The Ultimate Aphrodisiac Read online

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Jack Herer.

  www.emperorofhemp.com

  A percentage of the royalties from this book is being donated to:

  The Wombat Rescue and Research Project

  Lot 4, Will-O-Wynn Valley

  Murrays Run NSW 2325

  and Avoca Surf Club.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Ultimate Aphrodisiac

  A Message from the Author

  Press Release

  They Call Me Barbara

  Excerpt from Crime Scene Cessnock

  Excerpt from The Wind and the Monkey

  Excerpt from Goodoo Goodoo

  Excerpt from Mud Crab Boogie

  About the Author

  Books by Robert G. Barrett

  Copyright

  The Ultimate Aphrodisiac

  President of the United States, Clifford J. Clooney, swung his black leather cowboy boots off his desk, swivelled round in his chair and stared out over the darkened White House lawns, effectively turning his back on the five men in suits seated around the Oval Office. Secretary of State Kedar Whitfield, Secretary for Defense Jack Werner, Attorney-General Joseph Arnold, Director of the DEA Abelard Sisaric, and Director of the CIA Cutler Holdstock. It hadn’t been a very good day for the elfin-faced, balding, ex-governor of New Mexico with the slightly mismatched eyes. It was now eight in the evening and it didn’t look like being much of a night either. In fact, since he was inaugurated President of the United States of America a month previous, it hadn’t been that good a time at all for Clifford J. Clooney, often referred to as CC.

  In the end there were barely a few hundred votes separating the two candidates and it all came down to one state, Utah. The vote had supposedly been inaccurate. The result dragged on for weeks, before the Democrat nominee Udell Ikin conceded defeat and CC snuck in.

  Not that the Democrat nominee was any rocket scientist. He couldn’t even carry the vote in his own state, North Carolina. But Ikin did win the popular vote, by almost a million. He just didn’t win the election. So staunch Republican and good ol’ boy Clifford Clooney became President of the United States. A man whose biggest claims to fame were winning a line dancing championship in Texas, and a chilli dog eating contest in Arizona. Now he was leader of the most powerful nation on earth, and over half the country hated him. The world was laughing at him. He had a hostile Congress and an equally hostile Senate. Even his own party admitted if ever CC got an idea it would bust his head open. And the newspapers lampooned him by saying that as well as having feet of clay he had matching brains.

  So in an effort to boost his sagging popularity, the newly elected President went for the old White House special: get some military action going. Nothing too major. Just a lot of bombing somewhere or a quick invasion that could be completed without too many casualties. Then welcome the heroic troops home, pin a few medals on some marines in front of the White House, have a ticker tape parade down Fifth Avenue with the stars and stripes flying everywhere, and the God-fearing, patriotic American public automatically thought the sun shone out of your wahzoo. Unfortunately, however, the only military action CC could arrange was to get a school bus bombed in Kosovo killing thirty orphans, three Irish nuns and an Italian doctor.

  The President swivelled back in his chair and ran his eyes along the five grim-faced men seated in front of him; coming back to Secretary for Defense Jack Werner on the left. ‘If these so called SMART bombs are so fuckin smart,’ asked the President icily, ‘how come one of them just killed thirty fuckin orphans? They were supposed to be Muslim terrorists smuggling chemical weapons. For Christ’s sake!’

  Jack Werner nervously cleared his throat. ‘It was just one of those things that happen in war, Mr President,’ he tried to explain. ‘But it’s okay. Even though the raid was our call, we’ve managed to shift the blame onto the French.’

  ‘Oh great,’ replied President Clooney. ‘So what do I do now? Call in the French ambassador for a meeting. Then arrange a press conference and offer my condolences to the parents of the dead orphans?’

  ‘Ahh, with respect Mr President,’ said the Secretary of State. ‘Orphans don’t have parents, sir. That’s why they’re orphans.’

