Ad Man in the Games of 2046 makes poignant social commentary by using the device employed by Anthony Burgess in A Clockwork Orange. The novel projects contemporary American values and current social practices to extreme conclusions, to show their absurdity. Thus, in 2046, the working class speaks in a crude English dialect that segregates it from the ruling elite. America’s unionized military engages in ecocolonialism. Driving is outlawed, but roads remain crowded.

But the social commentary is subtle and transparently integrated into the larger tale. Above all, Ad Man is a story of one person’s fundamental humanity asserting itself above inhibiting institutions.

Story

In the year 2046, baseball and pretty much the rest of America is Disneyfied. Stripped of any higher purpose and meaning, institutions serve as mere shallow entertainments. Gab Darby, the story’s protagonist, thrives within this degenerate culture. He is the baseball super-star who owns the game’s pinnacle title, The Slugger. He plays bare-chested, with the insignia of commercial sponsors – advertisers – tattooed onto his neck, arms and torso.

But leaders of the country’s political elite vilify Darby, smearing him in a media ploy meant to divert attention from an embarrassing, military misadventure. Instantly the Slugger’s fortunes reverse. The fallen idol must flee for his very survival. As a fugitive, he finds solace and shelter inside a quirky American subculture.

The subculture consists of immigrants from the nation of Bortinca. It happens to be the same country that entangles the American president and her cut-throat political advisers in a small but politically damaging, colonial war.

Within this milieu, beset by his former benefactors and abandoned among an alien people who do not understand him, Darby struggles to re-establish a personal identity and recover his self-worth. The novel traces his journey from defrocked hero to, ultimately, a kind of compromised fulfillment through his sacrifice in combat – against the U.S. Army. Along the way, Darby fails to reconcile with the shattered family he must leave in America. He bungles his efforts to fit in as an ordinary citizen in Bortinca. Still, he finds loves. He finds admirers and supporters who recognize the innate nobility that enables him to overcome – though sometimes just barely – damning circumstances. In the end, that nobility must assert itself profoundly for Darby to achieve ultimate redemption.

Written as a fast-moving, third-person narrative, Ad Man in the Games of 2046 depicts a future America that is rigidly divided by class. The underclass, nearly illiterate, speaks in a slurred English dialect that impedes communication. The controlling class, though foppish, enforces its authority with intrusive technologies, confusing double-speak, and collusion among the media, businesses, and politicians. Outside the country, the insurrection in Bortinca emerges as a significant sub-plot. As the revolt intersects with the travails of Gab Darby, events echo the American Revolution, but with a significant twist. In 2046, America’s leader resembles England’s King George III, while the Bortonese represent the abused patriots intent on obtaining liberty.

And that, of course, was what brought to his mind the possibility that he still could be stripped: the question: should he end it this year? Or should he play on another with his faltering legs and with the ache that sometimes spread insidiously across the broad, powerful muscles spanning his back, the muscles he used to accelerate his bat to such dazzling speeds? He wanted to stay. He loved it so much. And even if he dropped off some more, how poorly could he possibly play before a sponsor, any sponsor, even those not already emblazoned on him, would not want to attach its name to the famous Gab Darby? Strip him? It was unthinkable. Yet still, the possibility crept into his head. Because, after all, anyone still active could always be stripped. The contracts said so. And if it should happen to him, he knew, he wouldn’t mind the pain and the scaring. Instead he dreaded only the identity he would lose when he wondered how he might feel to be stripped.

Why worry, he said to himself at last. After all, here he was in the final game once again. He had led the team here. He had rallied the players twice already in the two back-and-forth, sea-saw battles that had placed them in this winner-take-all, season finale. Win or lose tonight, he could still retire in high honor. Or if he stayed on a year longer the fans would still come out to cheer him. After tonight’s finish he would retain his luster for at least one more season.

Do right, he said to himself out loud in his closed and private dressing room. He stirred with a flourish, reaching over his back to claw up his jersey and tug it off over his head, exposing his bare torso, which was his game uniform: the hard and capable muscles of his chest, neck, back and arms, pricked through with the dyes that advertised the bright names of his sponsors — Colonel Chicken, Pepsi Coke, Corolla and K-Wall Stores.

“Tommy come soon,” Darby mused aloud, putting on his play-day demeanor as he settled his rump and then leaned back deeply into the power-stim seat. His weight energized the contact field. The chair shot tingling, twitching jolts deep into his being, quickening his heart and calling out the blood surge that engorged his rippling, tensed muscles till they stood out in high relief and stark definition. Standing, he looked in the mirror: Pepsi Coke in bright red and blue all across his hardened pectorals.

