Trade Wars

Trade Wars.

The members of the Security Council had fought bitterly over the
conference table. It had taken days of spittingly, excoriatingly,
bellicose, delicate haggling before the draft of the agreement was
delivered up by the wonderfully rounded secretary in Microsoft livery
to the delegates who were gathered around the TV in the UN green
room.

"War!" whispered the Liberian delegate who was wholly overcome by the
luxury of the presentation case made from the scrotum of a single Kudu
bull that contained his copy. "It's so beautiful, I could cry!" He
started sobbing. The others in the room took no notice, their own
attention being taken up by the dazzling sensuality of their own
presentation cases, thoughtfully personalised by Nauga because they had
the contract to sponsor all UN delegates' presentation materials. The
British delegate stroked the black and white badger skin that encased
his draft and breathed one word, "Nice," while the Venezuelan delegate
didn't say anything because he had fainted in sheer delight the second
he saw his own Anaconda-swathed presentation case.

In Downing Street the Cabinet was agog with the possibilities of the
World's first war fought for commercial profit. "It's totally new,"
gushed the Prime Minister, "a fabulous concept. Now even the losers can
be winners. Get a press release out, will you, Peter.Write the article
yourself. New Millennium starts with a bang, something like
that!"

On the bridge of HMS Kellogg, the Captain decoded the signal he had
received. The computer took only a millisecond to complete this task.
"New War!" he read off the screen, unlit pipe clenched between dazzling
teeth. The Captain only smoked the pipe during photography sessions, at
other times he clenched it unlit because he didn't smoke, but was
constrained to do so by the Benson &; Hedges company. He also
clenched it because it made the muscles contract and emphasised the
lines of his manly jaw.
Across the world in Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne, it was deep night and
the only signals officer at the Admiralty was away on an evening course
in marketing for armed services personnel, so the news didn't break to
the fleet until the conflict was eleven hours old. "Check the
sponsorship contracts for possible conflicts of interest," the
Commodore said importantly. "We're officially at war."
"With whom, Commodore?" enquired his aide-de-camp, diffidently flicking
imaginary dust from the Commodore's sleeve.
"What does it matter, it's war isn't it. War is war!"
"Oh, that's certainly true, Commodore, it's just that if I'm to check
for commercial conflicts it would be helpful to know what countries I
should be alert for when I'm reviewing the sponsorship contracts." The
aide-de-camp arched a blonde eyebrow at a piece of lint that had had
the temerity to settle on the Commodore's impeccable and dazzling white
uniform that bore a label with the word Dynamo on the breast
pocket.
"It's Fiji and the Faroe Islands. They're the enemy."
"And who's on our side, sir?"
"Everyone else."
"Everyone else?"
"Everyone else except those cringing, piss-weak, yellow
Nepalese.They're staying out of it because of some faggoty liberal
trendy idea that war is bad. I wouldn't mind if a few stray shells were
to fall on them!"

The orders were despatched to the fleet and the ship's marketing
officers groaned at the thought of all the extra reports, focus groups
and research projects they'd have to manage during the conflict. The
company brand managers also groaned at the thought of the hours and
hours of meetings they'd have to attend, while the advertising agencies
and the television production companies rang each other to gleefully
discuss the tidal wave of money that was about to break over
them.

Down at the football stadiums, the teams sat disconsolately on the
manicured turf; their massively muscled shoulders slumped. The harassed
managers tried again to explain to their teams that sponsorship money
was suddenly gone and they'd have to go on short wages for a month or
so.
"But I've got a contract, boss!" protested the season's leading try
scorer.
"I've got a contract, too," the manager replied. "And they're cutting
my wages as well."
"It's not fair," the season's leading try scorer expostulated, "I'm the
season's leading try scorer. I've done everything I could possibly do
to make the ANZ Bank the most exciting financial institution in
Australia. I've shed blood." He pointed to the embroidered logo on his
sleeve, which was slightly discoloured by a pinkish stain.
"Look."
"I know how much commitment you've given. I know how much commitment
you've all given. The fact is, there's a war on and we're all going to
have to tighten our belts until it's over."

"We're all going to have to tighten our belts," the Minister of Sport
announced to the Faroe Islands Olympic team at the shabby hotel he had
rented. "There's no money for training until this war is concluded.
You'll have to get used to it. We're fighting this war for the good of
everyone in the Faroe Islands. I know you'll agree that it's for the
common good that sponsorship money is being diverted to the armed
services for a while." The nine members of the Faroe Islands Olympic
Team nodded disconsolately.
But no one was disconsolate in the Faroe Islands Combined Operations
Force. The newly named Corvette John West was being painted from stem
to stern in company livery and the small ship swarmed with designers,
art directors, photographers, wardrobe people, marketing people,
writers, artists, hairdressers and executives as well as the twenty men
and women of the Faroe Islands Combined Operation Force. "Ladies and
gentlemen," boomed the voice of the Chief of Staff throughout the ship,
"War is good. I am now going to hand you over to our sponsor for a few
words"
"Thanks, Bob," the managing director of the major sponsor cooed
mellifluously into the microphone. He would have liked to address the
Combined Operations Force in person, give them a real presentation with
multi-screen video, a live singing chorus and his hand-polished walnut
lectern. It didn't matter, his voice was trained, a throaty-velvety
instrument of love that could hypnotise or galvanise with equal ease.
"I think you're going to love this war. There will be glory and there
will be pathos. But war is a two way street. Certainly, war is a chance
to make something of ourselves, but this opportunity carries with it,
as do so many of life's opportunities, an obligation. An obligation to
ensure that our customers are not disgraced by your slovenly dress, or
foul speech, but are uplifted by your examples of dedication and
courage. I remember my own war experiences vividly. How I
relished&;#8230;"
There was a metallic squawk and the ship's public address system went
silent. A signals tech put his head around the corner of the door and
announced self-importantly, "Sorry, mate - slight glitch. We'll be back
up soon."

