We Have Lost The President Read online

  Paul Mathews

  We Have Lost

  The President

  We Have Lost series

  Book 1

  Also available:

  We Have Lost The Pelicans

  We Have Lost The Coffee

  We Have Lost The Chihuahuas

  We Have Lost series

  Books 2, 3 & 4

  Visit www.quitefunnyguy.comfor more info

  First published in July 2016

  Copyright © Paul Mathews 2016 – Version 1.21

  Paul Mathews has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Message from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Howie Pond was not a happy man. He’d been dragged out of bed and into Buckingham Palace by an early morning bleep. In the frantic rush to squeeze into his best suit and leave his south London pod, he’d forgotten to grab any breakfast. The palace canteen didn’t open until 7.00am. And, despite its extravagance, the White Drawing Room, in which he now stood, didn’t contain a coffee machine. The Royal Family probably took it with them, he thought to himself. A last act of defiance before they fled to Florida, all those years ago. ‘Let them drink instant!’ he imagined the king screaming, as he sprinted to his escape helicopter, clutching a gold-plated espresso maker.

  He squinted at his bleeper. It was still installing software he didn’t want and refusing access to his e-comms. Howie heaved a huge sigh. He hated technology – or ‘Tech’, as everyone insisted on calling it these days. Yes. Tech with a capital ‘T’ – the marketing slogan of a firm that had gone bust with a capital ‘B’ years ago, taking billions of pounds of British Government money with it. Today’s Tech didn’t deserve a capital ‘T’. It hardly merited a small ‘t’.

  Another minute passed. The bleeper was still in its own little world of digital self-improvement. Howie wanted to hurl it against the wall. But he couldn’t risk damaging it. This 4cm-by-8cm messaging device was all he had to communicate with when he didn’t have access to an e-terminal. Sometimes he wished the hackers had done a better job eleven years ago, when they deep-hacked voice comms, the internet and much of the equipment that relied on them. Mobile phones, landlines, laptops, tablets – they were all rendered useless in one deadly strike. But to Howie’s great annoyance, the hackers had completely ignored these bloody bleepers. The British people had been stuck with them ever since. Those hackers had a sick sense of humour.

  He’d had enough of this machine’s nonsense. He took it firmly in hand and pressed hard on a random button. The bleeper buzzed in disapproval and flashed a message on its screen:

  I’m BUSY at the moment. Please WAIT.

  ‘Humans are busier than machines,’ he grumbled to himself. He pressed another button to make his point, even harder this time. Another bleep. Another message:

  As I just informed you, I’m BUSY. Please STOP pushing my buttons. I’ll tell you when I’m READY.

  Howie was just about to throw the bleeper on the floor and stamp on it, when it played its annoying welcome jingle. The display reset:

  Good morning, Howard. It is 06:15 on Tuesday, April >>DATE ERROR<< 2044.

  Howie hated Tuesdays. Even more than people, or defective Tech, that called him Howard. He clicked the bleeper’s status button:

  You are currently AVAILABLE. You have 352 UNREAD e-comms. Long live the Republic!

  He pressed the bleeper’s update button and lifted the device to his lips. ‘Status is super-busy. Not available. Acknowledge.’ The bleeper bleeped. The display reset:

  You are AVAILABLE all day. You have 354 UNREAD e-comms. Remember – Republicans deliver, Democrats dither!

  Howie growled. It didn’t matter if he was super-busy, mega-busy or super-mega-busy. His bleeper didn’t care. It wanted him available for crisis and disaster twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week – like he was some sort of government superhero. Got a communications problem no one else can solve? Bleep Super Howie. Any time of day or night. He’ll drop everything and come flying to the rescue.

  As he shoved the bleeper in his pocket, the head of the National Security and Intelligence Service, Martha Blake, appeared in the doorway. Howie straightened his tie. It was one from before the revolution, but still presentable. Then he tried to smooth the wrinkles in his non-crease suit. They wouldn’t budge. He gave up and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t normally so fussed about his appearance at work. But he always felt underdressed when he met Martha. Her black trouser suits were so stylish and her white blouses so dazzling, they must have been imported from the New States. And it didn’t matter what hour of the day or night it was, her flame-red hair always burned brightly – like a warning sign to anyone who was thinking of making her life difficult.

  Martha moved inside the room and shut the door. ‘Apologies for summoning you to the palace at this hour, Howie. I’ve been here since half past five, if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘We are the Republic’s humble servants. Whenever the call comes, we must obey,’ replied Howie, stifling a yawn.

  ‘I’m sorry that my e-comm was so vague. But I had to tell you this face-to-face.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

  Of course it wasn’t good news. It was a Tuesday. All the major catastrophes he’d dealt with in his career – the Tech meltdowns, the data leaks, the coffee droughts – had dropped into his lap on a Tuesday. Usually because no one bothered to read their e-comms on a Monday.

