The Last President — Episode 1
Episode 1 of the serialisation of The Last President by Marco Lineas (with permission).
Introduction and story synopsis
The Hurricane
What was that book he had read so many years ago? Ah yes, A River Runs Through It and the movie with Brad Pitt. ‘Yeah, that was a great film, and great music too,’ mused Ananias Jones.
He methodically wrapped more black thread around the pheasant tail nymph, a trout fishing fly pattern locked in the vice, pooled in the bright circle of light on his desk. He dabbed some lacquer on it and leaned back to look at it. ‘Yes, that’ll do,’ he thought.
There was a knock at the door. “Mr. President? Your guests have assembled. It’s time,” said Carlos Fernandes, the President’s long-time friend and Chief of Staff.
Ananias Jones, President of the United States of America, rose stiffly to his feet in full-dress US Naval uniform and went out through the doors of his White House apartment. His wife, née Gina Wight Dare, dressed in a gleaming white silk gown and glittering jewels, was waiting for him on the landing outside her adjoining apartment. She smiled brightly at him. They went arm in arm down the long curve of the spiral staircase to the glitterati guests assembled below, who clapped their applause as they descended.
Such a handsome couple. One with a dark bronze complexion, tall and slight but athletic, and the other pale, petite, and blonde, like a Dolly Parton Disney movie princess. Beauty and the Beast, Time eMagazine had called the couple.
Ananias knew who the Beast was, and …it wasn’t him.
***
Years earlier. Shortly after the time of Trump.
A guided fishing expedition. Surf casting for bluefish on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
“We don’t have much time, gentlemen,” called Carlos Fernandes. “The hurricane is due to landfall near Charleston in about three days. We need to fish today and then get the hell out. I have assigned your guides, and the vehicles are ready. We will fly the spotting drones when we get to the beach.”
This was a top cryptodollar fishing trip only available to the richest of Carlo’s clientele. He looked at the guests as they ate their breakfast at the Carolina Inn at Manteo. ‘Should make 20,000 $bits clear today,’ he calculated. ‘Not as good as drug running, but a whole lot safer,’ he thought.
The convoy of eHumVs set out and turned onto Interstate 12, which runs the length of the Outer Banks, a thin barrier strip of land on the Atlantic coast facing east of the Carolinas. In the lead eHumV, Carlos was talking on his cell to one of his scouts located at Nags Head. These scouts were mounted on eHarleys so they could race up or down I12 as fast as possible. When they spotted the seabirds diving into the surf feeding frenzy, they would call it in and launch the drones.
This time of year, from December until February, the big blues could hit the shore anywhere between Nags Head and Hatteras Island. Carlos watched the drone video feeds coming in on his tablet. The technique was for the scouts to base themselves at various points between Roanoke Island and Nags Head and fly the drones along the surf line.
There was a flock of gulls diving into the surf a few hundred meters south of Salvo. There was another just north of the lighthouse at Hatteras. Maybe they could reach these in time. Trouble was, the bluefish frenzy window was only a quarter of an hour or less, so they really had to motor.
The drone at Salvo, flying in close to the surf, was in danger of being hit by the diving gulls. The convoy of eHumVs screamed down I12 towards the beach location and hurtled off the tarmac through the scrub onto the sand towards the sea and the surf. The men spilt out of the vehicles and, grabbing their surf rods, with foot-long treble-hooked lures attached, dashed into the freezing cold surf, waist-high, hurling the lures as far as they could into the pounding waves before retreating onto the sand and furiously winding a line into the reel.
Carlos dismounted from the eHumV holding his tablet, looked towards the shore, and then out to sea at the sky. There was no wind, and it was strangely warm. Over the waves, in the distance, the sky was an ominously dark, bruised blue-grey colour. Overhead, the drone hovered and whined, controlled by one of his spotters. In the surf, the guests were casting the long, flashing lures as far as they could into the white-flecked swell. The gulls, soapy white against the darkening backdrop, were still crying and arrowing into the sea for the flashing silver of the baitfish leaping to escape the predatory big blues cruising below.
As quickly as it had started, the event was over. The birds disappeared. The waves lapped gently at the shore. Carlos sniffed the air. A tinge of anxiety jerked through him at the faint iron smell of electricity. The air was still.
Alarmed, he called the guests to come back in with their catch. They came slowly and reluctantly. They had caught several. One big one for the time of year, of over fifteen kilos. A beautiful specimen, glittering silver and blue beneath its coating of sticky sand.
Carlos yelled at them to get into the cars. “We need to get out of here!” he shouted. “The storm is coming!”
With the gear and guests loaded into the eHumVs, he took one last look around and across the dunes, past the quietly lapping surf line to the darkening sky beyond. The birds had gone. It was quiet. There were now flashes of lightning in the looming darkness out at sea.
Carlos knew that they had to get out of there before the storm surged. In the Navy, he had been through several hurricanes, and they had always been terrifying. Over the decades, hurricanes have become more frequent and worse in intensity. They had passed the global warming tipping point decades ago, and nothing had been done to ameliorate the changes to climate that had begun to spread around the globe from the ice caps melting and expanding deserts in Africa, El Nino, and the shrinking of the Amazon forest.
The Trump era had stopped any pretense at halting fossil fuel burning or vehicle emissions. Chinese coal burning and uncontrollable methane gas release from the thawing tundra in Siberia had accelerated this beyond any hope of stopping global warming.
Carlos had often worried that the big blues would no longer be there on time on their migration north. They still were, but earlier and earlier in the year and in much fewer numbers. The Gulf Stream had weakened and changed, moving further north and east.
The big blues were predicted to soon disappear from the Carolina shoreline, an event that would not be good for Carlos’ business as a sports fishing guide and vlogger. He would have to do something else.
***
The only guest who stayed to weather out the storm with Carlos and his crew was Ananias Jones, the newly elected Congressman for the 3rd district of North Carolina. The others had flown out on Ubercopter as soon as they arrived back in Manteo.
Carlos was alone, perched on a stool in the bar of the luxury hotel, sipping at his shot of tequila when he was joined by Ananias.
“I’ll have what you’re having, Carlos,” said the tall eagle-featured man who took the bar stool next to Carlos. “Interesting day,” he said. “That specimen I caught pulled so hard it nearly drowned me! My shoulders ache!”
“Yeah, that was a rare special fish, Congressman.”
“Call me Ananias, Carlos.” He continued. “I hope you will join me shortly at dinner. The fish is being cooked for us. A special Carolina barbecue recipe of my family.”
“I hope the power stays on. The Internet and phone signal are already down,” he motioned his hand towards the cell on the bar beside him. The index finger on his left hand bore a large pale gold ring with a faded, worn inscription on its surface.
“We should be fine. I was here in ’18 when Florence hit. It is much worse to be inland — floods, flying trees, and all that. This place was built to withstand hurricanes and storm surges. That’s why I’m here instead of home in Raleigh.“
Ananias asked. “Do you have family, Carlos?”
“No Sir. No family. Not married.” He replied crisply.
“Shame,” said Ananias. “We all need the support of loved ones these days.”
“Ha! You sound like a politician.”
“Well, that’s who I am, Carlos. Or at least that’s what I aim to be.”
“Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to diss you. You’re a fellow fisherman, and that’s good enough for me,” Carlos said.
Ananias drained his drink and stood up. “That’s OK, pal. Let’s go in to eat. After dinner, I want to talk again as I have a proposition for you.”
Episode 1 of the serialisation of The Last President by Marco Lineas (with permission.