In Sydney, J. Walter Thompson had gone on 24 hour alert.
"What's this war about anyway?" asked one of the junior copywriters who
had been given the task of writing a television commercial for one of
the minor sponsors of the Engineer Corps.
"I dunno, it's a war. Does it have to be about anything?" replied the
sleepy creative director who had left a warm bed that wasn't his to
join the all-night creative effort at the agency.
"It would help me write this commercial if I knew what the motivation
was. What's my message?"
The creative director sighed and put down the car magazine he had been
salivating over. "Look, it's us against the Faroe Islanders and the
Fijians, that's all I know."
"What did they do?"
"Nothing, so far as I know."
"What did we do, then?"
"Search me."
"So we're going to beat the shit out of the Faroe Islanders and the
Fijians for no reason. Who's going to buy that!"
"He's right," snapped the Marketing Liaison Officer at the Ministry of
Defence. "Get your people working on a rationalisation for beating the
shit out the Faroe Islands and Fiji. If we're going to beat the shit
out of them, I suppose we'd better have a reason!"

"It's about money," the public relations officer to the United Nations
said wearily down the phone line, "Tell them it's just dynamic market
forces at work. Can you remember that?"

"It's about the free flow of capital," said the creative director to
the junior copywriter five hours later, "work on something about money.
International conspiracy against free market forces, something like
that."

In J. Walter Thompson's London branch in Berkeley Square they had been
on 24 hour alert for days. "Sydney's working on an international gold
heist," said the Account Director, preening his six feet two
pin-striped frame. "Typical Aussies, subtle as a sledge hammer. Pity
we're not at war with them, those uncultured slobs"

On Suva, the tropical sun filtered onto the beach through swaying palm
trees and syrupy guitars played in counterpoint to the percussion of
the surf. "They say we're at war," said the Loyal Opposition Leader,
tearing a leg from a suckling pig that he was roasting over a charcoal
fire.
"I've heard that myself," replied his Deputy. "Does anyone else know?
Apart from us, I mean."
"The Government knows, one supposes."
"Yes, I suppose it must. It's hard to believe that anyone else does,
though. I mean, with only one television to seventy-three people, one
telephone to ten people and only fifty-six people out of every thousand
glancing at a newspaper, it wouldn't get around would it."
"Quite so, dear boy. Do help yourself to one of these roasted yams, by
the way, they're quite delicious."
"Thanks, I will."
There was a loud slobbering and lip-smacking as the two men gorged on
the Fijian delicacies.
"That was delicious, thanks. Have you heard who we're at war
with?"
"Everyone is my understanding of it, excepting the Faroe
Islanders."
"Everyone including the Americans?"
"Yes, including the Americans."
"I think our best course is to surrender, don't you?"
"The timing's tricky, though."
"Yes, timing your surrender is always the trickiest thing about it,
I've found."
"If we time our surrender until the Americans come into the war, then
no one can accuse us of cowardice, wouldn't you agree?"
"And as the Americans only ever enter a war right at the end, it should
work very well."
"I agree. At the first opportunity, I'll drop a word in the ear of the
President to let him know we won't stand in the way of a timely
surrender to the Americans. The Americans will make a nice
change."

At the White House, there was no such harmony of purpose.
"We have to enter the war now, Mr. President! I cannot recommend this
more strongly," barked the White House Marketing Strategist who was
putting his case as strongly as he could without wrestling the
President to the floor and putting him in an Indian Death Lock.
"Why's that, son?" replied the President, apprehensively eyeing the
Marketing Strategist's bulging thigh muscles that were twitching
beneath the fabric of his skin tight Faberge jeans.
"The reputation of American industry is at stake, sir. We stand to lose
the marketing initiative if we hesitate, Mr. President."
"Why's that, son?" replied the President.
"Campaigns are being formulated even now, sir, by our allies, without
our input. There are peripheral considerations, too, television series,
films, albums, not to speak of spin-offs such as toys, computer games,"
the Presidential Marketing Strategist paused, to regain control of
himself. "We're in danger of losing our market position, Mr.
President!"
"Shoot, son, you're getting yourself all in a lather over a few
gew-gaws," said the President, guffawing in a patronising way that made
the White House Marketing Strategist feel like a ten-year-old boy,
instead of the mature twenty-two-year-old that he actually was.
The President got up from behind his desk and went around to where the
marketing strategist was shedding tears of frustration. The President
put his arm around him.
"Now then, son, I'm going to let you in on one of the great secrets of
US war policy," he said. "You know why we have the reputation of
waiting until the end to join our allies in war?"
The Presidential Marketing Strategist let out a muffled, unrequited
bleat from behind his handkerchief.
"Well, I'll tell you. It's because the very fact of our joining tends
to bring about the premature conclusion of conflict. We don't go in at
the end, we bring about the end."
The President took his arm from around the young man and strode back to
his desk and sat down. He put two cowboy-booted feet on the desk. "Now,
what do you think all those companies would do if we went and bombed
the shit out of the Faroe Islands, or, God forbid, the Fijians and they
surrendered. The war would be over, everything would be covered in
shit. No opportunities for marketing spin-offs, no musical albums about
the glory of the conflict. There'd be no heroes, no films, no
television series and no sponsorship money!"
The President paused to allow the White House Marketing Strategist to
blow his nose. "We'll wait as we always do, until we can take maximum
advantage of the confusion and destruction. Then we'll go in with
Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis and Tom Hanks leading the charge, maybe
even Arnold Schwarzenegger." The President leaped to his feet in joyous
anticipation of the glory ahead. "Goddammit, where are John Wayne and
Audie Murphy when you really need them! And Burt Lancaster,
forgodsake!"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I said where the hell is Burt Lancaster!"
"I don't know, sir, I could ask someone&;#8230;"
"Don't bother, son," said the President, sitting back down again.
"They're all gone. It's your day now. The new men have come. The
cameras will roll, industry will pour American products into the
markets of the winners and losers and we'll clean up."
"Yes, sir, I'm sure you're right," agreed the young marketing
strategist.
"You're goddamn right, I'm right," replied the President.

