Overview

She will do whatever it takes; her ambition will be deadly.

Cassandra Rogers wants a promised promotion, and she will do whatever it takes to get it, even bringing down a prime minister. No one can stop her as she battles to reach her goal.

The Democracy trilogy concludes with a choice between the environment and the economy. Which one will flourish, and which one is doomed?

Three years after the change of government, the nation is facing huge social, policy, and environmental disasters yet the Australian government seems paralysed on how to proceed. Two senior ministers resolve that a change of prime minister is essential for Australia’s future and begin to lay the foundations for his dismissal.

The race to change government intensifies with an old face causing chaos by threatening Meredith Bruce, the charismatic leader of the opposition. Cassandra, a prominent journalist, publishes articles and delivers nightly television news that shocks the government and drives change. She wants political scalps to ensure her ambition is achieved and will wreck careers to do so, even her boss.

DOOMED takes us behind the scenes of a parliament unaware of how ambitions and political manipulations affect voters. When the environment and economy are brought into the mix, which will be the one to flourish, and which one is doomed?

Buy DOOMED today and follow our politicians in their ruthless rush to power.

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SUPPORTING MND

In 2021, the author donated the naming right for DOOMED’s Union Representative character at a Victorian Motor Neurone Disease (MND) fundraising event and auction.

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THE DEMOCRACY TRILOGY

The stand-alone political thrillers in THE DEMOCRACY TRILOGY exposes the question: can truth overcome political power?

The Trilogy is a gripping political thriller featuring emotional and surprising plot twists, convincing characters, and exposes the dark-art of politics will have you questioning the ethics of politics and politicians and if Democracy is under threat.

Author Information

THEMES USED IN DOOMED

DROUGHT

POLICTICAL CORRUPTION

POLITICS & THE POLITICAL PROCESS

 

Readers’ Comment

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Read Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Words didn’t flow intuitively for her; they never have done. She struggled for most of her career to get them out, but always finished her assigned stories on time. The dread of approaching deadlines often helped, as did the prospect of failing her colleagues. Couple this sense of dread with the anxiety of it being found out she wasn’t as good as many thought, and stress grew. Perhaps the hype of being the celebrated political journalist at Hancock Media overstated her reputation and talent. She often wondered about that. Did she have the talent? Or did male patronage advance her career?

During lonesome nights, Cassandra Rogers often pondered whether she had sacrificed too much. Her husband gave her up when story deadlines became too much, so he left, taking the children. He gave her the option: the family or the job. It was the wrong time for him to ask because she chose an exclusive interview with the King. She assumed she could charm her way back. She never did. Her teenage children seldom see her now.

She calculated the sacrifice and tears would pay off once promoted to a long-promised national current affairs hosting role. But right now, her dreamy gaze out of her office window interrupted her writing. She was following the billowing sails out on Sydney Harbour, the stiff breeze challenging the yachts proving too fascinating.

‘Not much inspiration out there, I reckon.’

Cass didn’t respond. She just glanced over her shoulder, then said, ‘Get stuffed, Charlie.’

He laughed. ‘You can’t say that anymore.’

‘Say what?’ She swung her seat to face him.

‘You can’t be using harassing language anymore,’ he mocked her. ‘Your mob changed that years ago.’

‘My mob?’

‘The sisters doin’ it for themselves were always going to overreach and spoil it for everyone.’

‘Not a fan of equality, Charlie? Happy with your privileged patriarchy, are you?’

‘You see… we just can’t talk anymore without being accused of micro aggressions and slagging off each other.’

Cass sniffed. ‘Respect is a virtue we all could learn.’

‘Respect means nothing amongst this hustle and bustle. You, more than anyone know that. We all want the front page or the lead story on the news.’

‘Hustle and bustle?’ Her lips turned into a mocking smile. ‘Have you done a creative writing course like everyone else?’

His eyes glazed over, then he sighed. ‘You know what I mean. Ambitious people eat each other in the newsroom. They aren’t majestic lions. More your snarling hyenas.’

‘You blokes have had it too good for too long.’

Charlie scoffed. ‘And that there, ladies and gentlemen, is the damn problem. Tagging everyone as a predator. This anti-male thing will wear thin, and the backlash will be dramatic.’

‘Rubbish; it’s been going on for way too long.’ Cass crossed her arms over her chest. ‘We never called out the sleazy morons amongst us.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Charlie, his head nodding over and over. ‘But the line has moved to the extremes. Everyone seems on edge these days, not knowing what to say anymore.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘You reckon it’s okay to use abusive language?’

‘Oh Charlie, it’s not about language, it’s about power and its misuse.’

‘Yeah right, so why is there an increasing culture of fear in workplaces?’ He moved away. ‘Let me prophecise for one moment; I reckon workplaces will become separated again as they were hundreds of years ago.’

Cass stood, moving towards him. ‘Hey, are you going to editorial?’