  ‘Kedar, don’t bore me with friggin triviacitys. I’m not in the mood right now.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  As if to take control of the situation, the hatchet-faced Attorney-General, Joseph Arnold, spoke. Arnold was pro-life, pro-gun, pro-death penalty and that far to the right, his idea of a communist was anybody who didn’t eat at McDonalds. ‘Mr President,’ he said. ‘I suggest we step back from this for a moment and get down to basics.’ He looked at the other men next to him then back to CC. ‘Now, apart from the collateral damage to the thirty orphans, who were probably communist sympathisers anyway,’ he added, ‘we all know why we’re here.’

  ‘Well of course we know why we’re here, Joe,’ replied the President, slowly shaking his head. He pointed out the White House window. ‘I gotta instil some confidence in the American people. The sun’s gotta start shining on my back door. All those God-fearing Americans out there need me. And they need a military response, to show they need me. And I intend to give them a good ol’ military response. But not thirty dead orphans on a school fuckin bus.’

  ‘I realise that, Mr President,’ intoned the Attorney-General. ‘And I believe we have something for you, sir.’

  ‘Yeah! What?’ asked CC. ‘Send another squadron of F–15s into Iraq? Jesus H. Christ! That shitty goddamn pile of sand full of ragheads has been bombed more times than the Grateful Dead. Get real, Joe.’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘What we have here, sir, is better than an invasion or a bombing. It’s a rescue mission.’

  ‘A friggin rescue mission,’ exploded the President. ‘Holy shit! The last time we tried that the planes crashed into each other and all we finished up with was photos of some fat-assed Iranian mullah doing the dipsie doodle on our dead soldiers. Jesus! Are we all singing out of the same prayer book here?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean yes, sir. What I mean, sir,’ replied the Attorney-General, ‘is this time, it’s nowhere near the Middle East. It’s in Micronesia.’

  ‘Micronesia?’ The President screwed up his face. ‘Isn’t that Australia’s turf? Ain’t they doing something there in West Timor?’

  ‘That’s East Timor, sir,’ said the Director of the CIA. ‘And it’s Indonesia.’

  ‘Same fuckin thing, Cutler.’

  The Attorney-General turned to the Director of the DEA. ‘Sir, I think it might be best if Abelard explained things.’

  ‘Okay, Abelard,’ gestured CC. ‘You got the chair, boy. Start explaining.’

  The crew-cut Director of the DEA stood up and unfolded a map on a metal stand. He pointed to a barren expanse of blue on the map. ‘Sir. There’s a small island in Micronesia called the Republic of Lan Laroi. Their government is holding two of our DEA agents and a member of the French secret service, and it appears they’re going to execute them. Time magazine found out about it. But it’s only just come to our attention.’

  ‘Executed?’ Being the ex-Governor of a state with the highest execution rate in America, CC looked interested. ‘What for?’

  ‘Bogus drug charges,’ replied the Director of the DEA.

  ‘While at the same time,’ snarled the Attorney-General, ‘the President of the republic is a notorious drug dealer.’

  ‘A notorious drug dealer?’ said CC. ‘What are we talking here? A cocaine cartel? Another Pablo Escobar?’

  ‘Not as such, Mr President,’ said Director Sisaric. ‘Th
ey don’t deal in cocaine or heroin. They sell marijuana.’

  ‘That’s still drugs,’ said the President.

  ‘It sure as hell is, sir!’ thundered the Attorney-General.

  The President peered at the map and shrugged. ‘Lan Laroi? Never heard of the goddamn place. But keep talking.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr President.’ The Director of the DEA placed three dossiers and a thin folder containing a small map and a photo on the President’s desk. The President flicked through the folder while Abelard Sisaric spoke. ‘Like I said, sir, this only just came in and basically, information on Lan Laroi is limited. It’s not a tourist destination and there’s only a thousand people on the island. However, it used to be a United States protectorate until we granted them independence not long after the Vietnam War. Now it’s a republic with its own President. An Australian Vietnam veteran named Ronald Milne. He’s a recluse.’

  The President glanced briefly over the map of Lan Laroi then looked at the photo of Ronald Milne standing at an airport. The photo wasn’t very good and Milne was wearing sunglasses. But under his T-shirt, he looked about medium build, with fair hair and a square jaw. The President perused the remaining contents of the folder and something caught his eye.

