~ or ~

A sequel to Dubya TV among others…

"Damnit Athena!" screamed Atwell as his Mastiff cross Labrador once more dug a huge hole under the back fence. By the time Atwell managed to get to the hole, the last he saw of Athena was her buttocks and tail as she disappeared under the fence.

"There’ll be no bone for you tonight!" shouted Atwell pointlessly at the fence.

Just then his cellular phone rang. "Crap. Who’s this?" Atwell asked no-one in particular even though Max, the Australian Cattle Dog, was barking at the sound of the phone ringing.

"Shut-up, Max!" but Max wouldn’t obey.

"Just great. I’ve got one dog on the loose, terrorising the neighbourhood, and the other two who only obey me when it’s dinner time…" grumbled Atwell to himself as he looked to see who was ringing him. But, just before he did, he asked Max "Where’s Tess?"

Max, however, just kept barking.

"Yes, Chris?" asked a somewhat deflated Atwell.

"Do I have you at a bad time David?" laughed Nuttall.

"Kind of. I’ve got one dog barking at me, another terrorising the neighbours with her constant break-outs, and another gone MIA" reported Atwell. "So yeah, you could say it’s a bad time."

"I won’t keep you for long then" Nuttall said once more with laughter. "It’s about the next edition of CTT. I was wondering if we could do an issue on a particular topic."

"Sure, I’m always open for ideas" replied Atwell as Max started jumping on him wanting to play a game. "Any topic on your mind?"

"There’s been a lot of news stories about terrorists recently, in fact that’s about all one hears of these days" ventured Nuttall. "So I was thinking something along a series of AHes about terrorism."

"Sounds great" agreed Atwell, somewhat reluctantly, whilst trying to fend off Max. "Say something like ‘reverse the situation for the various world leaders’. In other words say ‘bin Laden as US President’ or ‘George Dubya as head of al Qaeda’. Stuff like that?"

"Well I wouldn’t go that far," Nuttall suggested to his sometimes wild and wayward Australian editor, "but some articles could flirt with such ideas. I was more so thinking along conventional lines."

Just then Max pounced. "Damnit!" Atwell involuntary shouted into the cellular phone. "You stupid dickhead!"

"Excuse me?" a somewhat irate Nuttall more or less demanded from the other end to the phone.

"Oh sorry Chris. The dog just dived into my balls!" an apologetic Atwell explained. "Yes, I can’t see why such articles can’t be written. By all means write one yourself, I may even do one as well, plus I’ll mention it to several of the others."

"Good. Let’s make this month’s edition a great one!" declared Nuttall as Max dived onto Atwell once more, this time knocking the phone out of his hand. All Nuttall could hear, as a good bye, was a dog barking and an Australian swearing.

Surveillance

The surveillance satellites of the United States are extremely sophisticated. The KH series can conduct all types of espionage tasks that seem complete science fiction to many of the ignorant. Not only can they take pictures of such a high resolution, where even a subject’s newspaper can be read from space, but their ability to eavesdrop on telephone conversations, especially ones being conducted over a cellular phone, is simply remarkable.

However, as there are literally millions of telephone calls being made at any one time, remember that there are 6.5 billion human beings living on planet Earth, many of them chatter-boxes, it is completely impossible for any one espionage agency, let alone one like the Central Intelligence Agency or the National Security Agency, to physically check each and every conversation that takes place at any one time. Instead a computer, an extremely fast and technically advanced computer, scans each and every conversation that a KH spy satellite may listen to, and in doing so monitor the conversation for key words and phases. It goes without saying that certain particular words get the highest attention.

And so it was, as KH-23 was passing over Australia, that it was monitoring the cellular phone frequencies for no other reason but it could. Even though Australia may have been a close ally of the United States, that never stopped the United States from using the Joint Base Facility at Pine Gap to spy upon the citizens of its ally. As always, the KH satellite intercepted thousands of cellular phone conversations, and downloaded them to Pine Gap, whereupon they were then routed to the NSA’s analysis facility in America. Most of the conversations were pretty well ignored completely, by the NSA’s computers, until one particular conversation had almost all of the key words which would immediately flag it for human attention.

"Ah, boss" said a slightly worried NSA analyst.

"Yes?"

"The computer has just red flagged a phone conversation."

"How serious?" asked the NSA supervisor.

"Well nothing about little green men" smirked the analyst, "but we’ve got all the key words listed of an Alpha-One."

"Very funny Sarah," replied a bemused supervisor, "for your information the destruction of KH-21 is classified information and it’s not supposed be spoken about by anyone regardless of authorisation."

