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House, from his own party, had gone so far as to say in front of the cameras: “Elections really aren’t very important.”  The election that had propelled him into his current position had served its pu r pose, and now he was devising a way to wean his flock away from the idea that they needed to concern themselves with the workings of ‘their’ g over n ment.  Just one more successful election and he would have ample opport u nity to consolid ate his power and complete his transformation.
    But such a vast undertaking took more than planning and compliant, naive supporters.  It took money, lots of it, and he really didn’t much care where he got it or what he had to trade off – his military, his nation’s triple-A credit rating, the r espect of the rest of the world.  No thing mattered more than his grand world vision, nothing, that is, save his own personal power.  It had not gone unnoticed by some that a pose he often struck, lips tightly pursed, chin thrust upward, bore an uncanny resemblance to Mussolini. 
    The few of his advisors who weren’t mere sycophants had become more alarmed by the day as he grew further and further removed from the ramifications of his rigid ideology.  He on ce said that while at Boston Co l lege , he preferred hanging out wi th Marxists .  Given the abysmal and disa s trous results of Marxism in the real world, that alone should have sent up a red sky rocket.  But few of his adoring fans pro bably even knew who Marx was or how many tens of millions of human be ings lost their lives due to Mar x ism’s tenets.   Those who did, like their leader, either blithely ignored or r a tionalized away the obvious, meanwhile viciously attacking any dissenting voice. 
    The fact that China was calling most of the shots these days was an annoying detail that could have gotten in the way of the president’s grand dream had he not found it so easy to overlook.  He was only too happy to usher the Dalai Lama out the back door lest it offend Beijing to see him coming out the front.  Meanwhile, periodic trips to Beijing by his peripatetic treasury secretary were pawned off on the public as lectures to the Chinese on how they must stop manipulating their currency.  In reality, he was trading off assurances for more borrowing from the bank of China, assurances that the United States would not interfere in the South China Sea in any meaningful way.  
    But the president was making one of the gravest miscalculations of his presidency: underestimating the Chinese.
    Thomas Benedict, Director of Central Intelligence, sat quietly in his seat with only a hint of a smile reflecting his thoughts.  He had come to the conclusion tha t he was one of only three people in the room, the other s being the National Security Advisor and the Secretary of Defense , who were neither deluded by the president’s charisma and oratory nor corrupted by the promise of future personal gain.
    The CIA chief had been a four star general with an impeccable record who had been tapped to lead the Agency.  Many thought it more logical for him to lead the nation’s military, but the president’s advisors had pointed out the he needed Benedict’s unblemished stature fo r the nomination to succeed.  They also knew that as DCI, it would be far easier to hang some future failure around his neck should it become expedient to jettison him.  Equally i m portant, from the president’s perspective, he would be unavailable to be drafted as a presidential candidate.  Benedict sat quietly , watching the wheels turn in the president’s head as he framed a response.
    “Tom, find out what you can about what happened out there and get back to me,” the president said.
    So that’s it, thought the director.  You’ve decided that unless someone can prove the Chinese sank the Philippine vessel, nothing sticks to your suit.  Just sweep it under the rug with everything else.  Somehow, Mr. President, I don’t think that’s the