The Consumer Cruise Missile

By Cooper

The scandalous events described in this book occurred in the 1970s. You havent heard of them because they were covered up by the U. S. governmenta cover-up almost as scandalous as the events themselves. Even now, nearly forty years later, the incidents are still classified, and it is with considerable risk to me and my informants that I reveal the truth to the public. Government spokesmen will attack this account and smear me for publishing it, but I believe that the American people, with their healthy skepticism, will refuse to be deceived by government distortions and denials.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483622958

Cooper

Sonni Cooper is an artist and author of the Star Trek tie-in novel, Black Fire.

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Copyright © 2013 by Cooper.

Cover Photo: Thanks to Wikipedia, Wikimedia and the U. S. Navy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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102026

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The scandalous events described in this book took place in the 1970s. You haven’t heard of them because they were covered up by the U. S. government—a cover-up almost as scandalous as the events themselves. Even now, some forty years later, the incidents are still classified, and it is with considerable risk to me and my informants that I reveal the story to the public. Government spokesmen will attack this account and smear me for publishing it, but I believe that the American people, with their healthy skepticism, will not allow themselves to be duped by government distortions and denials.

PROLOGUE

New York City—Office of Rock, Hard and Place, Ltd.

Jeff makes his pitch.

1

THIS IS IT

This is it, Jeff said aloud. Now I make my move. What had he slept, an hour maybe? Max. But he felt great. Never better. He ate his cheerios and banana in lalaland, without tasting a bite, and before he knew it he had pulled on the acid-washed jeans and the sloppy joe shirt and was tightening the laces of the blue-and-white Reeboks. "This is fucking it."

Five Manhattan blocks and up the elevator sixty-one floors. Smiling at people he never smiled at, seeing no one; humming a little tune he didn’t know he knew, and not noticing he didn’t know it. And not even oinking the blonde on the elevator.

He was early for the meeting but hung out around the corner until after it started, then sailed in late, beaming like a megawatt bulb.

This is fucking it.

2

THE PITCH

That sonofabitch Jeff, thought Art. Where is he?

Even CEO R. Rock himself, of Rock, Hard and Place, Ltd., had shown up for this one. That’s how important it was. There he sat at the head of the table, drumming his fingers and glaring. When angry or impatient he didn’t turn red like other people, he turned white as a turnip. Paler than pale. His bald head lost color by slow degrees.

That sonofabitch Jeff, where is he?

He’ll be here any second, Art said aloud. Meanwhile, can I get you anything? This he addressed to the team from Ultradynamics. More coffee, soft drinks, donuts? Anything?

Just get Marsten in here, said Rock sharply; and then to Simon Horton, Chairman and CEO of Ultradynamics, These creative directors are a glorious pain in the ass. Wild men. You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.

Handsome Simon Horton presented a full set of white teeth beneath the brim of the grey fedora that never left his head, indoors or out. His stern smile relegated all others at the table to peon status. This better be good.

The tone: ominous. Art knew that the remark was aimed at him like an index finger and that it meant If this isn’t a damn good idea you’ve wasted my time, and if you’ve wasted my time, you’ve diminished my power and if you’ve diminished my power, I’ll get it back at your expense.

Art’s stomach screamed for Rolaids, Tums, Maalox. He wished now, under the baleful stare of Rock, that he had had time to preview Jeff’s idea. This could be a disaster. In a quick mind-movie he saw Rock rise abruptly in the middle of the presentation—yank him, Art, out of the room—blast him for gross incompetence—fire him on the spot. And saw himself on the phone for the umpteenth time, trying to wrangle job interviews from business friends who suddenly didn’t know him. By the time Jeff finally entered the room Art was in a state of high anxiety. Young single guys like Jeff had nothing to lose, he thought bitterly. They could jump to a rival at the drop of a pink slip.

Gentlemen! He was cocky, this kid, sweeping into the room like he owned it, glancing at Rock and Simon Horton like equals, if that. Standing beside the easel, which was mysteriously covered by a blue cloth, Jeff said, "I have something today that I think you’ll find very interesting. It’s just what you’re looking for. In fact, we usually present at least three ideas in each session, but I’m so confident of this idea that it’s the only one I’m going to present today. It’s a winner. Are you ready for it?

First let me restate your requirements in my own words—just to give you a warm feeling that I’m answering the same question you’re asking. Number one, you guys operate in a boom-and-bust environment that’s driven by economic and political factors beyond your control. Up for a few years, down for a few years. This makes mid-range planning difficult and long-range planning impossible. Number two, one way to compensate for the defense industry boom-and-bust is to develop commercial products that operate on an entirely different cycle, but that means running two types of business with different rules and regulations—a very difficult proposition, as many companies have learned the hard way. Are you with me so far?

Simon Horton shifted in his seat. Squaring his shoulders, he said, Get to the point.

"Okay, now what can Ultradynamics do to operate effectively in both the defense and commercial sectors? Answer: We can use our brains to create a really ingenious product that will make us a frontrunner for decades to come in both the military and the commercial sectors. Do I have your attention?"

The point, the point, said Simon Horton impatiently.