"Where the hell are the Faroe Islands anyway," spat the navigator
petulantly into his oxygen mask in the belly of the bomber that was
part of the black cloud of planes that was hissing in the stratosphere
somewhere over Northern Europe. "What idiot sent us to war against a
country you can't even find."
"Navigator, do we have a problem?" enquired the earnest young pilot in
his splendid new
Adidas flight suit from the pressurised isolation of his cockpit.
"Problem?" replied the navigator, opening his Times World Atlas.
"Problem? Why, yes, Captain, we do have a problem. Someone has
sabotaged our charts. They've substituted them for maps from which
every trace of the Faroe Islands has been removed."
"Oh, " said the pilot in consternation. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Captain, I have scoured every inch of every map and chart we have
on board without discovering the merest trace of the Faroe
Islands."
"Does anyone on board know where the Faroe Islands are?" asked the
pilot of any of his crew of fifteen who might be listening.
"I've found the Falkland Islands, we could bomb those I s'pose," said
the navigator, holding his thumb in a page of the atlas.
"How far are they, navigator?" asked the pilot.

"Seven thousand miles, give or take a hundred."
"Hey, I've only signed on for a three hour flight," interrupted the
tinny-voiced bombardier. "Anything over that is double time."
"I'd better radio base for instructions," said the pilot.
"Yes, you radio base while I work out a course for home."

The Australian Commodore was beside himself with effulgent rage. His
aide-de-camp
watched him with growing interest as his face changed colour like a
heated bar of metal. "When he gets to white, he's going to explode or
melt, just like steel," he thought.
The Commodore stormed around the operations room, "Are you telling me
that we can't bomb Fiji! They're the bastards that stole our gold,
aren't they! What's the use of being at war if you can't bomb the shit
out of your enemies and reduce them to whimpering corpses, I'd like to
know."
"I'm sorry, sir, but those are the orders from the Command Bunker. Do
not bomb Fiji in any event it says here." He held up a message flimsy.
"It's signed the Supreme Commander."
"The Supreme Commander?"
"Yes, sir, the Supreme Commander."
"Who is this cringing, nancy boy who styles himself the Supreme
Commander and prevents us from doing our job, eh?"
"He's the Supreme Commander, sir."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know, sir. It just says the Supreme Commander."
In fact, the Supreme Commander was a Lance Corporal in signals who
owned beachfront property in Suva and who didn't want to see his
investment ruined by a lot of smoking craters and dead tourists.
While the Commodore was blowing a fuse in the operations centre, Lance
Corporal Watson was despatching his orders on Fiji to all the Allies
under a Most Urgent seal. He added 'don't send the fleet either' as an
afterthought.
"Okay, we'll send the Fleet and shell the bastards into the Stone
Age!"
The message machine spat out another flimsy. The aide-de-camp read
it.
"Er, sorry, sir. It's another message from the Supreme Commander. It
says 'don't send the fleet, either'."
The aide-de-camp stood diffidently by while the Commodore fumed and
cracked his knuckles like a machine gun.
"Where can I bomb then?" he asked finally.
"You can bomb the Faroe Islands, sir."
"Where the hell are they?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You don't know?"
"No, sir."
"No idea, eh?"
The aide de camp worried at a nail, "I believe they're somewhere in
Europe, to the north, in the sea."
The Commodore's face changed colour again, "That's twelve thousand
miles away. Twelve thousand bloody miles away. I want to start bombing
now, dammit!"
"You did mention that you'd like to bomb Nepal, sir."
"Nepal, you say. They're the toadying crypto commie weakling liberals
who refused to fight, aren't they?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they've got our gold, too. It's just the
sort of underhand trick people like that would pull. Think they can
hide behind a neutrality pact while they steal our moolah, do
they!"
"I dare say, sir."
"I'm not going to let them get away with it."
"Quite right, sir. I wouldn't stand for it."
"You're right, bomb the shit out of the bastards. Send 'em to
hell!"
Lance Corporal Watson scarcely blinked when the message came in from
Canberra to attack Nepal. Dutifully, he rerouted it to all Allied
Forces in the Theatre of Operations and then rang his mother to tell
her he'd be a little late for dinner.

Out in the North Sea the members of the Faroe Islands Combined
Operations Force were battling wave-whipping winds and a lurching
deck.
"How can I be expected to work like this," asked a set designer who was
attempting to lash a banner to the focsle that said 'Only the best is
good enough for John West'. "I can feel myself beginning to turn, I
can, I can."
"You turned years ago, ducky," cackled one of the hairdressers who was
attending to the Task Force Commander who wanted to look his very best
when they stormed the Isle of Wight. Ten miles overhead, the flight of
bombers passed unnoticed.

"Control said we should proceed to our alternates," said the skinny
radio operator to his pilot.
"Okay, proceeding to our alternates," replied the pilot unsealing the
crisp white envelope with 'A Product of Hallmark. Cards and Stationery
for Every Occasion' printed on the front.
"It says our first alternate is Fiji, navigator."
"Fiji, eh. They must be the other bastards who stole our gold!"
The navigator opened his Atlas to the index and ran his thumb down
until he came to the page number for Fiji.
"Oh oh," he whistled through his teeth.
"Do we have another problem, navigator?" said the pilot.
"You could say that. Fiji's ten thousand miles away."
"I'm getting really sick of this," the antiwarfare officer sounded very
far away although he was seated only a few feet behind the
cockpit.
"Well, don't blame me," shouted the pilot over the intercom. "This is
war, isn't it! Where does it say you only need to attack targets that
are close to home in the manual of warfare."
The antiwarfare officer grumbled to himself and began playing with his
switches and dials.
"I hope you're not being unpatriotic. It was these bastards that stole
our gold remember."
The antiwarfare officer didn't reply.
"Er, pilot, I say there, is there another, perhaps slightly closer
alternative target." asked the navigator interrupting politely.
Muttering about ungrateful personnel who didn't know when they were
well off, the pilot opened a telemetry channel to base and pressed a
sequence of keys on the transmitter pad.
There was a pause of a few seconds, before it chattered a reply. A slip
of paper issued from the transmitter slot. The pilot tore it off and
read it carefully.
"Okay, Navigator, I think we've got something here."
The slip of paper contained two lines of type. The first line said
'Nepal', the second said 'This slip entitles the holder to a special
meal deal at Kentucky Fried Chicken.' The Navigator tucked the slip
away carefully in one of the zipped pockets of his Adidas flight
suit.
"Set a course for Nepal, navigator. Radioman, arrange a rendezvous with
a tanker so we can refuel after we drop our load." The pilot was the
essence of brisk efficiency as he knocked the huge plane off the
autopilot and swung away to the East. The flight of bombers
followed.