‘I have nothing to say; I’ve got nothing. My dry run is making me nervous.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get a lead soon enough. You always do.’ Cass checked over the cubicle screen to see if others were about, then in a hushed tone asked, ‘Do you know why Hancock is coming?’

‘Nah.’

‘You think he’s announcing a certain government appointment?’ Cass winked. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Harper would never do it. Why would he?’

‘Foreign Affairs wants a celebrity in Los Angeles. I suspect Hancock will give them what they want.’

‘Those type of consul appointments go to former politicians.’

Cass moved closer. ‘I’m looking for a trail.’

‘What?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Are you mad?’ He moved closer. ‘Could be a poor career move.’

‘Career is going nowhere at the moment.’

‘Do a job on Hancock and it’ll be over.’

Cass tapped her nose. ‘Let’s call it karma.’

Charlie moved off. ‘I call it madness.’

Cass watched her scruffy colleague wander off before swivelling and returning to her desk, pushing against the chair, and stretching her back. Her camo pants and black t-shirt fitted snuggly as she stretched, touched the toes of her red Dr Martens, and forced her head into her knees before reaching high for the ceiling, then shaking off the movement. She resumed her seat, ignoring the harbour to finish her story for the evening news.

Words now flowed, and thirty minutes later she emailed the editor her revelation of the government’s rejection of the United Nations Climate Council demand for greater action in reducing greenhouse gas emissions in Australia.

She quoted Prime Minister Stanley: Place your enthusiasm towards India and China before coming to the easily bullied fruit like Australia. She had no wish to frame Stanley as a moron, but mixing metaphors was dangerous when going on the record.

With a few moments to spare before leaving for the editorial meeting, she mulled over her chat with Charlie. They had fumbled a romance years ago and remained close, sharing struggles with her marriage and his addiction to drugs. The point he made about her career was a little too close to the bone. He knew about her brief liaison almost seventeen years ago with the proprietor, Tony Hancock. She never regretted the relationship and never confessed her enthusiastic participation. But now she remained annoyed by the memory, conceding she might have leveraged her career from the dalliance.

He transferred her to the New York office but became mortified when her engineering fiancé dropped everything to move with her. His lasciviousness for his protégé then dropped off. He redirected his leering gaze to junior staff. Although his energy for office romance shifted to others, he did not put an end to directing and boosting her career.

Now she was Hancock Media’s political editor for television and the national newspaper, delivering exclusives, uncovering government scandal, and exposing unwelcome publicity to any wayward politician. As soon as Cassandra Rogers strolled into a government media briefing, ministers fretted about what she might know and how she came to know it.

Notwithstanding her fierce reputation for exposing a political story, she sometimes wondered if her acclaimed position stemmed from patronage or talent. Discovering exclusives was no simple task.

She found what she thought was absolute truth was a shade of truth when a story published proved to be wrong. An impeccable source once told her politics was more about perceptions than reality, and the real dark art of government was to manipulate those perceptions, often leaving truth behind. She could either play the game and bear its scars or she could go write restaurant reviews.

She did what they asked of her, working hard, doing whatever it took to get the story. Cass considered herself a serious journalist, the flirtatious fluff of her youth now long gone. She didn’t want to be a celebrity; she wanted respect.

Now the pinnacle of her career, to host the national current affairs show, was within reach. She waited for the nod from Hancock, but the sleepless nights and family regrets didn’t make the wait any easier.

 

A little after four, senior Hancock Media editorial staff assembled in the plush board room, its floor-to-ceiling expansive windows providing a stunning outlook over the towering iconic bridge and the opera house. Whilst Cass enjoyed her own outlook over the harbour five levels down, this view was impressive.

The dishevelled fashion of the assembled editors was typical of the industry, with the solitary necktie worn by an administration manager. The few women who sat around the table were there on merit and wouldn’t allow distracting boorish repartee to interfere with their day, let alone their lives. Cass was never comfortable with the shallowness of her male colleagues, detesting their loathsome observations and sarcasm. She sometimes speculated on whether the childish nature ever matured; if this small cabal of colleagues was an example of what women endured in the broader workplace, then there was much work to be done.

She glanced across the table and smiled at Helen Rasminski, raising an eyebrow when loud laughter broke out from the group of blokey colleagues at the other end of the long-polished jarrah table.

Rasminski shook her head, sighing, smirked then asked, ‘What’s this about, do you know?’

‘Not a clue, but it’s weird we’re all here.’

‘Hancock is about to sack us, cut our pay, or maybe announce a new initiative.’

‘He’s late, as usual,’ Cass said, checking the wall clock.

‘How’s the kids?’

Cass squirmed, shifting in her chair, not wanting to lie. ‘They’re beaut; I hope to see them next school holidays.’

‘Must be hard for you.’

‘It’s not so bad. I talk to them most days on Zoom.’

‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.’

Rasminski smiled, wincing and nodding, then turned away.