General Tom, super-sports agent, greeted his highest-paid star with his ritual salutation: “are we ready to rumble?”

“Do right,” Darby replied, his ritual response.

Together they strode down the wide corridor, past the indifferent security team and through the lit portal, emerging to the program of loud rahs and shouts and applause from the ninety-seven-thousand live fans packed into the dome.

Darby raised his arms over his head, his fists held closed, and broke into a trot toward the home plate. Heeeere he comes, roared the speakered announcer. General Tom stayed just one half step behind him, broadly grinning, trotting himself to keep up and nodding his head in rhyming approval with the cadenced applause that escorted the slugger to his first at-bat. The boy from the dugout ran out to hand Gab Darby the heavy blue stick that bore the printing Pepsi Coke on its shank, the words scuffed carefully in Darby’s trademarked pattern. The fans screamed more loudly on cue as Gab raised the bat aloft in one hand and turned his slow pirouette. Then they hushed just as quickly as finally he stepped into the box, dramatically to begin his first play of the game that either was or was not to be his final game.

And it went very well for the hero. He boomed two powerful hits that between them scored three runs for his team and he scored twice himself when teammates hit him round to home plate. In the field he made two emphatically scooping grabs to force the outs at first base, the position he played now because it required the least running. The catches were by and large routine and other fielders might have made them without such a fuss. But Darby stretched and stunted and finished both with a flourish that ended with his trademark pirouette, which made the fans thunder as the speakered announcer screeched his approval. Darby’s team was up nine runs to four by the final, sixth inning. They were poised for their celebration. The season’s new champs. Darby’s reputation seemed secured. He reflected on that during his final turn in the field. The reflection — his reputation secured — brought back the question: should he play on another year? It was there in his mind when the opponent’s dribbling little hit rolled down the first-base line, rolled squarely toward Darby, who was stuck on the retirement quandary when the ball arrived and therefore through some unaccountable trick of his mind he failed to bend quite far enough to stop the leering little sphere. It scampered between his feet and rolled off into the grass behind him. He looked over his shoulder at it, his feet now spread and planted too late in readiness. The ball seemed to smile at him mockingly from its nest in the grass until at last Darby’s teammate, the stunned right fielder, ran to it and picked it up and then fumbled to find a place to throw it. Ordinarily he would have thrown it to Darby, the hero, but Darby hadn’t yet moved to cover his base.

Re-energized, the opponents went on to win the game, ten runs to nine.

“I don’t understand how something like this could happen,” she gaped.

“They were really just taken by surprise,” replied Adjunct General Nelson Pierce.

“But how? How,” stammered President Welk-Emerson-Landose. “How could they be taken by surprise like that? These were supposed to be our best.”

“They are our best. Were our best.”

“Then how could they all get killed?”

The General shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wondered if she was expecting him to go through the whole story again.

“It was really just a case of bad command,” he ventured. He watched President Welk-Emerson-Landose, looking for some indication of what she expected to hear. Or hear again. He couldn’t tell. She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, with her head turned to the side she stared at the wall in vexed irritation. He waited. She didn’t move.

“No one knew the lieutenant was married to her,” the general continued. It irritated him to have to run through the whole story again, but he didn’t see what else he could do. “That was a blatant violation of regulations,” he said. “That’s why they kept it so secret. We would have never let the lieutenant retain his command if we had known that the two of them were married.”

“Then you should have a better way of finding those things out.”

“I can assure you that in the future . . ..” The general’s voice trailed off, leaving the assurance unuttered, because he knew there was no way the Army could ever keep its people apart.

General Pierce glanced across at First Adviser Mel Santee. Santee had been silent so far through the meeting. When their eyes met the general raised his brow in a sort of shrug, asking Santee with the gesture what the general should do. He really didn’t want to run through the whole story again. But Santee returned the general’s quiz with a shrug of his own. He didn’t know either what the general should do. The two men gazed at each other for a moment, each silently wondering.

“I don’t see what difference them being married would make anyways,” said President Welk-Emerson-Landose at last.

“Well, it’s because he loved her,” replied General Pierce.

“Love? That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“But that’s why he didn’t order the second squad up to join the fight.”