When the Faroe Islands Combined Operations Force arrived off Cowes,
Isle of Wight the military personnel and the marketing people were all
as sick as dogs. The wardrobe lady, foreseeing such an eventuality
because that was her job, had kept aside a full set of London Fog
uniforms. The men and women of the Faroe Islands Combined Operations
Force might look like hell, but they were still going to be
immaculately dressed when they stormed the shore for the benefit of the
cameras.
The coxswain of the John West was having trouble holding course, not
because of the swell although that was certainly big, but because of
other craft in the water. He'd never seen such aquatic activity in his
entire career as a coxswain. A yacht, heeling over on her rail appeared
over the crest of a wave and swooped down its slope directly at the bow
of the Faroe Isle cutter. The coxswain altered course just in
time.
"You bloody idiot," a voice yelled from the stern of the disappearing
yacht, "get off the course!"
The coxswain who had been trained in the German navy, was incensed. He
turned to remark on the discourtesy of local sailors to the Officer of
the Watch and failed to notice another yacht that was plunging towards
him until it was too late and the pride of the Faroe Islands navy was
struck heavily amidships.

The sun dipped like a globule of lava into the sea off Suva. The Leader
of Fiji's Loyal Opposition was in the apartments of the President
nervously sipping a cocktail that had been served to him in a coconut
shell. He had come at once at the request of the President and had been
cooling his heels for two hours in an anteroom while two huge and
impassive Fijian soldiers guarded the door. It was his third coconut
cocktail. At last the door swept open and the President strode into the
room.
"My dear fellow, " boomed the President holding his arms wide open as
if he was going to embrace the Leader of the Loyal Opposition, or crush
him.
The Leader rose nervously to his feet, "General," he stuttered.
"Now, my dear chap, sit down and let us discuss our strategy for the
conduct of this little war we seem to have got ourselves involved
in."
"As you wish, General," said the Opposition Leader sinking back
gratefully into his chair.
The President lowered his massive hams into another chair, specially
reinforced for the purpose of supporting the presidential bottom and
leaned forward. His nose was only inches from the Opposition Leader's
face, but the Opposition Leader didn't dare shrink back.
"As you know, my dear fellow, " the President began. "We have been at
war for three days. Casualties are very heavy and hospitals are
starting to run out of resources."
The Leader of the Loyal Opposition was dumbfounded, "They are?"
"Yes, they are. I'm surprised that you weren't aware of this. Does
nobody in Fiji watch the television or read the newspaper?"
"I happen to have some statistics on that very matter, General," said
the Leader, grateful that he was able to appear so well informed and
erudite in front of his President.
"You do," exclaimed the General. "How delightful."
"Yes, I have it on reliable authority that only fifty-six Fijians in
every thousand read a newspaper and only one person in seventy-three
owns a television. Moreover, only one person in ten is actually on the
telephone!"
"What an amazingly well-informed fellow you are, Opposition Leader."
They beamed at each other. "Educated chaps like yourself should be in
government, you know."
The Leader of the Loyal Opposition was thrilled to have his talents
recognised by so august a person as the President.
"But that being as it may, it doesn't conceal the fact that we are in a
State of Emergency, liable to be overrun at any moment, the fabric of
Fijian society rent asunder, possibly permanently. There is only one
thing that can save us."
"The Americans, President?" The Opposition Leader enquired
eagerly.
"The Americans! What an extraordinary thing to say. The Americans are
our enemy. How can you possibly suggest that the Americans can do
anything to help us, unless you are an agent provocateur and have
something to gain from helping the Americans secure a foothold in our
country."
The Opposition Leader was aghast.
"I can assure the President that nothing could be further from the
truth. Why, I would be the first to take up arms and help hold the
beaches against them."
"I'm pleased to hear it. No, the salvation I refer to is less military,
more commercial."
"Commercial, President?"
"Yes, commercial."
The Opposition Leader was mute, his mouth a small rounded hole formed
by the pursed lips of astonishment.
"Would the President be more specific," he asked finally.
"Yes," The President smiled a grim smile of satisfaction. "I am
negotiating a contract and I want your co-operation."

The Adidas advertising manager was getting worried. It was the first
time he'd ever been in a military plane and he was amazed at how
spartan it was. No matter which way he arranged his legs and body he
couldn't find a position that was tolerable for more than a few
minutes. The space where they'd pushed him was uniformly grey. He had
nothing to read and nothing to listen to except the droning of the
engines because they hadn't plugged him into the communication circuit.
On top of that the flight was turning out to be interminable. To treat
the representative of a major sponsor in such a shabby way was
disgraceful, and he had already framed a couple of pithy memos in his
mind that would be committed to paper as soon as they landed. If they
ever did land. He heard clumping above his head, then an arm extended
into his cubbyhole from the hatchway above and grasped the epaulette of
his snappy flight suit with the Adidas logo.