  ‘What’s the story?’ asked Howie, rubbing his eyes.

  Martha swallowed again, harder than before. She sat down on the leather sofa opposite, leaned back and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘It’s big.’

  ‘Let me guess. One of the vice presidents has lost their briefcase again?’

  ‘No, it’s not the VPs, for a change.’

  ‘A civil servant has left top-secret papers on a park bench?’

  ‘Not this week. As far as I know.’

  ‘The First Lady, then? She’s got another self-help book coming out this week. My press office still h
asn’t seen it.’ Howie put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me it’s got photos of the president doing yoga poses again?’

  Martha shook her head. ‘That book is the least of our worries. It’s worse than that.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Much worse.’

  Howie couldn’t imagine anything worse than the media circus surrounding the First Lady’s books. They were a nightmare. Packed with inappropriate insights into the president’s daily routine, the stories went on for weeks. ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘We have lost the president,’ announced Martha, the tension in her voice giving the words an unnatural rhythm. ‘Lost. As in, we can’t find him.’

  For a second, Howie thought Martha had just told him that they’d lost the president. He chuckled at the idea. President Jan Polak going missing? It was a ridiculous concept. It would be like the sun not rising in the morning.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Howie. We can’t locate the president. He didn’t turn up to his office this morning. He’s not in his official quarters. And no one has seen him since last night.’

  He hadn’t been hearing things. ‘There must be some mistake, Martha. He’ll be around the palace somewhere.’

  ‘Believe me, Howie, he’s vanished. And he’s not answering his bleeper.’

  That was odd. The president and his bleeper were inseparable. As Howie leant forward to rest his chin on his hand and consider this development, he felt something move inside his jacket pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small, pink envelope. Both he and Martha recoiled from it. It was far too bright for that time of the morning.

  ‘Is that for me?’ she asked, after what seemed a minute, but was actually five seconds.

  Howie looked at the envelope and saw his name on the front in capital letters. ‘No. It’s for me.’

  ‘Then open it,’ ordered Martha. ‘It could be a message from … I don’t know, kidnappers.’

  Howie ripped open the envelope. Inside, he found a card. The cover made him take a breath. There was no writing – just a photo of bundles of $100 bills. Maybe this really was a ransom demand. He felt a lump in his throat.

  ‘Is there a message inside?’ asked Martha. Every muscle in her face tensed.

  Howie opened the card. Every muscle in his face relaxed.

  ‘Who is it from, Howie? Hackers? Royalists? Some crazed Democrat? Read it out to me!’

  Howie cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations, birthday boy. Forty-two today. You may be old, but you look like a million dollars …’ He sensed an inappropriate punchline, but it was too late to back out now. ‘… all green and wrinkly.’ He might have managed a laugh, had the circumstances been different.

  ‘There’s also my girlfriend Britt’s signature,’ Howie continued, unsure why he was doing so. ‘And I think those are … kisses.’ He could feel his cheeks turning the same shade of pink as the envelope.

  Martha pondered this news for several seconds. ‘Your girlfriend didn’t say anything about a ransom demand?’

  Howie shook his head, just in case she wasn’t joking. A knock on a door saved him from further embarrassment.

  Martha raised a finger. ‘One moment. It’ll be about the Code Red crisis plan. I can’t access the damn thing. Would you believe it?’

  Howie would believe it. Tech was as unreliable as the people who designed it.

  ‘Come in!’ shouted Martha.

  Kaia-Liisa Saar, the president’s chief private secretary, popped her head round the door. ‘Apologies for disturbing you, but I can’t access the crisis plan. I’m just getting a message that says there’s a network problem. It’s probably better if you speak with the Tech people yourself.’

  Martha groaned. ‘Alright. I’ll pop round in a moment.’

  Kaia-Liisa nodded and closed the door behind her.

  ‘So we’re really at Code Red?’ asked Howie. ‘It’s not a test exercise?’

  ‘No. Only a fool would organise one of those so close to Independence Day. And anyway, you and I would have been notified in advance.’

  Martha was right. But Howie still couldn’t quite believe the president had gone missing. ‘Maybe Jan has popped back to Poland and forgotten to tell us? A family bereavement or something?’

  Martha shook her head. ‘Jan has no family left in Poland. His parents are dead. He has no uncles, aunts or cousins. And his grandparents died years ago. To my knowledge, he hasn’t returned there since he became president.’

  ‘Fair enough. But what about business interests?’

  ‘He has none. Here, in Poland or anywhere else. And you know Jan. He would’ve told us if he was unexpectedly jetting off to the place of his birth. Or anywhere else.’

  As Howie nodded, his body trembled. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep, food and caffeine. It was the horrible realisation that this must be for real. They really had lost the president.