The President continued to stare away at the wall, so that the general couldn’t quite see her face. He wondered if she was waiting for more. He looked across at the first adviser again. This time Santee shrugged more plainly and emphatically, to show that he also didn’t know what the President expected. Pierce heaved inwardly with irritation. He figured he’d better just run through the whole story again. From the very first shot.

“Nobody thought anything like this could happen,” he began. “Especially not from the reports we were furnished by Central Intelligence. According to every indication, we were engaged in a Standard Deterrent Action. So that when the first assault hit Lieutenant Ready’s lead squad he did exactly the right thing. He hunkered down and, from what we’ve been able to determine, he ordered his command to not return fire. I want to be absolutely emphatic on that point: we did not initiate contact and in the early stages of the action we did not return fire. Those people followed standing orders very admirably. In that regard at least, they performed with honor and distinction: they did not engage the enemy.

“But a little while into it, when it became appropriate, they undertook some standard dispersing fire. That should have been enough. According to all the reports you had sent to us from Central Intelligence, given our weapon superiority and all — the superiority we thought we had — that should have been enough. The problem was, more and more non-affiliated operatives kept trickling in. It was kind of like Bunker Hill,” said the officer chagrined. “More no-fils kept coming and coming.”

“Pardon the historical reference, ma’m,” said General Pierce.

When she turned back to the wall he looked across at Santee, who also shrugged at him. The first adviser also didn’t seem to understand the historical reference.

“The point is,” continued the general, “the point is, they should have cut and run. The no-fils should have. The non-affiliated operatives. That’s what your intelligence reports told us to expect. But instead more and more of ‘em kept coming. Our lead squad took a few casualties. That’s when the lieutenant should have ordered up his second squad. They were right there. They were within sight of the whole action. They were just sitting there watching the whole thing. He knew he wasn’t going to be getting any relief because we’ve been under very strict non-escalation orders. So he knew we weren’t going to call in an air strike or artillery support or order out any additional ground units. But he shouldn’t have needed them because he had his whole second squad to bring up to help him. That would have been enough if he had acted in time.

“But they were taking casualties by then. And his wife was back there. His secret wife, but his wife nonetheless. From what we’ve been able to determine, it looks like Lieutenant Ready just panicked at that point.”

“That’s ridiculous,” shot back the President. “How could he just panic? These are supposed to be our best . . . our best . . . you know, our best troops. Or fighters.”

“I don’t understand it either, ma’m,” said the general. “Lieutenant Ready was one of our best junior officers. There’s no doubt about it. But the intangible here is the woman. His wife. She and the lieutenant were married. We know that now. And it looks like he simply refused to put her in harms way. For a while he probably thought he was okay. The no-fils were all out in front of him. It was a straightforward frontal assault and I’m sure he thought he could hold them off. In fact, he did hold them off. For a while at least. But like I said, their number kept growing.

“The thing I don’t get,” pondered the general aloud, “is why he didn’t just withdraw. Why he kept his first squad engaged in the first place. In the early stages especially all he had to do was back them out and withdraw. The only thing I can figure is that he was shielding the second squad. Staying engaged so that the second squad could stay out of it altogether, because, like I said, his wife was back there in the second squad. That’s the only reason I can see for why he didn’t just back out under some covering fire from them. But that’s something we’ll never know for sure.

“Because, like I explained to you before, finally the non-affiliates wised up and they flanked him from the west. That was his left flank. It all went pretty quickly after that. The lead squad was overrun entirely. The no-fils hit the second squad at the same time. They’d been building up and sneaking around all that time, so that by the time they finally hit the second squad they were well prepared: superior numbers, superior firepower, superior positions. By this time the second squad was without command, because Lieutenant Ready, well, he was killed in a matter of a minute or two with the rest of the guys up front — they weren’t interested in taking any prisoners. The no-fils weren’t. There was nothing for the second squad to do but pull out. But they were already pretty much overrun themselves. They just turned and ran. That’s all they could do. It was a total rout.”

“How many, ma’m?”

“How many got killed in this?”

“Thirty-nine, ma’m.”

“And only three got out?”

“That’s right. We have three survivors. We’ve debriefed them all. Quite extensively. That’s how I know that the account I’m giving you is accurate. As accurate as it can be, that is, because none of our survivors were up with the lead squad.”

“And one of ‘em’s the woman,” asked Welk-Emerson-Landose.

