CHAPTER FOUR

“I’ve always considered myself a fair student of history. And one thing I’ve
learned is that nations and empires get just plain lazy. People get lazy. It
begins at the bottom and works up to the top. For instance, the liberal
agenda is to make our schools nothing but some kind of centers of
learning; they couldn’t care less about physical education and
sports. Apparently, they think if we graduate liberal weaklings rather
than students with strong healthy bodies, we can handle our lives
better. They take this attitude all the way up the line to our
foreign policy—but history has shown that a strong army beats
talks and embargos at every turn."
Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Zero Hour

“Civilization itself is man’s crowning achievement. A few thousand years
ago, we lived in caves, clubbed our women, and instinctively killed our enemies.
The weak died silently and the strong were feared. Civilization allowed the
evolution of morality, and with morality came the acceptance of our obligations
to the weak, the sick, and the poor. Perhaps the greatest culmination of this is
seen in the America we know today”.
Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

Unlike its sister city of Hobbs, located some seventy miles to the northeast and subject to the boom and bust vagaries of the oilfield, Carlsbad’s economy for many years had been based on potash mining. Whereas in Hobbs, families moved into town with each boom cycle and moved away when the oilfield would again go bust, Carlsbad miners had jobs with year-round work and security. In the 1950’s and 1960’s, the city had been the strongest union enclave in the state.
Hal had always credited the mines with the mindset that cities like Hobbs seemed to lack. Because people had their jobs year in and year out, they were able to stay in one place and thus took pride in community. Neighborhoods were stronger. Lawns and houses were better kept. The performance of children in schools was important. People knew each other.
Over the years, however, the quality of the potash ore had diminished. Canadian potash could be produced and shipped to American markets more cheaply than the Carlsbad miners could deliver it upward through their own mine shafts. An anti-dumping suit filed against Canadian potash companies in 1987 could not stem the tide, and over the next two decades jobs dwindled and people disappeared.
Though still a key player in the Carlsbad economy, potash mining was now only slightly more important than its traditional also-rans—tourism, ranching and farming, and oilfield production.
Hal had covered it all many times in his editorials. The town was in trouble, new sustainable industry was needed. Too many homes were being vacated and allowed to become run down; too many neighborhoods saw home values fall too far. The fights, the robberies, the rapes and the murders—why couldn’t he leave his front door unlocked when he went out as did his parents thirty years before?
Hal often felt like a throwback to more simple times. His friends kidded him that James Cameron would one day make a film of his life and call it Atavist.

Hal grimaced as he stood in front of the mirror trying for the third time to get just the right length on that tie he was knotting. He wanted the tip of the tie to reach just above his belt buckle; any farther down and he’d look like an old man. Any farther up and he’d look fat. He hated ties. And suit jackets. And polished shoes. Most of all, he hated formality, because formality meant neckties, suit jackets, and polished shoes.
But, hell, he was the editor of the newspaper, and that meant that dressing up was part of the game. He finished tying his silk knot and examined himself in the mirror, then loosened the tie from around his neck and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Comfort—one; formality—zero.
“I’m ready if you are, Houseboat,” came a chirpy voice from behind him. His wife, Ruth, walked into the bedroom from the adjoining bathroom. She had once shortened Houseboat to Homer; perhaps he was too brusque when he told her Homer does not go with Simpson and she was never to call him that again. His name was definitely not Homer, Homebody, or Homeboy.
“I really hate these things, you know,” he said, trying not to sound judgmental.
“Oh, do try to stay awake and not fidget, Houseboat. Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something new,” Ruth replied with a grin.
The thing was the monthly meeting of the Carlsbad Lyceum, a group whose stated purpose was to provide the community with knowledgeable speakers to discuss politics, economics, science and religion. Hal had always felt this was a commendable idea, even though no world federalist, socialist, anthropologist, rabbi or Buddhist monk had ever been invited to speak.
Tonight’s speaker was to be General Kurt LeMonde, who up until a few months ago had been the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon. LeMonde was a third generation military brat who was born into and would have died in the Marine Corps had he not tried to run an end game around the White House and convince a half dozen senators to authorize the use of tactical nuclear weapons in Afghanistan. When the President tried to rein him in, LaMonde did what any good Marine would do—he stood his ground and told the enemy to go to hell. He was forced to withdraw from the field.
It was a scandal, Bill O’Reilly charged, and within weeks, LeMonde was one of America’s most popular speakers on the lecture circuit. Some went so far as to advance his name as a candidate on the ticket with Samuel Parsons.