The Captain of the HMS Kellogg with the pipe clenched firmly in his
granite jaw leaned over the bridge rail and posed for the photographer.
Above their heads the funnel streamed smoke and the Captain's pipe also
streamed smoke that mingled with the funnel smoke over the ship's wake.
It was a glorious image. The voyage had been full of glorious images;
the lean young men and women of the ship's company joyfully tucking in
to their breakfast corn flakes to fortify them for the coming conflict;
the ship's guns spitting fire while the gun crews diligently peeled and
ate Kellogg's muesli bars. And most glorious of all, the ship steaming
at night, the neon sign on the bridge flashing a message of healthy
nutrition to the fleet.
"Signal, sir." The lean, young signalman deferentially handed the
flimsy to the Captain while the photographer snapped off another
roll.
"What's it say?" The Captain was damned if he was going to waste a good
photo opportunity in order to read some out-of-date weather
report.
"It says 'shell Nepal', sir."
"What?"
"The message says we should shell Nepal."
"Who the hell has the temerity to send us orders while we're arrayed
for battle, I'd like to know!"
"The message is signed by the Supreme Commander, sir."
"The Supreme Commander, eh?"
"Yes, sir. The Supreme Commander says we should shell Nepal."
"How the hell are we going to do that!"
"I don't know, sir."
"What do you mean, you don't know. Why are you bringing me nonsensical
messages? Take it back and decode it properly."
The signalman scurried off the bridge and returned almost
immediately.
" Signal, sir."
"Well, I certainly hope you've got it right this time, young man.
What's it say?"
"Shell Naples, sir."
"Now that's better, Signalman. That's a signal that makes sense. You
can see that, can't you? Nepal is inside the Asian land mass and
therefore impossible to shell from a ship, while Naples is in the Bay
of Naples which is somewhere on the Italian coast and therefore easily
accessible to ships. We can stand off the beach and pour high explosive
into Naples to our heart's content."
"Yes, sir. I promise to be more careful next time." The signalman
retreated to his cubbyhole relieved that he had rescued himself from a
sticky situation.
The ships of the fleet heeled and set course for the Mediterranean,
leaving a creamy wake. The wardrobe mistresses on board the ships broke
out the Summer uniforms and checked that the sponsors' logos were all
correctly placed on the collars of the shirts and the back pockets of
the shorts and not missing or sewn on upside down as sometimes happened
when the child workers in the factories of South East Asia were left
unsupervised for a couple of hours.

The Adidas advertising manager was filled with confused and bitter
rage. First, he'd been stuffed into a hole the size of a filing cabinet
without so much as a book to read, then he'd been dragged
unceremoniously down an access shaft to the cockpit by the antiwarfare
officer who had changed his official Adidas hat for a Nike cap to show
his contempt for all authority. It was in contradiction of every
convention of commerce and the marketing manager was going to make
someone pay. He screamed at the pilot but he only gazed back at him in
bemused incomprehension before handing the advertising manager a
helmet. It took a moment before he realised that he was supposed to put
it on. He wriggled his head inside the helmet and immediately heard the
voice of the pilot. It was a young, strong voice, full of command and
vigour. The advertising manager decided to speak to him after the
mission about doing voice-overs. It was a damn shame to waste such a
talent. His anger subsided
"Sir, I should advise you," said the pilot thrillingly, "that we have
been ordered to attack our alternate targets."
"We're not going to the Faroe Islands then, Captain?"
"No, sir, we are proceeding to one of our alternate targets."
"Which one, Captain?"
"Nepal."
The Adidas Marketing Manager was again incensed. No one had the
courtesy to consult him about anything! It was an unforgivable breach
of marketing etiquette. He groped for Saatchi's Pocket Marketing
Almanac, which he always carried in his breast pocket before realising
that he had left it in his jacket in the flight ready room at the RAF
base at Brize Norton.
"Who ordered you to attack Nepal, Captain?" he snapped.
"It's one of our alternates."
"But what about the Faroe Islands, there are marketing and advertising
people waiting for us to arrive!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but our charts and maps have been sabotaged. It's
Nepal, I'm afraid, or Fiji."
"Sabotaged? Who would do such a thing?" asked the Adidas Marketing
Manager incredulously.
"I don't know, sir," replied the pilot, his voice throbbing with
gravity.
The Marketing Manager remembered the antiwarfare officer in the Nike
cap.
"No matter, I'll investigate this later. So it's Nepal or Fiji, you
say? Well, it can't be Fiji, Captain. It may surprise you to know that
the Fijians don't give a fig about media communication. They don't read
newspapers, they don't watch TV and they hardly ever talk on the
telephone. It's an utterly useless place to market products in. What
sort of society is that!"
"A Pacific Island society, I suppose," said the Captain.
"Anyway," continued the advertising manager, "I concur with your
decision to bomb Nepal. I seem to remember that it's positioned in the
Asian landmass and therefore strategically situated to give us access
to several multi-billion pound markets. The possibilities for synergy
are most exciting." He settled himself in the copilot's seat. "Do you
mind if I just sit here for a while and work out a few marketing
strategies, old chap," he enquired winningly.

The MV American Express of the Royal Cowes Yacht Club had taken the
heavily listing Corvette John West in tow. Below decks there was
pandemonium as the crew tried to rescue their best uniforms and the
film production people attempted to salvage their cameras and
videotapes. A camera assistant collided with one of the Marines and
dropped the pile of cassettes he was carrying. They smashed onto the
sloping deck and skittered against the bulkhead. A make-up artist ran
up and down in spike heels dabbing a make-up sponge on any military
face that came within reach. The production assistants were attempting
to bring the chaos under control by taking orders for lunches and
talking to each other with brisk self-importance on walkie-talkies. On
deck, the commercials director in a black Steven Spielberg cap was
envisaging the opening scene.
"Okay," he said to the Faroe Islands Combined Operations Force
Commander, "I want all the cast on the starboard rail when we hit the
beach. The light's better for the shot there."
"Is it?" said the Commander who had been in public relations the week
before and wasn't quite sure which side was starboard.
"Yes. When the ship lands I want all your people to leap over the rail
and charge up the beach before scaling the cliff." The director turned
to his assistant who was waiting at his side for instructions. "You'd
better keep the crew below decks so they don't get in shot." He turned
back to the Commander, "Okay, Captain, your position is on the bridge.
You'll have the loud hailer and I want you to shout encouragement to
the troops as they charge the beach."
"What do I say?"
"Anything you like, we'll overdub your voice in post production."