"Well here’s hoping that this alert isn’t one of your green friends calling home" jested Sarah.

"Can you just show me the alert message?" ordered the somewhat frustrated supervisor.

"Here, as you can see, it’s got everything from terrorists, President Bush, al Qaeda; indeed the works."

"This is very serious" said the supervisor a few seconds later as he studied Sarah’s computer screen. "We’d better alert the higher ups. In fact call Jeb first, then the CIA."

"You mean our Jeb?" asked a somewhat concerned Sarah. "The Head of the NSA?"

"Yes, him" nodded the bemused supervisor.

"OK, if that’s your order," replied Sarah as she began to dial her phone, "although I don’t know what’s worse: the Head of the NSA or you believing in green aliens."

"There are green aliens I swear!" shouted the supervisor so loudly that everyone else in the large analyst room could hear him.

It was a pleasant enough summer’s day in Washington DC. The city was alive with the business of all things, especially politics. Congress was in session as was the Supreme Court. Even the President of the United States was in the White House seeing to the state of the nation, if not indeed the state of the world in general. Things were not necessarily at their best, but then again they were not at their worse either. Dubya had been through much in order to become President, and even though he may not have understood much about alternate universes, and the like, he was the American President nevertheless.

This morning, regardless of the pleasant day elsewhere in Washington, was alas about to get suddenly worse as Dubya’s Chief-Of-Staff, Oliver ‘Oli’ North, came bursting into the Oval Office followed by Jeb Bush. "Good morning Mister President!" announced Oli and Jeb more-or-less together.

"Yes it is, Jeb, Oli" replied Dubya as he saw several serious looking members of the Central Intelligence Agency following Oli and Jeb into the room. Accompanying them was also the Vice President Dick Cheney who happened to be carrying a shotgun.

"Or so I thought… What are they doing here?" Maybe they’ve discovered the truth about me Dubya thought to himself.

"Good morning Mister President" said Cheney with a smile on his face. "Sorry about the shotgun. I was quickly brought in from the field."

"They discovered some intelligence, sir" announced Oli whilst ignoring Cheney.

"Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?" inquired a concerned Dubya as he gave a glance towards the doors which opened out onto the gardens just outside the Oval Office.

"Indeed, bro" answered the President’s brother. "But this is serious intelligence."

"I see" Dubya said cautiously, "as against the usual intelligence I gather?"

"Yes, sir" reiterated Oli, "the type of intelligence that we need to take seriously."

"I see" which Dubya really didn’t. "Ah Dick, which field?"

"Sorry Mister President?" asked Cheney.

"Which field were you quickly brought from that you needed a shotgun for?" inquired a confused Dubya.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mister President, but can we get back to the intelligence which we found?" Oli more or less ordered rather than asked.

"So what is it that is so serious?" asked Dubya whilst still somewhat concerned as to what Cheney was doing with his shotgun.

"I found it bro" Jeb began to answer excitedly.

"Mister Rumsfeld can brief you, sir" suggested Oli.

"Mister President," began Ronald ‘McDonald’ Rumsfeld, the head of the CIA, "we’ve come across some serious intelligence suggesting that a new terrorist organisation has commenced operations."

"How serious?" inquired Dubya now relived that the CIA had not discovered the truth about Dubya’s alternate history.

"Extremely serious. A seriousness that cannot be treated in any other fashion other than seriously," Rumsfeld informed Dubya.

"So, this is really serious!" reasoned Dubya.

"Indeed, bro" agreed Jeb. "It is extremely serious."

"Do we know who is this new terrorist organisation then?" asked Dubya.

"Yes, sir" replied Rumsfeld , "it’s an internet magazine called Changing The Times. But the magazine business is merely a front as to what they really are."

"And that is?" inquired Dubya.

"They are a well organised international terrorist group, with members in many countries, including the United States. They have many plans, many scenarios, the latest of which involves using the internet in order to get you."

"Hell!" Dubya almost spat out recalling his own experience with internet thingys in another alternate history. "To get me?"

"Yes, bro" replied Jeb almost proudly. "It seems, in one of their plans, they will try to turn you into an al Aqaeda member. There’s also another plan to replace you with bin Laden."

"Yes. This is very serious!" a somewhat terrified Dubya exclaimed. "We have to stop them doing this shit! This cannot happen to me! I won’t allow it!"

"And we won’t either Mister President" reassured Oli.

"I want you to put a stop to them before anything can happen to me" demanded Dubya.