The door crashed open, silencing the room, allowing the energy of the charismatic Tony Hancock to sweep in. Editors resumed their seats. He took his place at the head of the table, newspaper staff on one side, television on the other. The most senior closest, with the most junior banished to the opposite end. Cass sat five places down on Hancock’s left, facing the enormous windows. He opened his leather folder and lifted several sheets of paper, bouncing them on the table before neatening his stack.

‘Gentlemen, thanks for coming up.’ Hancock recognised Cass, correcting himself. ‘Sorry ladies, thanks as well.’

Cass dismissed it but wondered whether it had been a deliberate slight.

‘I’ve called you here this afternoon because I have a special announcement.’ Various colleagues glanced around. ‘Yesterday, after thirty-five years, Peter Nicholls paid me a visit and requested he retire.’ Hancock chuckled. ‘After all this time, an icon of Australian television, greater than Kennedy or Willesee, has requested, and in fact begged, he go enjoy his garden.’

Cass dropped her head, gazing into her interlocked hands, anxious about making eye contact with any colleagues.

‘He has agreed to six months’ notice, believing I would need all that time to recruit a replacement. He wished us well and hoped our ratings recover.’

A few of the group chuckled.

Hancock waited a few moments, then said, ‘We are now in an awkward position of deciding if we have the talent in our newsrooms, or do we go outside, perhaps worldwide, searching for a replacement?’

Anxiety coursing through Cass troubled her breathing as she battled to control her chest, pumping from heavy, rapid breaths. This was it. This was the show she wanted and promised over a decade ago. She sacrificed her marriage and family, but the grand old fart didn’t retire when expected, hanging around for another ten miserable years. She peeped at Hancock to read his face and perhaps gain a nod. Would he now deliver what he guaranteed all those years ago? Had her sacrifice been worth it?

‘We may not take the six months to appoint a new host, but we shall ensure that whoever we select will reflect our values and connect with our audience.’ Hancock scanned the room, ignoring Cass. ‘Plus, we expect the new host to broaden audience reach and increase revenue. It’s our flagship program and we’ll ensure we talk to all stakeholders, including you folks.’

Nothing. Cass could read nothing from him, and he didn’t cast an eye towards her.

‘Questions?’

There was no response. Just a collegiate acceptance of the announcement.

‘I’ll come see you all, and if you have any recommendations, then I would be happy to receive them. In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing,’ Hancock slapped his folder shut, then blurted a little too brashly, ‘I’m loving it.’

The grumpy old blokes stood and left with no fuss, while the younger editors had a little chitter-chatter with Hancock on their way out. Cass lingered to share a moment with her boss.

‘Cassie, what can I do for you?’ Hancock asked. He rocked back in his chair, tapping a pen on his folder.

Cass smiled, stood, and ventured towards him, leaning her weight against the table. ‘You recall what you promised?’

‘When?’

‘You promised me that show.’

Hancock shook his head as if not remembering any conversation.

‘You said when Nicholls pulls the pin, you would appoint me to the role.’

‘As I just said, Cassie, we will consider all possibles and probables.’

‘You said I would be the next host.’

‘Not that I recall.’

Cass straightened, glaring at him. ‘You promised me.’

Hancock waited a moment, studying her, then said, ‘Cassie, we said a lot of things, and we made promises back then. I took you at your word and you changed it by getting married.’ He returned her stare.

‘You used this job offer to get me into your bed.’

‘That’s not how I remember it.’

‘You bastard,’ Cass said, tightening her lips.

‘Cassie, I will appoint the position on merit.’ Hancock swivelled in his chair, crossing his legs. ‘You know it’s only ever about merit here.’

‘On that basis, announce me as the new host.’

Hancock raised a finger, shaking it. ‘Not necessarily.’

Cass shook her head, screwing her face. ‘Not happy with my work?’

‘Standards have slipped.’

She stepped back, staggered by the comment, gazing out the window to compose herself. ‘My standards have slipped?’

‘What happened to the skirts?’

She snapped back, facing Hancock. ‘Beg your pardon?’

Hancock waved a submissive hand. ‘Look, we will treat you just like other candidates, but I can’t promise you anything.’

‘Will you treat me fairly?’

‘Of course. There will be a selection panel appointed.’

Cass stared at him for a moment, her arms crossed. ‘What do I have to do to make certain you appoint me?’

Hancock studied her, thinking for a moment. A reflective thin grin crossed his face as he sat forward, then said, ‘Just get me political exclusives. You have lost your touch.’

She fisted her hips and stared down at him. ‘You want nothing else from me?’

‘Noooohoohoohoo,’ he said as he smirked and shook his head, crossing his arms tight across his chest. ‘Do your job and then we can talk about this gig. You’re an important asset to us. You could do the job, but we need to consider the market and what they want.’

‘Just make sure it’s done under code.’

‘Of course, it will be, Cassie. What do you take me for?’

‘I know who and what you are, Tony. I just want to make sure I’m not competing with any other… what did you once call me… a distraction?’

‘Cassie, it’s only ever about merit.’