For the umpteenth time the Adidas Marketing Manager, who was slumped in
the copilot's seat of the bomber, regretted leaving his personal copy
of Saatchi's Pocket Marketing Almanac behind at RAF Brize Norton. While
he personally knew nothing of Nepal, he knew that the little purple
book would have chapter and verse on every brand of packaged goods,
white goods, articles of apparel, video equipment, cosmetics, hardware
and leisure goods available in the country. It would tell the reader
whether the inhabitants preferred single ply toilet tissue or double,
jelly babies or toffees, pornography or religious literature. It was
the fount of commerce to those who knew how to apply such knowledge.
Saatchi's Pocket Marketing Almanac was a tool as earth-shatteringly
influential as the corkscrew in shaping modern society and unlocking
people's wallets. But he didn't have it with him. He hoped that the
oversight wouldn't prove as pivotal as he feared it might

The sun rose out of the ocean off Fiji dripping fire. The streets of
Suva were dusty and deserted apart from dogs that joyfully scavenged in
the restaurant rubbish bins.
The Leader of the Loyal Opposition pedalled his bicycle with weary
legs, too tired even to kick the dogs that snapped and snarled at his
wheels. He hadn't worked so hard for years and his brain swam with
statistics, demographics and business analyses that had been thrust
under his nose for him to countersign during the all-night session with
the President and the commercial delegation who had flown in the
morning before. The world had become a strange place to him and he felt
woefully inadequate and quite unable to cope. He just wanted to curl up
in bed and play spoons with his wife and maybe do a little fishing in
the evening. It wasn't much to ask, he thought.

"Eight minutes to the target, pilot," said the navigator.
"Thank you, navigator," replied the pilot. "Eight minutes to the
target, men," he repeated to the bomber's crew. "Arm the missiles,
bombardier. Stand by with electronic counter measures, antiwarfare
officer." Every crew member had a role in the approaching attack.
"Is there anything I can do, pilot," enquired the Adidas advertising
manager.
The pilot's attention was taken up with avoiding flying into one of the
snow-capped mountains that reared in front of him and trying to see
anything that remotely resembled a military target in the wilderness
below.
"Not at the moment, sir."
"Perhaps I could address the men then." The Adidas advertising manager
was particularly proud of his public speaking; he had majored in it
while studying for his degree in Media Studies.
"I'm afraid the men are busy at the moment preparing for the attack.
Later might be a better time, if that's okay." The pilot was anxious
not to offend their sponsor. He glanced nervously at him.
"There is something you could do, though."
"Just ask, pilot, don't be afraid."
"Well, sir, would you mind awfully returning to your station. You're
sitting in the copilot's seat and while that's okay during normal
flight, it would be flouting regulations for you to stay there during
the actual attack. The copilot should really be sitting there."

King Birendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev of Nepal was having lunch with his
Prime Minister, Giriga Prasad Koirala when the thunderous reverberation
of jet engines intruded through the gilded windows of the Royal Palace
in Katmandu.
"What is that noise, Prime Minister?" asked the King.
"I do not know, Your Majesty. Perhaps it is an avalanche. Or it could
be thunder."
"It is very loud, too loud for it to be an avalanche, don't you think,
and it is early in the season for storms."
"As always, Your Majesty, you are the essence of astuteness. In truth,
I have no idea what it causing that noise and it appears to be growing
louder. It is quite distracting, I have to admit."
The King clapped his hands and a servant magically appeared at his
elbow.
"Would you to investigate that noise, please " said the King
politely
The servant bowed deeply and scampered off, her bare feet slapping on
the stone floor.