"Well it’s a bit tricky to be honest" Rumsfeld started to explain. "You see the principals behind this group aren’t in America. One’s in the United Kingdom, whilst the other lives in Australia."

"Who cares" said Dubya in a carefree manner. "Bomb the crap out of them."

"They are our allies, Mister President" offered Cheney. "You just can’t bomb the crap out of them."

"Why not? They’re protecting terrorists!" argued Dubya.

"But sir" Oli cut in, "we’re talking Britain and Australia. It’s where two of your best buddies are in charge."

"Oh you mean where Tony and Johnny lives?" asked Dubya.

"Yes, sir" answered Oli, Rumsfeld , Cheney, and Jeb in unison.

"Oh I see then. I’d better give them a call and tell them to get to the bomb shelters fast if that’s the case" reasoned Dubya.

"Prime Minister," said Sir Humphrey as he opened to door to Tony Blair’s Number 10 private office, "sorry to interrupt like this, but I’ve got two rather urgent matters."

"Good evening, Humphrey, but can’t it wait?" requested Blair.

"Not really, sir, as I said it is rather urgent" insisted the Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet.

"Oh, very well, then. What is it?" asked a slightly irritated Blair.

"I have the written resignation of the Foreign Secretary" declared Humphrey.

"What? Another one?"

"Yes, sir"

"I’m beginning to wonder whether we’ve got anyone left who’s half-fit for over there" mused Blair. "So which one of the piglets should I offer it to this time?"

"Depends which one you no longer want in the Cabinet, judging by the number of Foreign Secretaries who have come and gone of late" suggested Humphrey with a straight face.

"In that case I’ve got plenty of candidates. Alas it’ll also mean that I’ve got to bring in another backbencher" said Blair with a hint of distaste.

"Alas…" Humphrey let trail off.

"What’s the other matter?"

"I have the President of the United States on the phone. He wants to have an urgent word with you."

"He doesn’t have a spare Foreign Secretary by any chance does he?" laughed Blair. "Colin Powell was pretty good."

"I doubt it Prime Minister. Besides, we try to avoid making it appear that we do everything which the Americans want us to do. In fact we try to make it look like we’re doing things the British way instead. It’s merely coincidental that American requests and our actions are often one and the same" concluded Humphrey.

"I see. Anyway, isn’t the Foreign Office supposed to deal with this phone call business first?" inquired Blair.

"Yes, but the Foreign Secretary has just resigned. So they don’t really have anyone at the moment. And, besides, the President asked for you personally."

"Maybe the Foreign Secretary knew the phone call was coming and made a wise decision" observed Blair with a hint of sarcasm. "OK, send his call through."

"With pleasure, Prime Minister" acknowledged Humphrey.

"It won’t be with any pleasure, but I’ll take his call anyway" grumbled Blair.

"I’d like to talk to Johnny, please" ordered Dubya politely.

"Who?" replied a wary secretary.

"Johnny; your boss" Dubya explained.

"You mean the Australian Prime Minister?" inquired the Prime Minister’s secretary.

"Is that what he is?" asked Dubya. "I thought he was a king or something."

"Who is this?" demanded the secretary.

"Dubya. I’d like to talk to Prime Minister Johnny, ah, what-his-name again?"

"Howard."

"Yeah, that’s it" agreed Dubya.

Before Howard’s secretary replied she turned to the Australian police officer, who had just entered her office, "It looks like we’ve got a live one here."

"Another one?" asked the policeman.

"Yup."

Turning back to the phone, she said to Dubya, "Yes, darl, you and everyone else."

"Well just tell him Dubya wants to talk to him for a minute or two."

"And what is a Dubya?" teased the secretary.

"I’m the President" said Dubya with a tone of authority.

"President of what, darl?"

"President of the United States. What other one is there?" Dubya was starting to become annoyed at this point.

"Yeah, sure you’re the American President, darl. And I’m not the Australian Prime Minister’s private secretary, but Sheba Queen of the Jungle! Listen sport, keep this up sunshine and ASIO will be paying you a visit real soon" warned the secretary, who then turned to the police officer listening intently to the conversation via the security phone. "Are you guys tracing this call?"

The police officer nodded then quickly checked his earphone. "Crikey! The call really is coming from the White House!"

"Shit a brick!" is all the secretary could say which no doubt Dubya could clearly hear.

"What the?" demanded an annoyed Dubya.

"Putting you through now, Mister President" the secretary announced meekly before Dubya could say another word.

