The ads ran as a roadblock. Luke Wilson booked identical time slots on four networks and six cable channels, statewide. Individually tailored, for two million households; segmented by narrow demographics, for millions more.
The ninety-second slot was divided into five segments. When the time arrived, eight versions of each segment were transmitted at the same time. Every version was sculpted so that transitions were smooth; more than 16,000 seamless combinations.
The new cable controllers, in millions of households across the state, had enough programmable capacity that individual schedules could be downloaded ahead of time. If the residents had their TV on at air-time, the controller would switch between segments to create a combined version individually tailored to their prejudices and interests. Medea had collected enough survey data to pick specific versions for each of two million families; census data provided good guesses for the others. For broadcast viewers, the natural demographics of each channel allowed broad-brush matching.
George Orwell would have rolled over in his grave.
The War Room, election day.
Martell watched the map on the wall-screen fill in with blue as votes-cast tallies came in from poll-watchers around the state. Across the table, Siemens looked bored.
Below, the Ops Room was at full shift. These E-day calls required little human intervention. Over 4,000 calls were in progress, half a million completions an hour.
“Medea, start the weighting.”
Enlarged graphics of the major cities appeared, and more colors washed across the map. Medea was comparing the 11 A.M. tally to historical timelines for each precinct, projecting an end-of-day turnout for the box. Multiplying by the “percent favorable” forecast from surveys gave a total vote, precinct by precinct. Few voters changed their minds on election day; the variable was turnout.
Adding up the projections gave a revised, hour by hour reforecast of the election. More important was to find the precincts with high potential for Siemens that were delivering low turnout, and then get the SOBs to the polls.
“Damn, the Montrose district is still showing under 60 percent of what we counted on. Medea, call the Houston office.” Martell spat out orders to get sound cars and minibuses into the area, then waved at the camera to hang up. “Make sure the calls there ask if people need a ride to the poll.”
“Acknowledged,” answered Medea.
Siemens stood and stretched. “All this fuss, over sound cars and busses? Can they make that much difference?”
“Not hardly. No, this is a sop, to make me feel useful. Medea and those operators below are doing the real work, over five million calls today. I only manage resources she doesn’t control, where soft demographics and instinct matter.” And we could have given her the rules for that, too.
“Hell, what’s five million phone calls? There are 30 million people in this state.”
“But how many vote? Besides, we’re only calling those who’ve already said they’d vote for you. We target in on critical precincts like an artillery barrage. The way the numbers pop up at the next checkpoint, I can see people running out their doors in unison. Some of those poor bastards, we’ll call eight or ten times by the end of the day.” Martell shook his head. “You’d think they’d figure out that we’d quit calling, if they’d lie and say they’d already voted.”
Siemens clapped him on the shoulder. “I wish we’d had you running logistics in the Gulf. I’d better get going-cheering on the troops at the campaign offices in Austin and Dallas. See you at the safe house tonight?”
“Rick, I still don’t like that.”
“It’s done, Stan. If Pryor is stuffing ballot boxes, I want to know the score. My boys have the surveillance set up; you line up your connections in the Valley, in case we have to do some stuffing of our own.”
Martell waved resignedly as Siemens went out the door, then turned back to the display. The colors were stable now, the weighting finished. Statewide polls had Siemens losing by seven percent only yesterday; the ad last night had cut that to three percent. These projections confirmed that the E-day drill would make it damn close. Vote fraud might be the margin, either way.
Anyone who thought he could use Rick Siemens… she’d said. Was what? A hopeless fool? Crazy?
Or just rock-bottom, stone-the-crows desperate?
Hell. “Medea, fire a ten minute phone salvo at Pryor’s HQ. Every time they hang up, call again. Finish with thirty seconds of every line you’ve got—see if you can snarl their exchange.”
Ride the tiger, ride the tiger.
“That’s it, Pryor’s bought his last vote.” Siemens pulled off the headphones and stretched. A long night, like launching an air strike and waiting at HQ for word to trickle back. He waved at the signals officer at the dining table to keep monitoring. “OK, where do we stand?”
“Just a minute.” Martell was hunched over his laptop, with an encrypted link to Medea. “He’s underestimating our margin in West Texas. He bought the ‘premature’ report from the Valley, too, he doesn’t know we’re holding back some boxes.” His hands danced across the keys—how did he keep up that obsolete skill? “By God, I think we’ve done it. His fraud won’t be enough, we’ll win anyway.”
“By how much?”
“I’d say 70 percent confidence of victory, but damn all little margin.” Martell scowled. “I know, that’s not good enough. I hate to say it, but we’d better go with the countermeasures.”
“I figured that all along.” Siemens strolled to the buffet, trailing his hand along the chintz sofa. He opened the briefcase on the buffet, idly thumbed a few stacks of $100 bills. “Illegal campaign donations, perfect for bribes—the money never goes on the books.”
“I hoped we wouldn’t need this. OK, send it south. Tell Parker 15,000 votes net; much more from that little town would be ludicrous.”
“I’ll send a bagman in an Osprey.” The Rio Grande Valley politico wanted cash on the barrel—or, rather, on the ballot box.
“You’re sending a Guard Osprey? That’s discreet?”
“It’s fast. Discreet enough, landing fifteen miles from town. We’ve got Ospreys flying all over tonight, for ‘training.’ ”
Siemens picked up the briefcase and strode to the kitchen, gave instructions to a lieutenant waiting there. Pacing back, he laced his fingers above his head, cracked his knuckles. “Fifteen thousand votes doesn’t sound like much.”
“It’s peanuts, a fraction of a percent. I’m sure my projections are accurate to smaller numbers than that, though. Asking for more would be dangerous. You’d have nearly an 8,000 vote margin from Parker’s boxes, anyway. He can double that by throwing away a few thousand Republican votes, and having his people spend the night forging ballots. I hope he doesn’t put the names down alphabetically, like that fool in ’48.”
“No shit.” The roar of the Osprey reverberated through the farmhouse. It stirred Siemens’s blood; even in combat, the thrill of flight stayed with him. “Look past the election: what do your forecasts say now?”
“Domestic, or international?”
“Any fool can see this county’s headed for hell in a handbasket. What’s the world scene?”
“It’s going to be Turkey.” Martell propped his elbows on the coffee table, rested his head against his hands. “We thought for a while that Southeast Asia was the key, with Japan rearming, but your other war is coming back to haunt you.”
“Sure,” said Siemens. “It griped me to see the Caliph roll over the Saudis, but Turkey?”