The Fleet arrived in the Bay of Naples and took up battle array in
preparation for the bombardment. The people of Naples had not seen
anything so stirringly magnificent since Il Duce had paraded the
Italian Army through the streets eighty years before. The beaches began
to fill up with gaily dressed families whose children scampered happily
in and out of the sea kicking sand on oiled and sleek German tourists
who grumbled their displeasure and blamed parents everywhere for the
collapse of society. An enterprising shop owner who only that morning
had been facing ruin after a slow tourist season began selling his
surplus stock of frozen dehydrated pizzas at five times the normal
price to a growing crowd of enthusiastic sightseers.
"There's a lot of activity on the beach, sir," said the First Officer
to his Captain.
"Are they digging in, Number One?" asked the Captain.
"They don't seem to be, sir."
"Any artillery, pill boxes, that sort of thing?"
"Not that I can see, Captain."
"What are they doing then?"
"They appear to be waving, sir."
"We'll soon put a stop to that, Number One. Can't have the enemy
mocking us like that, can we? Give them a whiff of grape shot, that'll
send them packing."
The First Lieutenant hesitated. "Sir, we are in the right place, aren't
we?"
The Captain took his pipe out of his mouth. His jaw relaxed into a
state of slack weakness. "That's what the orders said, didn't they,
shell Naples? You don't suggest that we ignore orders do you, Number
One?"
"Not at all, sir. It's just that we're not actually at war with Italy.
The people on the beach appear to be civilians."
A horrible doubt crept into the Captain's mind, "Civilians?"
"Yes, sir, civilians."
"What the hell are civilians doing in a battle zone! They're not
civilians, they're partisans who want us to believe that they're
civilians in order to get under our guard and attach limpet mines to
our hull."
As if to confirm the Captain's fears, a rating called from the rail,
"Boat approaching from the beach."
The Captain returned the pipe to his mouth. "There, you see, Number
One. Prepare to fire."
The First Lieutenant trained his naval binoculars on the approaching
craft. "It's a pedalo, sir, only one person on board."
The pizza vendor had had a wonderful morning. He'd made so much money
selling instant frozen dehydrated pizzas on the beach that he had
almost enough money to be able to afford to close his shop and spend
the whole winter with his relatives in Sydney. In an inspired moment of
enterprise, he'd lashed the last five cases of instant frozen
dehydrated pizzas on the pedalo and paddled out to where the great
ships lay wallowing in the bay.
When the pedalo arrived at the flagship the crew lowered a line and net
and winched the pizza vendor with his five cases of instant frozen
dehydrated pizzas on board. As soon as he'd tumbled onto the deck the
crew clustered around him, anxious to taste even a reconstituted pizza
after the blandness of their normal rations. The Fleet Marketing
Director convened an extraordinary meeting with the Kellogg's
representative and the Captain on the boat deck. The Kellogg's
representative was not pleased.
"It won't do, I'm afraid, Captain. The sponsorship contract states
quite clearly that only our products are to be eaten on the voyage.
You're in breach of the agreement by allowing the crew to eat instant
frozen dehydrated pizzas," the Kellogg's representative announced
firmly. "And anyway, what are we doing here?"
The Captain gripped his pipe firmly, "Orders."
"Nobody told me that we were going to attack Italy. I thought we were
at war with the Faroe Islands and Fiji," said the Kellogg's
representative.
"Secret orders," snapped the Captain, fearful that he might have made a
monumental cock-up.
The Fleet Marketing Director decided to intervene. "I've been having a
bit of a gander at Saatchi's Pocket Marketing Almanac while you chaps
were trying to sort out this pizza thingy. I took a brief glance at the
Fleet Mission Statement, too, and I think I may have a solution.
Apparently, the World is ripe for the introduction of a time-saving
edible product such as instant frozen dehydrated pizzas. The Mission
Statement says that new products may be acquired in warfare, so, why
doesn't Kellogg's merge with this Italian chappie, take him into the
fold, as it were and exclusively contract his services and his pizzas."
The Fleet Marketing Director leaned back nonchalantly, "It seems to me
that a hostile take-over would solve everything. Of course, we might
have to drop a few shells on the foreshore in order to stick to the
rules, but that shouldn't be a problem, should it, Captain?"
As far as the Captain was concerned, it wouldn't be a problem at all.
He left it to his First Lieutenant to work out the details and hurried
out of the meeting to buy a pizza before the crew ate the lot. As
darkness settled, the crowds on the beach dispersed and the only
witnesses to the spectacular waterspouts that occurred in the breakers
were some fishermen and the pedalo concessionaire who was waiting
anxiously for the return of his boat.

The Faroe Islands Combined Force was exhausted. They'd cut their tow
one hundred yards from the beach at Cowes and allowed the tide to wash
them in. The director with the black Steven Spielberg director's cap
had made them repeat the landing scene over and over again until he was
satisfied. Then he'd made them climb the cliff five times. Finally,
he'd called a wrap and gone off to a local hotel for the night, leaving
the production staff to arrange accommodation for the crew and military
personnel, wash and press the uniforms and arrange for the processing
of the film that had been exposed.

Lance Corporal Watson was also exhausted. The Nerve Centre had been
buzzing with messages for days and he'd hardly had a minute to himself
in all that time. When the telex stopped clattering for a moment he
glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was 4.30 pm. During the brief
pause the telephone rang.
"Is that you, Trevor?" said his mother on the other end of the
line.
"Yes, Mum, it's me," replied Lance Corporal Watson
disconsolately.
"Are you all right, love?" she asked with concern, "You haven't been
home for days and I was worried about you. I've just put a lovely
hotpot in the oven for you."
"Thanks, Mum," said Lance Corporal Watson. "I'll try and get home for
dinner tonight."
"All right, love. Don't work too hard and remember to look after
yourself."
"Okay, Mum. 'Bye." Lance Corporal Watson replaced the telephone and
gazed morosely at the paper that the telex had started to spew onto the
floor. There were yards and yards of it. Lance Corporal Watson decided
he'd had quite as much as he could stand. He pulled a keyboard towards
him and pecked out a message, "Cease all hostilities. By Order of the
Supreme Commander."

"Thirty seconds to target, missiles and smart bombs locked on," said
the pilot.
The gilded palace, its spires and minarets twinkling in the clear, thin
air of the Himalayas grew in size through the cockpit screen of the
lead bomber. The pilot crouched over his controls concentrating on the
target ahead while the copilot inched the throttles to keep the huge
aircraft just above the treetops. The flight of bombers flew in perfect
formation as if invisible wires attached them to each other, each with
its missiles and smart bombs locked on to the Nepalese king's
palace.
"Message just received, pilot." The radio operator's voice was
breathless with urgency.
"Can't it wait," replied the pilot irritably, "I'm locked on
here."
"Urgent message from the Supreme Commander, sir."
"Now what!" said the antiwarfare officer under his breath.
"Okay, go ahead," said the pilot tersely, "But it had better be urgent,
or there'll be trouble."
"Message reads, 'Cease all hostilities, by order of the Supreme
Commander'."

King Birendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev and his Prime Minister, Giriga Prasad
Koirala had steadily raised their voices as the thunder of the
approaching bombers grew in volume. Now the noise was so loud they had
to hold their hands over their ears and scream at each other. Before
the noise reached that level where the entire palace would be shaken
from its foundations it began to diminish until it became the merest
background rumble, like water in old pipes, before vanishing
completely. The servant who had been despatched to discover the source
of the noise returned on pattering feet and bent to whisper in the
King's ear. He nodded that he had understood and the servant retreated
to the anonymity of the shadows.
"Well, that is certainly better, Your Majesty. I cannot remember a
noisier lunch," said the Prime Minister.
"Quite true, Prime Minister," said the King.
"Was anyone able to ascertain the cause of the noise, at all, Your
Majesty?"
The King smiled at his Prime Minister. "Apparently, my servant
consulted the palace soothsayer and he said that it was&;#8230;" the
King grinned broadly.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"He said it was God."
The Prime Minister also grinned in response to the King's obvious
amusement.
"God?"
"Yes, God. What a simple and delightful people we govern, Prime
Minister, is it not indeed so?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty. Quite so."

