and you will be. I want to be your running mate, your vice president."
Cynthia glared at him, pulled the blue folder in close to her breast, said goodnight, and left the Oval Office. She had a long read and a fitful night's rest to look forward to. Carrington, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had just launched his plan to become the future president of the United States.
CHAPTER 2
Carrington Massengale
Carrington left the Oval Office, making quick deliberate steps to the front exit. He had an almost-smile on his lips and was making tiny happy noises deep in his throat. No one else could hear these funny little sounds, but they were the same expression of happiness he had allowed himself since childhood. His father had frowned on any outward displays of glee from the boy, so Carrington developed this almost imperceptible means of displaying joy. He had what he needed from Cynthia. She hadn't said "No" and that was all the encouragement he needed to launch his plan.
The next morning, he pulled out his draft of the pandemic plan and started working on the details. He was thinking it was a good thing none of this involved the congress as those bastards could never agree on anything these days. What Cynthia did not know was that Carrington, probably because of his hatred for his father, had an unusual attitude toward senior citizens that allowed him to discount them in his decision-making processes. In his eyes, seniors became a drag on society once they retired and left the workforce. On top of that, he thought that these nonproductive citizens controlled way too much of the nation's wealth and often wielded tremendous political clout. If he had his own way he'd put them all down just like old dogs at the first sign of medical or mental complications.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Kill the Boomers by Herb Boyce. Copyright © 2013 Herb Boyce. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
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