Well, I have the magic product. It’s so simple and so obvious that nobody in his right mind would ever think of it. But I’m a creative type and therefore not in my right mind. Are you ready for it? Well ready or not, here it comes! Gentlemen, without further ado, I present to you the product that will save your company and your bonuses and make your stock options pay off. Here it is, folks—and he whipped off the blue cover to reveal four words—

THE CONSUMER CRUISE MISSILE

Oh Jesus! thought Art. My ass is grass! I’m canned! Kaput! Stomach churning so fast even his Maalox needed Maalox, he could not bring himself to face the withering glares of Rock and Simon Horton. He wanted to bury his head in his arms.

A very simple device, as you can see, continued Jeff cockily. "Completely within the state of the art. The key is the packaging. It has to be aesthetically acceptable in any kind of residence, from stone mansion to frame house to condo. I have some graphics on that—

Wait a minute! Under the grey fedora Simon Horton’s face was dark, stern, unsmiling. Is this some kind of joke?

This he addressed not to Jeff but to Rock, whose pallid pate could have passed for a cueball. For once the ace advertising executive, a legend in the business, lacked words; could mutter only a, Preposterous! Others at the table, dutifully me-tooing, frowned and coughed.

Hear me out, gentlemen, hear me out.

You’re wasting our time, grumbled Rock, his eyes skewering not Jeff but Art. "Don’t you realize—

"Pardon me, sir, but this is one hundred percent serious. This is anything but a joke. Remember how many ‘jokes’ history has given us—the automobile, the airplane, the radio, the television… All silly ideas that would never work. This is no more a joke than any of those world-changing inventions. Consider this:

"First, we are a nation of bottle-fed consumers. We will buy almost anything if it is cleverly promoted and packaged. Even politicians. Remember old Joe Kennedy saying, ‘We’ll sell Jack like corn flakes.’

"Second, as technology advances, concentration of forces becomes increasingly risky. Big ICBMs and battleships and aircraft carriers—and yes, even the sacred submarine—will soon be sitting ducks, if they aren’t already. What do we do about this? Answer: develop weapons that can be deployed in large numbers and widely dispersed.

"Third, we simply cannot afford an infinite number of monster weapon systems anymore. We need to get the most bang for our buck.

"Fourth, the populace has more and more clout in the economy, and for the most part they dislike authoritarianism and bureaucratic impersonality—they want to participate in decisions and activities that will affect their lives and the lives of their children. They would love to find a way to defend their own homes from aggressors—remember the Minute Men. Every citizen has the right to bear arms and most would love to—witness the strength of the NRA. The populace wants defense and they want to participate in it.

And last, gentlemen, I would like to remind you that to retain our number one position in the world we must continue to dominate the global economy. We don’t want to find ourselves, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor, sucking hind tit in a few years to countries that today can’t carry our jock strap. We must enhance our creativity, gentlemen—otherwise our testicles will dry up and a new stallion will take over the corral. WE NEED DRAMATIC NEW IDEAS AND THE CONSUMER CRUISE MISSILE IS BOTH DRAMATIC AND NEW. I rest my case.

Oh my God, thought Art, he’s gotten us sacked. Rock won’t even give us the pleasure of firing us—he’ll throw us out the window. Staring straight ahead to avoid hot-rivet eyes, Art felt sweat slick his temples, acid eat the lining of his stomach.

All Ultradynamics eyes rested on the subfedora face of their CEO Simon Horton. All Rock, Hard and Place eyes rested on their CEO Rock. No one spoke. Casually seating himself near the easel, Jeff smiled the smile of the proud artist. Pale and frowning, Rock glared at Art and then, expression melting from truculent to subservient, opened his mouth to address the CEO of his number one customer Ultradynamics.

But Simon Horton asked abruptly, What about security? How the hell do you secure millions of cruise missiles? As the word millions left his lips his eyes suddenly widened, and he briefly displayed a cappy smile. "Millions, millions. Has a nice ring to it. He seemed to float off somewhere, then realighted. Many unanswered questions. He stood up. We’ll get back to you."

3

JEFF AND JEN CELEBRATE

Hey Jennie! Oh Jen! Wherefore art thou my luscious lovely?

Hi Jeffy. What’s up?

"Need you ask? I knocked their socks off. I blew them fucking a-way. A-way. They loved it, Jen. They ate it up. Rock will give me a bonus as big as this building. Bigger. Let’s celebrate!"

Mmmmm. I love those squeezy hugs. Stay right there, hold that hug. I’ll get the Crown Royal.

"Wait! This is not, I say not, a Crown Royal celebration. This is bigger than that. This is huge. This is gigantic. This calls for the crème de la crème."

White magic.

"The whitest of the white! From my special stash. I shall return."

4

SIX MONTHS LATER…

Okay okay okay, Art said. Again. Explain it to me again. I’m not getting it.

Its simple, said red-headed Rudy the technical adviser to Rock, Hard and Place. "In the nose, there’s the guidance section, the avionics. Right behind that there’s the warhead, either the nuclear payload or the conventional high explosive. Behind—

"Wait a minute for chrissake, wait a minute! You can’t call it a goddam warhead, a nuclear payload, a high explosive. Jesus Christ we’ll get crucified. This is a consumer product. You’re not selling to your goddam bloodthirsty generals, you’re selling to Congress and the American public. Id est, dummies. Warheads—payloads—explosives. Jesus!"