  ‘It says here Lan Laroi got a million dollars from the United States government and a quarter of a million dollars from the French government when we granted them independence. Then after that this Milne guy got elected President.’ Clifford Clooney looked directly at the Director of the DEA. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I was coming to that, sir,’ replied Abelard Sisaric. ‘In the fifties America and France were conducting nuclear tests and other experiments in the Pacific. One of our ships, with French help, dumped six containers of radioactive waste on Lan Laroi. The containers eventually started to leak and some of the natives started getting sick. Somehow this Milne guy showed up on the island after the Vietnam War and discovered the containers. He got in touch with Greenpeace and some other environmentalist groups. And to make a long story short, sir, we and the French had to go in and remove the waste. The pay-off to the natives to keep it quiet was a million and a quarter dollars compensation, and independence. Milne organised everything and I guess his quid pro quo was to be elected President of Lan Laroi.’

  ‘He sounds like a bit of a slick dude, this Milne guy,’ said CC.

  ‘Apart from his war background, we don’t have much of a profile on him, sir,’ confessed the Secretary of State. ‘To be honest, Mr President, Lan Laroi got swept under the carpet. We thought it would be covered over with water by now due to global warming.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about fuckin global warming, Kedar,’ said the President. He turned back to the Director of the DEA. ‘So what did Milne, or Lan Laroi, do with the money?’

  ‘Milne bought an old tugboat and a second-hand seaplane. Some went on local infrastructure. The rest was used to start growing and exporting marijuana. And even though they’re low-key in the grand scheme of things, what’s happening on Lan Laroi is contrary to America’s interests in the area.’

  ‘In other words,’ said the President, ‘Milne’s tweaking our noses. Lan Laroi’s dealing dope and getting away with it.’

  ‘Actually, Mr President,’ said the Secretary of State, ‘they manufacture mostly Indian hemp products such as cloth and rope. Something like they do in parts of Europe. But as well as exporting hemp, Lan Laroi does sell quantities of marijuana in drug form.’

  ‘That’s all drug dealing as far I’m concerned,’ scowled the Attorney-General.

  ‘So what are these drug charges they’re holding the three agents on?’ asked CC.

  ‘Well, sir,’ replied the Director of the DEA, ‘the three agents were apprehended on a yacht in Lan Laroi with a kilogram of cocaine. They claim they bought it there. Milne claims they tried to plant it on the island. The agents were found guilty and now they’re in a gaol awaiting execution. President Milne left a formal letter with our consulate in Konipeau. Oddly enough, Lan Laroi’s got very strict laws when it comes to drugs other than marijuana.’

  The President opened a dossier. ‘Let me see who these agents are.’ He looked at a photo of a jowly, thin-faced man with steely grey hair, labelled Deputy Assistant Director DEA, Pacific Region. Then CC roared laughing, ‘Tanton Lee Britt. Christ! I know this lecherous, wife-bashing sonofabitch. He’s an asshole and a drunk. He’d screw anything with a pulse. Jesus! If that prick’s worth saving, I’m Larry out of the Three Stooges.’

  ‘He’s got five children,’ said the Attorney-General.

  ‘That he knows of,’ replied the President, opening another dossier. ‘Kendall Taggart. Can’t say I know him, but he looks like he’s a french fry short of a McHappy meal.’

  ‘He’s got two children, sir. And his wife’s just had another baby,’ said the Attorney-General.

  The President pointed to the dark-haired woman’s photo in the remaining dossier and started laughing again. ‘Clarice De Andrade. She was a goddamn two-bit hooker in Marseilles before she screwed her way into the French secret service. Christ! She’s blown more field agents than the White House Christmas tree’s blown light bulbs.’ The President closed the dossiers and pushed them to the front of his desk. ‘Boys,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘drugs or not, this thing stinks worse than week-old road kill. Let the diplomatic service sort it out.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the Director of the CIA, ‘do you know how they execute prisoners on Lan Laroi?’

  The President shook his head. ‘No. How?’

  ‘They feed them to the sharks.’

  ‘They what!? Jesus H. Christ!’ exclaimed Clooney. ‘What kind of barbarians are we dealing with here? Ain’t these people got an electric chair? A gas chamber?’