“That’s right. I spoke to her quite extensively myself. Over view-phone. Just before coming here. That’s when she broke down and told me she and Lieutenant Ready were secretly married. The whole thing made sense after that. We were having a hell of a time figuring out why he’d stayed engaged. Why he’d kept his second squad back in the rear. Why he’d behaved so damn foolishly. Jeopardized his entire command. Lost his entire command. And his life. When she told me that they were married, everything made sense.”

President Jeannie Welk-Emerson-Landose, finished with her questions, looked silently off toward the wall again. Adjunct General Pierce wondered once again what she expected him to say. Or do. It was Santee who told him, “I think that’s all for now, general. We gotta talk some things over now. You did a great job with this. Thanks.”

“You mean I’m dismissed,” queried the general.

“Well, yeah. You’re dismissed.”

But when Pierce rose to leave Santee added, “but, I mean, you can’t leave yet. I mean, we need you to wait outside for a while. We might have some other, you know, questions or something.”

“More questions?”

“Maybe. You won’t mind waiting outside for a while.”

“Of course not,” said General Pierce, making for the door, making some effort to keep his consternation and annoyance from busting through his expression or showing in his gait. The President and her adviser waited until he was fully outside the office, until the door latch clicked fast behind him, before they stirred, the President moving first, pushing back from the broad conference table where now only she and Santee were seated. She bent and reached under the table to loosen the dense, water-soaked towel that was wrapped around her ankles and calves.

“It’s about time he finished,” she said. “This was starting to get cold again.”

Santee averted his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see her legs and feet as she slid them out from under the table, dragging along on the floor the low tub of water in which she held her feet, the towel rising up from the tub and conducting the liquid inadequately around her ankles and calves. The adviser knew that if he glanced just once the image would emblazon in his mind: her stout, swollen ankles, puffy and pocked. Peasant feet was the term a cruel commentator had used to describe them. She had been careful and self-conscious enough even before she had heard it. After the label got out, the President grew furious. From the fury, she launched a bold campaign to slim her lowest parts. She had announced to her adviser that she aimed to publicly wear a dress again, just to demonstrate that her feet did not come from peasant stock. Santee had told her not to bother. He’d told her that she did just fine in pants and that she should just forget about the commentator’s remark. Certainly nobody noticed that she never wore dresses, he’d assured her. And nobody thought anything at all about the fact that she never showed her legs during viewed appearances, at speeches and hand-shakings and at the summits and state dinners and such, when the only part the vids ever caught was her upper body anyway. They certainly never focused on her feet or on her ankles. So why should she bother about them, Santee had said.

“What is that stuff, anyway,” he asked her, mostly just to divert his own thoughts during the gap of awkward silence that surrounded them while the President preoccupied herself with the water bath.

“It’s something called epsom salt,” she said. “It’s very ancient. I think it comes from a little mine up in the Andes. It’s in Peru, I think. Or maybe it’s in Bolivia. All it does is take the water out. That’s all this is. It’s water. I retain water. That’s all. Soaking them like this will get all that out of me and then I’ll look just fine wearing a dress.”

Santee tried to ignore her explanation while simultaneously he tried to appear engaged. He held his head at an angle away from her so his eyes would not betray him and slip toward her feet. At the same time he nodded his head slowly to feign interest. He pursed his lips. He gave other signals of comprehension.

“Did you ring for Peter yet,” she asked him, knowing that he had not.

To summon the servant, Santee stood up and walked to the call button on the tabletop console. Peter appeared almost immediately, pushing through the door that entered from the President’s inner chambers, not through the meeting-room door General Pierce had used. As he approached, the servant struggled with the wide tray that held a second low tub of steaming solution, with folds of white, plush towels stacked beside the bath on the tray. He used one towel to carefully dry the pink-glistening feet of President Welk-Emerson-Landose. On his knees, silently, he exchanged the tubs, trading the new for the old, hot water for cold. While he fumbled with the tubs under the table the President swung her legs out toward the adviser, showing her feet.

“I think they look better already,” she said. “Don’t you?”

He had to look. When he did he couldn’t chase out of his thoughts the association he had most feared to make: her feet made him think of inflated rubber surgical gloves, obscenely rotund with the digits splayed out like the teats on a milk-cow’s udder. He turned away again after only a rapid glance.

“Yeah,” he mouthed. “It looks like maybe those salts will do the trick.”

They waited for Peter to finish: to snug a fresh towel around the President’s calves and ankles, to guide her legs beneath the table again, placing her feet in the fresh bath to soak before he toted away the tray that held the cooled water, exiting into the private chamber, through the door that stood opposite the door that General Pierce had used, which also latched with assurance after he passed. At that signal President Welk-Emerson-Landose slumped down in her chair to show her exasperation.