"It’s a standard missile design. Nothing exotic about it. Behind the warhead—

"Stop saying that! Stop using that word! Don’t ever use that word again! You sound like a goddam brass hat, a merchant of death."

What should I call it, then?

I’ll think of something. Go on…

Behind the…the…behind the X there’s the fuel tank. It’s a big tank, because this baby has to be capable of flying a long way, to other continents. Behind the tank is the engine—it’s a beauty, a new propfan design.

What the hell does that mean?

Well, to put it simply, the propeller is located behind the engine. It pushes the engine instead of pulling it. The propfan gets much better SFC than a conventional turbofan design.

Speak English! Quit trying to impress me with all that technical bullshit. The king’s English!

The propfan gets better gas mileage. Therefore it can fly farther.

All right, said Art, that I understand. Then, The Teacher!

Pardon me?

"That’s it. The Teacher. That’s what we’ll call it."

Call what?

Your goddam warhead, that’s what. From now on it’s the Teacher. Got it? The public will eat it up.

"Whatever you say. Now, behind the propfan—

"Got it?"

Right. Got it, got it. Behind the propfan is the rocket. It boosts the missile away from the pad, then drops off. After that the propfan kicks in.

"Well we’re not talking about all that shit anymore. We’re calling the warhead the Teacher, and we’re calling your goddam guidance section the Tourist. Now you go off and figure out what we’re going to call the rest of it—including your beloved propfan. Jesus, I never heard of a grown man falling in love with an engine before. Except maybe an engineer. But that’s an oxymoron, because there’s no such thing as an adult engineer. Old before their time, but not adult. Teacher, Tourist—got it? Now get out of here."

5

THE NEXT DAY…

Eureka! cried Jeff, rushing into Art’s office.

Eureka what? said Art crossly. What in hell are you talking about?

Jeff displayed the full dental enthusiasm. My consumer cruise missile. You asked me yesterday to think up names for it. No sooner said than done.

To heighten the effect, he paused, cracked his knuckles.

Cut the drumroll! barked Art. Out with it!

Okay, get ready, Art. Here it is. Peace in our time, Oh Lord.

That’s it?

That’s it.

The Peace-in-Our-Time-Oh-Lord cruise missile. Get the hell out of here!

"You missed it, Art. It’s just what you’re looking for. It’s the

PEACE."

ONE

Monday—Florida—UDMD Facility

The Old Man schemes up a practical joke on Generals Wog and Crock, and Katie Billet purges UDMD policies and procedures of all that is politically suspect.

1

THE SCENE OF THE CRIMES

You drive twenty miles from West Palm Beach across the flats of Florida. You pass through lowland and swamps populated with stunted trees, rotting vegetation, rattlesnakes, alligators and swarms of insects. You drive along a pale pebbly Florida road flanked by eye-burning white shoulders and palm trees like static explosions or silent sentries or perhaps even like frondy icons of the Florida Chamber of Commerce, and as you slide along in the rising heat of a summer morning, your tires ripping the pavement, the road slithering and shimmering before you, imagine your amazement when out of nowhere in the gator-teeming boondocks rises a massive complex of blue-trimmed tan structures secured by a high chainlink fence bearing metal signs that warn:

Beyond the fence and across a stretch of Florida sawgrass looms a large industrial building bearing, over its main entrance, a huge sky-blue sign with a rocket logo:

2

THE OLD MAN WAGS WOG

Inside the fenced plant the Old Man confronts Brigadier General Ollie Wog. The Old Man, Arthur Stonepeter, likes Wog’s attitude but he does not like Wog. He does not like Wog because many colonels are culled but few are chosen and the Old Man had long ago been culled while Ollie Wog had lately been chosen. Furthermore, having just made brigadier Ollie celebrates—no, struts—his shiny new stars and this irritates the Old Man no end. He has to admit, however, that Ollie’s attitude is ideal: Ollie is a Yes, Sir officer who has ascended the chain of command by smiling and kowtowing—as a small boy in Iowa he learned that to do well with the BIG PEOPLE you stroke their swollen egos with nods and smiles and oodles of admiration, and it doesn’t hurt that Ollie always knows where the parties are; it is rumored that he has arranged an assignation or two for his senior officers and that about certain indiscretions, known only to him and the principals, he is extremely tight-lipped, even to the point of perjury. Ollie possesses an engaging smile, gap-toothed and boyish, which bespeaks a nature forever young and ready to do anything—anything—the boss requests or even dreams about. What boss? Presently, not one but two: his military boss, General Crock, who (Ollie hopes) will keep adding stars to his shoulders, and his (secret) civilian boss, Chad Winston, who, even if Ollie’s foot slips on a rung of the Army ladder, will keep adding dollars to his wallet.

Now the Old Man’s eyes slide from Wog to the model of the Apollo Space Vehicle on his desk, to the framed photograph of his young blond wife, to the wall-map with