  Martha clasped her hands. ‘Let’s not waste any more time playing guessing games. Here are the logistics. I’m going to be working from Jan’s private office. It means I can monitor what comes in. Kaia-Liisa is very good. She’s on top of all Jan’s business.’

  Howie shuffled in his chair. ‘What have you told her?’

  ‘Only that the president is working on urgent state business away from the office. And that he’s unavailable and uncontactable until further notice. I also told her I’m reviewing the Code Red crisis plan at Jan’s request. And there will be meetings on it during that process. Meetings that don’t require a private secretary to be present.’

  ‘Good stuff. The fewer people who know the full story, the better.’

  Martha got up and moved to the door. ‘I’d better contact the Tech team.’ Just before she left the room, she turned and smiled apologetically. ‘Oh, and for what it’s worth … happy birthday, Howie.’

  Howie didn’t respond. He didn’t celebrate birthdays. He’d never seen the attraction of celebrating being one year nearer the grave. But this year, Britt had broken with protocol and sent him a card. Whatever lopsided logic had led her to do so, he was grateful for the reminder. Because the cosmic alignment of his birthday and a Tuesday were the equivalent of a solar eclipse for the Ancient Greeks – a sign the gods were seriously pissed off and looking to kick his mortal backside. At least the Greeks had goats to sacrifice. He just had his career.

  He remembered a previous birthday that had fallen on the second working day of the week. It had been eleven years earlier – Tuesday, 12 April 2033. It was the day he’d been thinking about a few minutes ago. The day when hackers brought the country to a standstill and the previous government banned all internet and phone access to avoid further attacks – a ban still in place today. A day when Howie had to answer a multitude of media questions with no idea what the hell was going on. A dark day for him, the former president and his Democratic government. Modern historians had christened it ‘The day the internet died’. Smart-arse journalists called it ‘Net Loss Day’. What would the media call today, if they found out the president was missing? ‘Pres Loss Day’, or something equally stupid. Howie would have to make sure the media never got the opportunity to write that, or any other, headline. That would be tricky. Especially once all the loose-tongued vice presidents were informed of the situation.

  Howie felt his bleeper buzz in his pocket. It usually only vibrated if it was a message from someone on his priority senders’ list. He quickly pulled it out, praying that it was a message from the president – one that contained a perfectly reasonable explanation for his unexpected absence. But it wasn’t. It was a service message from his bloody bleeper:

  Hello again, Howard. Just checking you’re STILL there. UNREAD e-comms don’t READ themselves, you know! You have 359 of them. And you are AVAILABLE, so there’s really no excuse for ignoring them.

  Howie didn’t have to explain himself to a machine. He flicked the bleeper’s off switch and shoved it back in his trouser pocket. If the world needed saving in the next hour or so, an
other superhero could do it. One who didn’t have three hundred and fifty-nine unread e-comms.

  He heard a scream of frustration from the corridor. Seconds later, Martha crashed through the door, her red hair flailing behind her.

  ‘We no longer have a Tech team!’ she shouted. ‘The Americans have poached them. They all resigned on Friday evening.’

  ‘How can they do that?’

  ‘Because we forgot to put a notice period in their contracts!’ Martha’s eyeballs cartwheeled. ‘They were the only human beings who knew how to outwit these maddening machines. And they could walk out the door whenever they wanted. Can you believe it?!’

  Howie could believe it. His guess was the VP in charge of Tech had left contractual notice periods to the VP in charge of commercial. The VP in charge of commercial had assumed that kind of thing was for the VP in charge of human resources. And the VP in charge of human resources had been one hundred per cent confident the VP for Tech would have it all covered.

  Martha slumped onto the sofa opposite. ‘We’re at the mercy of the auto-techs now!’ She caught her breath. ‘I was here last week, and got stuck in a broken lift with one of the charmless little dustbins. It refused to diagnose the problem for the first forty-five minutes. And do you know why? Because it was on its “break”.’

  No one liked the auto-techs. They were half the size of humans. But twice as unhelpful. They just seemed to glide around, doing their own thing – occasionally firing a laser into your iris to check who you were. They were Tech with a small ‘t’ – in every sense. The only person who received consistently good service from them was the president – a deliberate ploy by the manufacturers, Howie suspected. Their only other fan was the vice president for Tech, Ivan Bonn. He’d promised that the auto-techs would totally transform government Tech. That was five years ago. Everyone was still waiting.

  Howie’s stomach rumbled. He really needed his breakfast. More importantly, so did his cat, Indie-Day. She went berserk if she wasn’t fed by seven o’clock – all extended claws and swinging paws – and he’d just bought an uber-modern synth-leather sofa. Britt was off for the rest of the week, so she’d be comatose until at least midday. He needed to get back to his pod.