“I don’t understand how something like this could happen,” she pushed out.

“But, why would they attack us? I still don’t get why they would attack us. I mean, who are these people?”

“Who are they? Well, from what I hear they’re farmers.”

“Farmers?”

“Well, okay, I guess they’re soldiers now. But they used to be farmers. They became soldiers when Bortino started his jobs program over there. Remember Bortino’s jobs program? To get all those people away from the rain forests like we wanted him to, he signed them up in his army. Made them soldiers in his army and gave them lots of pay and everything.”

“Army? What the hell is he doing with an army?”

“Well, nothing, really.”

“How can he even afford one?”

“Well, like I said, it’s his jobs program. With the foreign-aid money we sent him to get the farmers away from the rain forest. He’s got a huge army now.”

“And they’re attacking us?”

“Well, not really. Not officially, I mean. They’re not really Bortino’s army anymore. A lot of ‘em aren’t. They got bored, I hear. This is what I’m getting from our people over there. From Central Intelligence. A lot of ‘em got bored because there’s really nothing for the army to do. So they just kind of wander away. They’re deserters, technically. But now there’s these big bands of them just wandering around the countryside. They want to go home to their farms. But now our guys are in the way. You know: guys like this Lieutenant Ready are out on patrol. I guess that’s why they’re attacking us.”

“God damn you,” she shot at Santee. “You said this would be easy. You said we’d come out looking great and all we had to do was move some soldiers over there with the press to cover ‘em and it would look like we were doing something. That’s all we’d have to do, you said. Now I got thirty — no, forty — I got forty dead soldiers on my hands and people are going to start screaming for my head for it.”

“Not yet,” said Santee nervously, rushing to paste over her anger. “We still got a little bit of time.”

“For what? What are we gonna do? What are you gonna do? You gonna bring ‘em back to life?”

“There’s time for a diversion. We got enough time to work out a diversion that can turn this whole thing around. Maybe we can’t bring ‘em back to life but we can make ‘em, you know, like, martyrs. They got ambushed, after all. I’ve been thinking about this. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Ever since I first got word and since the story first started coming together. They got jumped, right? Out minding their business, doing their duty, and they got jumped. By a band of rebels. There’s a revolution going on in Bortinca.”

“There is?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, there is now. There’s got to be. Those were rebels that attacked us, after all. It wasn’t Bortino and his army. Bortino’s on our side. It was rebels. Insurgents. Subversives. All we gotta do is identify them. Personalize them. You know: put a face on this whole thing. Give them a leader. With a name. Someone we can go up against. A Sadam or a Slobo or a Bin Laden, someone like that that everyone can hate. As long as there’s someone like that, a villain, someone that everyone can focus on, then everyone will be on your side. That always works.”

“But there isn’t anyone, is there?”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean we gotta go in there and get Vestin. Go on the offensive. That’s important too. It’s important that we do something. Right away. This guy is our enemy. He’s an enemy of our ally, too. He’s an enemy of Bortino. He’s leading a rebel force that’s threatening Bortino. That’s enough right there. But now he goes and attacks an American Deterrent Force. We gotta go in there with everything we got to get this guy. And we gotta tell the people all about him.”

“Vestin?”

“Vestin.”

“That doesn’t sound evil enough to me.”

“Well, it’s a start,” said Santee. “He’s gotta have a full name. More than just Vestin. We’ll do some research.”

“And you think we should go in and get this guy?”

“I don’t see what else we can do. First, of course, we need to let the American people know that he’s responsible for this whole thing. That he rallied the rebel troops and that he’s operating in the area around Dink. Of course, we’ll have to give a complete account of the massacre, too. It’s better that we come out with it first,” said Santee when he saw the President shudder at his suggestion. “The best way to handle this is to come out with the whole story before all the rumors and innuendo start. That way no one can say we’re trying to cover up. Besides, it’s okay to admit we got ambushed as long as we’re doing something about it. Something aggressive. The people love that: swift, aggressive action against our adversaries. No one’s gonna blame you. They’ll blame this Vestin guy. Hell, they’ll rally behind you as long as you go after him.”

“And I should do this on the news, I guess. Right?”

“I think you should call a special news conference. I think this is big enough that you should even cut into prime time. Interrupt the programs. Shit, man, American soldiers have been attacked.”