Thighs twitching threateningly, his fundiform buttocks thrusting
arrogantly against the seat of his tailored jeans, the White House
Marketing Strategist strode down one of the myriad corridors intent on
retribution. He burst into the Oval Office where the National Security
Advisor was briefing the President. The President looked up and smiled
in welcome.
"Well, son, I expect you've come to tell me that the war's over and
that we are not one of the major delegates at the peace negotiations
because we were not one of the protagonists, even though you advised me
that we should get in early."
The wind had been taken completely out of the sails of the young
marketing strategist.
His thighs ceased their agitated twitching and his buttocks sagged.
"That's about the size of it, Mr. President," he stuttered.
"Well, son, I'm happy to admit that you were correct all along. The
National Security Advisor and I were just going over what to do about
this outbreak of premature peace and I believe we've come up with a
workable option."
"You have, sir?"
"Yes, son, we have. I believe that America's status as a World power
allows us to have an observer at the peace negotiations. How'd you like
to go along?"
The White House Marketing Strategist swelled with pride and his
buttocks sprang erect, re-inflating the seat of his jeans. "I'd be both
pleased and proud to accept the appointment, Mr. President."
"Good, well, you just run along home and start packing while the
National Security Advisor and I work out the details."
"Thank you, " gasped the young man. "I'll make you proud, sir." He left
beaming a smile of victory.
When the door of the Oval Office clicked shut the President opened a
drawer of his desk and took out a half-pint of Wild Turkey bourbon. He
took a swig and offered the bottle to the National Security Advisor who
also gulped a mouthful of the pungent, burning spirit.
The President watched him, glowing with bonhomie.
"Ah, Wild Turkey, best goddamn bourbon in America, God knows why we
ever signed up with that other brand, it's bilgewater. You know, I have
to drink Wild Turkey in secret. Even my wife doesn't know I prefer Wild
Turkey, did you know that, Bob?"
"Yes, sir," admitted the National Security Advisor, "you told
me."
"Anyway, now we're getting rid of that snot-nosed little bastard to the
peace conference we can get down to some serious old-fashioned
marketing, American-style. None of this demographic analysis, mission
statement, focus group bullshit, we're going on gut feel and sales talk
like we used to. Now, go over that list of unstable governments again,
will you. God, it's good to be back in the saddle again!"

During the final stages of the bombing run when the plane was careering
along the valleys of Nepal, the Adidas Advertising Manager had wet
himself through fear and because he couldn't find a toilet on board the
bomber. Now his snappy Adidas flight suit, although immaculate above
the waist, was a stinking, yellow disgrace from belt to knee. When the
bombers arrived back at RAF Brize Norton and the crew disembarked he
had hung back in shame until the Bengali aircraft cleaners had finally
turfed him out. Then he had made a skulking, fearful run, jinking from
bomber to bomber, to the flight ready room. He peeled off his flight
suit, threw it out of a window and entered the shower after making sure
his copy of Saatchi's Pocketing Marketing Almanac was still in the
breast pocket of his suit. He hummed the Adidas jingle as he soaped
himself and began composing his report and marketing analysis of the
mission for the Director of Sales.

When the orders to cease hostilities had arrived in the operations
centre, the Commodore had taken one look at the message, turned puce
from shock and outrage and collapsed dead on the floor. His
aide-de-camp, who had handed him the message, had called the MO and
gone out to lunch. "For him, the war really is over," he gleefully told
his companions in the restaurant.

Things had gone rather better for the Faroe Islands Combined Operations
Force and their sponsors. They had taken over the Cowes Town Hall and
turned it into a trade convention with displays of John West Fish and
Meat Products and Faroe Island knitware. Trade was brisk and the
Operations Force Commander reflected proudly that it had been a hell of
a war and worth every penny of the outlay. He had even had a starring
role in the commercial. He gazed out to sea and spied the returning
fleet, sirens yipping, steaming through the channel a few hundred yards
off the town, on its way to Portsmouth and a hero's welcome.

Lance Corporal Watson could not remember enjoying a meal more. He sat
in his favourite armchair, stomach full of hotpot and belched.
"Manners, Trevor," said his mother, not looking up from her
knitting.
"Sorry, Mum. That was a lovely dinner you cooked."
Mrs. Watson smiled in satisfaction, "I did wonder whether I was ever
going to see you again, what with the war and all."
"You shouldn't worry about things like that. I'm just a backroom boy.
Back room boys don't fight. I'm only a small cog."
"Now don't you go hiding your light under a bushel, Trevor. I'm sure
what you do is very important, even if you don't actually get involved
in the fighting. They'd miss you if you weren't there."
Lance Corporal Watson gazed lovingly at his grey-haired mother and
reflected how good it was to be home.

"I suppose we'll never have World trade dominance now," mused the
Fijian Loyal Opposition Leader to his deputy. They both sat on the
beach watching the spectacular sunset. Further up the beach, a spitted
suckling pig sizzled over a barbecue fire.
"You worked so hard, too," said the deputy.
"Yes, my wrist ached for the whole of the next day. I had no idea trade
involved so much writing. I signed my name hundreds of times."
"The price of commercial success may not be worth paying, Opposition
Leader. If only the war had gone on long enough to allow us to
surrender to the Americans. I'm sure the President would have come
around in the end."
"If only, deputy. If only," the Opposition Leader agreed wistfully. "If
only the Americans had entered the war earlier in order to accept our
surrender. If only the war had gone on long enough to allow the Lyons
Group to build its restaurants and supermarkets and create wealth for
us all from the inevitable invasion. If only our beautiful island
wasn't situated in the South Pacific, but rather in the Mediterranean
where we could have access to those wonderful markets. If
only&;#8230;" The Opposition Leader trailed off in bitter longing
for what could have been.
His deputy nodded in mute agreement. Behind them, the suckling pig
spurted its juicy succulence onto the glowing coals and the sun dipped
into the sea.