"What the fuck are you doing, you stupid woman!" an angry Dubya shouted into the phone just as Prime Minister John Howard placed his phone to his ear.

"Fuck a duck!" Howard involuntarily spat out having been taken completely by surprise by the greeting on offer. "Who the bloody Hell is this? Is this fucking Downer?" demanded Howard a second or two later.

"What the?" asked a somewhat stunned and confused Dubya. "I’m Dubya!" demanded the bewildered the American.

"Oh, George!" replied Howard somewhat calmly, now that he had recognised the voice at the other end.

"Yes, it’s me. By the way, what’s a downer other than some dope?" Dubya asked naively.

"Just my Foreign Minister…" replied Howard. "But don’t you worry about it, George. Now what can I do for you?"

"I want his ass in Gitmo!" demanded Dubya. "I don’t care if Johnny did say ‘no’, I still want that Australian in a cell in Gitmo!"

"Which Australian?" inquired Rumsfeld after a few seconds of quietness.

"The terrorist one" replied Dubya. "The so-called editor of CTT."

"Well Prime Minister Blair said ‘no’ too, so I hope you don’t want us conducting any covert mission or otherwise in Britain as well" Oli somewhat challenged.

"Can we?" asked Dubya.

"I wouldn’t recommend it" answered Oli.

"Why not?" inquired Dubya.

"They’re bigger than Australia" reasoned Rumsfeld . "Australia we can pick on because we’re a lot bigger than them, but Britain could really give us a lot of trouble."

"Since when? 1770?" scoffed Dubya.

"That was well over two hundred years ago, bro" Jeb pointed out, "plus we had a lot of help back then. It’s simply easier if we pick on the Australians instead and leave the British alone."

"Help? Since when did we get any help in achieving freedom?" questioned Dubya.

"We got it from the French, amongst others" replied Oli.

"Those bunch of garlic munchers?" Dubya spat with much sarcasm. "Like they’re any friend of ours. We didn’t need their help in Iraq!"

"But we did get help from the British and Australians in Iraq" reasoned Oli. "Come to think of it, Iraq doesn’t make anything better, but we’d still need British help there more so than the Australians. And that’s despite the fact that it’ll be a covert operation in order to get this Australian. No one, other than ourselves, will know anything about it."

"Good. So nabbing that Limey haggis in England is out of the question?" asked Dubya even though he already knew the seemingly inevitable answer.

"Actually he’s in Scotland, bro, and he isn’t a Limey" Jeb corrected his brother. "But yes, we’ll only go after the Australian. And, more importantly, we’ll make him an example, to all the others, not to mess with the good ole U. S. A!"

"Very well," ordered Dubya, "make it so."

"By the way, if you want, you could probably announce something about all this to the press" added Jeb. "It’ll make huge headlines and your approval ratings will increase. It may force the Australians, and maybe even the Brits, to hand over these characters without our unofficial help."

"Great idea" agreed Dubya. "Quick, get everyone into the Press Room in, say, ten minutes. I have a message to give to the world. I’ll show them who’s boss!"

The phone rang waking Nuttall. Looking over at his clock, he saw it was just after 6 AM. It was too early to answer it so he ignored it. A minute or two later the phone rang again. This pattern was repeated several times before Nuttall lost his temper, picked up the phone beside his bed, and threw it across the bedroom.

Alas, if Nuttall thought he could get back to sleep, he was mistaken. The mix of phone ringing, and the energy of throwing it across the room, ensured that trying to drift back off to sleep again, for another hour or two, was impossible. In short time he got up, got dressed, and placed the phone back on the hook. Within a second it began ringing again. This time he answered it.

"Is this Christopher Nuttall?" asked a rather polite female English voice even before Nuttall could give any greeting.

"Yes, who’s this?"

"I’m a reporter from the BBC, sir, do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"BBC? Questions? What about?" a somewhat confused, dazed, and sleepy Nuttall replied.

"It’s about your internet magazine Changing The Times. Is it a secret terrorist organisation? Any comments?"

"What the? No! Of course not. Don’t be stupid" replied Nuttall as he hung up the phone in disgust.

The next thing to do was to make a cup of tea. Although the phone started ringing again, he ignored it thinking someone was playing a prank. A few minutes later, still half asleep, even with a cup a tea in hand, Nuttall sat down at his computer to view the morning’s emails and so forth. Curiosity soon got the better of him, however, so he surfed over to the BBC News website. His somewhat sleepy appearance and mind-set, alas, was suddenly turned to horror as he read the main headline.