“When?”

“We gotta do it tonight, this evening, when everything’s still new, before word starts leaking out anyplace else. Besides, the programming is slow tonight. It’s a low ratings night. There’s not any blockbusters on the vid so no one’s gonna mind us cutting in.”

“Can we be ready that soon?”

“We can be ready. I took the liberty, I mean, I already got people working on it. We’ll need to get a longer name for this Vestin guy. I’ll make a note of that. And I’ll notify the vid networks too, but they’re no problem. The only other thing we’ll need is a battle plan. At least a preliminary one. You’ll have to tell the people what you’re doing to get this guy. What you plan to do to get him. We need Pierce for that.”

“Yeah,” said President Landose-Welk-Emerson approvingly. “I guess we do.” She bent to re-snug the saturated towel, tucking it up around her ankles and calves, patting it with satisfaction when she finished. She settled herself more comfortably in the chair and then turned her head to gaze off toward the far wall.

Santee took the cue. Rising again he went to the tabletop console to call for Pierce. The general appeared at once, barely getting through the door before the latch clicked securely behind him and First Adviser Santee spoke.

“General, we need you to draw up a battle plan.”

“A battle plan,” wondered the general from his spot on the carpet. He looked at the President, sitting with her back to him and her gaze detached.

“Vestin, Mr. Santee?”

“Vestin.”

“But I don’t know of anyone in Bortinca named Vestin.”

“He may operate under another name,” said the first adviser. “We’re checking into that. But for right now we need you to get together with your staff and come up with a plan for rooting out him and his followers. We’ll need it by five today. No later. And we’ll need some maps and charts to go with it.”

“But, what followers, Mr. Santee?”

“They’re the ones who attacked us yesterday in Dink.”

“But . . .”

“We have it on good authority,” Santee interrupted. “Central Intelligence. We have it on their authority that a rebel leader code-named Vestin has amassed a sizable insurgency and that he’s behind the incident at Dink.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of that on the ground.”

“We’re bringing you in on this now, general. No one’s been told about it before now. It’s been covert and top secret up until now, until we’ve been able to confirm it.”

“But I haven’t seen any evidence of any insurgency in Bortinca,” said general Pierce. “They’re just a bunch of outlaws. They’re not organized. There’s certainly no rebel leader behind them. As far as I can see they’re just armed and bored. They have nothing to do. No jobs. No work. As far as I can see they attacked us because we’re keeping them from going back to their farms. My soldiers aren’t very popular down there.”

“Exactly,” said Santee. “We’re coming under attack, and now we have to do something about it. The first thing we have to do is get their leader. With whatever it takes. That’s a proven military strategy. To go after the leader.”

“But what do you want me to do?”

“We want you to go in and root out this Vestin.”

“I’m sure that won’t be too difficult. As soon as we find out who he is, and where he is, a single small-assault team should be able to . . .”

“No,” interrupted Santee. “Not a small team. You have to go in and root him out. With all his followers. We expect a big battle. You have to mobilize all your troops.”

“All the troops? Against who? There’s no on over there for all the troops to attack.”

“But they’re attacking us,” said Santee.

“That was one incident. It was a small engagement against a single platoon. And they certainly weren’t an organized force. They were rabble, and the only way they were able to defeat Lieutenant Ready’s platoon was through Lieutenant Ready’s own blunders. We’ve already been through that. From what we’ve been able to gather, the people responsible for the attack have fled. They’re long gone. They headed deep into the jungle almost immediately after the incident. They know we’ll come after them. They know Bortino will come after them for us. He has to. They’re hiding out deep in that rain forest where we can barely pick them up with the infra-red. It’s dense in there. I can’t even get in there with a large force.”

“Look,” said Santee, “we just lost thirty soldiers. We can’t take this lying down. We have to do something, and we have to do it right away.”

“It was forty casualties, sir,” said General Pierce. “Just under forty of my soldiers killed.”

“Forty then,” said Santee. “All the more reason to act decisively. The President will be on the vid tonight to announce the massacre and to tell her people exactly what we’re doing about it. Prime time, general. When everyone is glued. That’s why we need your plan. We need maps and charts that show exactly how we’re going to get Vestin. The people are going to be outraged about this. Forty dead soldiers. They’ll blame you, general. And they’ll blame President Welk-Emerson-Landose — unless we show them that we’re doing something decisive to get this rebel leader and all his followers. You gotta go into that rain forest and root them out. You gotta get Vestin.”