  ‘They feed them to the sharks, sir,’ repeated the Director of the CIA with a little more emphasis. ‘It’s a native law going back hundreds of years. This much we do know about the place.’

  The Attorney-General leaned towards CC’s desk. ‘Mr President, if you go in there and get our agents out, you’ll go down in history as the President who saved the fathers of eight children, and an unfortunate woman just doing her duty, from the jaws of death. The jaws of death, sir.’ The President stared at the Attorney-General as he continued. ‘And also, Mr President, think of the photo opportunity. You, sir, standing tall and proud on the White House lawn with our troops, pinning medals on the agents’ chests. And all those little children holding flags and looking up at the man who saved their daddy.’

  The Director of the DEA tilted his head sadly to one side and made an open handed gesture. ‘Or, on the other hand, sir, you can simply forget about them. Bow to a bunch of savages and their native law. And say it’s not our business. There’s nothing America can do about it.’

  The President looked at the men in his inner Cabinet for a moment. Then his jaw firmed and he banged a fist down on the White House desk. ‘Nothing America can do about it, my ass!’ he thundered. ‘We gotta get in there and get those brave boys out. And that poor woman, too.’ CC ran his eyes over the five men again. ‘Okay, gentlemen. What’s the plan?’

  The men all looked at each other and smiled. A collective sigh of relief ran through the inner Cabinet. The Secretary for Defense spoke.

  ‘Sir. It’s dead easy. The prisoners are being held on a small island, roughly a kilometre off Lan Laroi. The helicopter carrier USS Clarke is currently at the Marianas naval base in Guam. We steam to Laroian territorial waters and send in three Sikorsky UH–60 Blackhawk helicopters. Eleven men apiece. The French want in because one of their agents is involved. So one Blackhawk will be crewed with French Legionnaires, the others with American Special Forces. And also, sir, a joint effort with our NATO ally will show there’s no hard feelings on our part for them bombing the bus full of orphans in Kosovo.’

  ‘Good idea,’ nodded the President. ‘Very diplomatic.’

  ‘Sir,’ continued the Secretary for Defense, ‘it’s doubtful the Laroians wi
ll put up a fight. But if they do, so much the better. We’ll obtain a good body count. We get the prisoners out. Fly them back to the USS Clarke, then we go in again with a battalion of marines and demand they hand over President Milne. If they don’t, we’ll take him by force. We liberate Lan Laroi from Milne’s dictatorship. Destroy all the drug crops. And return democracy back to the people of Lan Laroi.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said the President. ‘What about Milne? What do we do with him?’

  ‘We bring him back to the United States, sir,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘Make sure he gets a fair trial. Then if we don’t execute him by lethal injection, see that he gets life imprisonment.’

  The President thought for a moment. ‘What about all those bleeding heart liberals in the press and everywhere else?’ he said. ‘They’re just as likely to take his side and make us out to be the bad guys.’

  ‘Sir,’ the Director of the CIA edged a little closer to the President’s desk. ‘You never know what our Special Forces might find once they start searching that island. When we’ve finished putting the spin doctors through President Milne, he’ll look like a cross between Manuel Noriega, Osama Bin Laden, and …’

  ‘Charles Manson?’ suggested the President.

  ‘Precisely, sir. Who knows what Milne’s been up to out in the Pacific these past years. Remember Grenada, sir?’

  ‘Well, this is right,’ agreed the President, looking around his inner circle ‘He’s probably pals with Castro, Gadaffi, even the goddamn North Koreans.’

  ‘Exactly, Mr President,’ nodded the Attorney-General. ‘And in the eyes of the American people, sir, between freeing our agents, capturing the drug dealer Milne, and liberating the islanders, you’ll look like John Wayne, David Letterman and Elvis all rolled into one. They’ll love you.’

  President Clooney beamed. ‘I like it,’ he hooted. He rubbed his hands together and stomped his cowboy boots on the floor of the Oval Office. ‘Okay, boys. Let’s saddle up and cut these dope-growing pointyheads off at the pass.’