In the thickest Scottish accent that was ever heard, Nuttall screamed "Oh FOOK!"

Although it was supposed to be a convert operation, with strict rules of engagement, the US Special Forces team hardly went unnoticed as it drove into a sleepy Hunter Valley town on a late afternoon. The sun was setting in the west, and if anyone took the time to notice, it was going to be a lovely orange-red sunset. But the Americans drove one of those large Suburban-type vans, which were larger than anything else in Australia, so it was far from being conspicuous. Having said that, no one challenged them as they pulled up to a small cottage on the edge of town: except for one cattle dog.

Max started barking his head off for no apparent reason. "Shut-up Max" said Atwell as he watched the afternoon news on the TV. But Max didn’t stop. Instead he ran outside and then up to the front fence barking all the while. Almost immediately so too did Athena and Tess. This finally got the attention of Atwell, who moved to the front room and looked out the window to see four armed black clothed figures stepping out of the large van.

"Crikey!" said a worried Atwell.

The four figures, noting the barking dogs, moved fast fearing that they had been suddenly caught out. In doing so one raised a grenade launcher, at the same front window that Atwell was watching from, and fired. Although it was only a smoke grenade, it didn’t matter to Atwell, who quickly dived out of the front room. Unbeknownst to the Americans, however, it also happened to be the Brewing Room.

The sounds of smashing glass was loud and seemed to go on for quite some time. Much longer than for just a broken window.

Atwell, however, knew immediately what had just happened in the front room. "Jesus!" Atwell involuntarily shouted loudly. "You pricks have broken all the beer bottles. The homebrew is ruined. You pack of bastards!" cried an outraged Atwell. "You know this means a Jihad!"

Upon hearing the word ‘Jihad’, the Americans seemed to become enraged like charging wounded bulls. With all their might they crashed into the front door with great force.

"Fuck this!" said a scared Atwell as he began to cough. "I’m off!"

Atwell thus ran out into the backyard, just as the Americans broke their way through the front door. Here he found that his three dogs had already retreated to and were equally worried as to what was happening. Athena, fearing the danger increasing, headed for one of her old holes under the fence. Following Athena’s lead, Atwell run to the hole and pushed Athena out of the way, whilst beginning to dig the hole larger as a desperate means of escape. Max, meanwhile, seeing one of the intruders exit the backdoor, barked once and charged the enemy.

"Max!" Atwell screamed as he turned to see the actions of his cattle dog, but it was too late. The brave dog leaped through the air and onto the first intruder, knocking him over, just as Athena managed to squeeze her buttocks under the back fence. Next it was the turn of Tess, but the hole was still too small for Atwell.

Noting that the American Special Forces team was distracted, thanks to the efforts of Max, Atwell gave up the idea of squeezing through the hole himself and quickly ran for the garage instead. Grabbing the car keys out of his pocket, he managed to quickly open the door to his red Saab, jumped in, and immediately started the engine.

"Max! Get your arse in here. NOW!" shouted Atwell at the top of his voice. For once Max, having evaded the fruitless efforts of the Americans at capture, obeyed for the first time in his life. And within a second of Max jumping through the open rear passenger window, Atwell floored the accelerator peddle, smashing his way through the front gate of the garage.

The Americans, however, were still in the hunt and quickly ran back through the house in a desperate attempt to intercept the Saab before it escaped. In doing so, they now ignored their orders and began to open fire indiscriminately, smashing the rear window of the Saab in the process.

Yet, even with bullets flying in all directions, Atwell spotted Athena and Tess running off down the street in fear of what was behind them. He immediately chased after his two dogs, opening the front passenger door, when he got near them.

"Get in the bloody car!" Atwell yelled over the roar of the engine. Tess immediately obeyed, sensing the great danger behind them, followed by a not too certain Athena. But they were both soon in the car, regardless of the difficulties involved, and the lot of them took off at high speed down the street racing towards freedom.

Thus the last thing the members of American Special Operations team saw of Atwell was him speeding away, driving the Saab in a reckless manner, with Athena’s head stuck out of the rear left hand side window, Tess’s head stuck out of the other side, with Max barking madly out of the smashed rear one. And within a second of the Americans foreboding, yet impotent angry stare, the speeding Saab rapidly disappeared into swirling thick orange coloured dust.

"It appears, sir," suggested a badly lit captain, "that our intervention maybe necessary after all."

"Yes," replied the admiral, "it seems that Dubya’s cross-over has finally begun to interfere with our plans…"