We’re way out of our league here,” another says.
“Please gentlemen, ” Solberg says forcefully, “don’t let us take that attitude. We will continue to develop information and as soon as…”
General Solberg’s words trail off. He stares fixedly at the center of the expansive conference table. There, in full view of the entire room, the polished wooden sheen ripples, takes on the wind-ruffled look of a lake surface. A waft of cool air and the scent of fragrant wood land fills the room, steady lap of wavelets against a sandy shore. Reeds and water grasses project through the surface. Above the water, a zoom of bugs. Abruptly a fish jumps, twists in the air, shakes glistening droplets from its scales. The fish’s entry splash clearly audible in the packed conference room. Sparkling ripples expand toward the edge of the table.
Strand slaps the back of his hand. The scene abruptly fades, the table again solid wood.
In the room a tumbled roar of sound as chairs, laptops, suits and uniforms leap away from the table. Every person in the room is crouched or standing, backed against the walls or fallen to the floor. Several Pentagon police have weapons drawn, barrels up. There is nothing to aim at.
Solberg is first to shake it off. “Anybody get video? A photo? Sound?” He notices several people reaching for phones and laptops.
“Freeze that! Stop yourselves right there. Do not call out. Place your phones on the table now. This is absolute black. Do not dis cuss with anyone outside. Face to face only. Absolute.”
A voice from one of the Telepresence monitors. “Ah, General, we got static there. Can you summarize the last couple minutes for us?”
“General,” comes a female voice from another screen, a distant meeting room. “Why is everyone standing against the wall?”
“Ah, we had a technical glitch here too, we weren’t really discussing anything.” It’s a feeble stall, passable until people start to think. “We’re going to close the session now,” Solberg continues. “All of us have work to do. We will reconvene at 1800 hours. Thank you for your valuable input.” Solberg ends the remote video session.
Strand guesses at one thing, known only to Solberg. Th e whale migration is about to land in his lap. It will be a very hot potato.
I’m Your Daddy, Honey
Chester Porterfield cruises his black SUV three times past the winding dirt driveway, working up his nerve. There’s a house by the road, but that’s not it. Porterfield gets a glimpse of the old two-story bunkhouse well back in the redwood grove. Carved redwood sign, slow kids . Cars in the clearing, a faded-blue El Camino and a gold Lexus coupe, a small yellow Mazda with a surfboard rack. Behind the bunkhouse, wooded slopes and redwoods. Porterfield is edgy. The document on the seat is supposed to fix his problem. He is used to getting his way.
Months ago, Porterfield’s small pretty wife had cautiously used the words psychiatrist and megalomania to him in the same sentence. After which he’d struck her hard. He regretted it. When he’d returned home from his sulk to say he was sorry, she was gone. The bags-packed closets-empty kind of gone. Both daughters away at college had phoned him, with angry words like possessed, idiot, always the same alpha-male shit.
A lanky football star in high school, his team’s quarterback, he had the looks and physique, enough arrogant one-liners to get the nice girls, captain the football team, deal with situations. The coaches had called him Demon , the way he could rip through an opposing backfield. Little aptitude for academics, he’d gone into his dad’s machine shop as an apprentice after grad, did alright, now runs the business. But Porterfield hasn’t his father’s touch, is coarse with customers and suppliers, and times have changed. Now you need marketing, ads, Facebook, Yelp, search engine savvy. He does fine at Chamber of Commerce meetings, but that’s the old-boy club, not his
“Please gentlemen, ” Solberg says forcefully, “don’t let us take that attitude. We will continue to develop information and as soon as…”
General Solberg’s words trail off. He stares fixedly at the center of the expansive conference table. There, in full view of the entire room, the polished wooden sheen ripples, takes on the wind-ruffled look of a lake surface. A waft of cool air and the scent of fragrant wood land fills the room, steady lap of wavelets against a sandy shore. Reeds and water grasses project through the surface. Above the water, a zoom of bugs. Abruptly a fish jumps, twists in the air, shakes glistening droplets from its scales. The fish’s entry splash clearly audible in the packed conference room. Sparkling ripples expand toward the edge of the table.
Strand slaps the back of his hand. The scene abruptly fades, the table again solid wood.
In the room a tumbled roar of sound as chairs, laptops, suits and uniforms leap away from the table. Every person in the room is crouched or standing, backed against the walls or fallen to the floor. Several Pentagon police have weapons drawn, barrels up. There is nothing to aim at.
Solberg is first to shake it off. “Anybody get video? A photo? Sound?” He notices several people reaching for phones and laptops.
“Freeze that! Stop yourselves right there. Do not call out. Place your phones on the table now. This is absolute black. Do not dis cuss with anyone outside. Face to face only. Absolute.”
A voice from one of the Telepresence monitors. “Ah, General, we got static there. Can you summarize the last couple minutes for us?”
“General,” comes a female voice from another screen, a distant meeting room. “Why is everyone standing against the wall?”
“Ah, we had a technical glitch here too, we weren’t really discussing anything.” It’s a feeble stall, passable until people start to think. “We’re going to close the session now,” Solberg continues. “All of us have work to do. We will reconvene at 1800 hours. Thank you for your valuable input.” Solberg ends the remote video session.
Strand guesses at one thing, known only to Solberg. Th e whale migration is about to land in his lap. It will be a very hot potato.
I’m Your Daddy, Honey
Chester Porterfield cruises his black SUV three times past the winding dirt driveway, working up his nerve. There’s a house by the road, but that’s not it. Porterfield gets a glimpse of the old two-story bunkhouse well back in the redwood grove. Carved redwood sign, slow kids . Cars in the clearing, a faded-blue El Camino and a gold Lexus coupe, a small yellow Mazda with a surfboard rack. Behind the bunkhouse, wooded slopes and redwoods. Porterfield is edgy. The document on the seat is supposed to fix his problem. He is used to getting his way.
Months ago, Porterfield’s small pretty wife had cautiously used the words psychiatrist and megalomania to him in the same sentence. After which he’d struck her hard. He regretted it. When he’d returned home from his sulk to say he was sorry, she was gone. The bags-packed closets-empty kind of gone. Both daughters away at college had phoned him, with angry words like possessed, idiot, always the same alpha-male shit.
A lanky football star in high school, his team’s quarterback, he had the looks and physique, enough arrogant one-liners to get the nice girls, captain the football team, deal with situations. The coaches had called him Demon , the way he could rip through an opposing backfield. Little aptitude for academics, he’d gone into his dad’s machine shop as an apprentice after grad, did alright, now runs the business. But Porterfield hasn’t his father’s touch, is coarse with customers and suppliers, and times have changed. Now you need marketing, ads, Facebook, Yelp, search engine savvy. He does fine at Chamber of Commerce meetings, but that’s the old-boy club, not his
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