me.” That was Roger Weinburger. Where Dennis was always on the verge of an explosion, hurling ideas left and right as he paced and sweated, Roger was calm and quiet. He listened to the rest of them and waiteduntil they wound down, then tossed out a line that had them all hysterical, a line that almost always ended up in the final, shooting script.
“Say there’s this top secret government laboratory out in the desert somewhere,” he began. “Say…I don’t know, say, Nevada.”
“Area 51,” Bob suggested.
“Let’s call it Area 52.”
He took them through the story as the colonel had told it to him. Then he brought in two new characters: a writer in Hollywood and a former military technical advisor he was working with, hoping to develop a story.
“The writer is dubious about all this,” he said. “But he thinks it’s a good story idea, and when he tells the colonel this the colonel realizes that he’s said too much.”
Confusion on the faces around the table now, but he had their interest.
“The colonel takes the writer to his apartment. Say, it’s in the W on Hollywood and Vine. He uses his computer to access some real-time spy satellites that the public never gets to see, but the colonel is still able to access. He shows the writer that oil wells all over the Middle East and in Russia are burning.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Jenna said. “Oil wells
are
burning all through the Middle East and Russia.”
“Which will make it all seem even more plausible,” he said, plunging ahead. “The colonel tells the writer that the business of the fires being started by terrorists is a cover story. Meanwhile, rumors start to surface. Lots of chatter on the Internet, lots of theories, most of them bogus. The stock market, the futures markets, they all start to fluctuate wildly as the big investors try to get good information.”
“You can’t be serious,” Dennis said, for once seeming to be frozen in position with none of his nervous tics.
“I’m serious as cancer,” he said, abandoning the fiction once and for all.
There was a long silence around the table as they all shifted mental gears.
“You’re saying all this happened,” said Roger. “It happened to you.”
“I’m saying the parts about the colonel and the writer happened. I am the writer. The colonel was Lionel Warner.”
“Is this on the news?”
“No, which is scary in itself. But I was there, and I saw him shot, and fall eleven stories to his death.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“What about all that other stuff? The Area 52, and the crazy scientist?”
“I can’t vouch for that. I’m not even sure if Colonel Warner was certain of the details. But I can tell you what I saw. There were
way
too many oil wells burning for it to have been a terrorist act.”
Dennis seemed to want to reject the whole thing. Bob was frowning. Jenna kept her own counsel, and Roger was inscrutable. But he had a question.
“So why are you sharing all this with us?” Roger asked.
“Because I had to talk to somebody about it, and you guys are the only people I could trust not to reject all of this out of hand.”
“What about Karen?” Jenna wanted to know.
“I wanted to run it all past you guys first.”
“Well,” said Dennis, standing and stretching and walking toward the glass wall that framed his million-dollar view, “I think that old man pulled a fast one on you.”
“Then why did they kill him?” Jenna asked.
“That part I don’t know,” Dennis admitted, “but I don’t think it had anything to do with some crazy superbug that eats crude oil.”
There was a short silence. Dave certainly wasn’t going to ask for a vote on the matter, but he hoped the others would weigh in.
“I’m reserving judgement,” Roger said. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, and I’m having a tough time figuring out any other reason these storm troopers you speak of would kill the man…but
“Say there’s this top secret government laboratory out in the desert somewhere,” he began. “Say…I don’t know, say, Nevada.”
“Area 51,” Bob suggested.
“Let’s call it Area 52.”
He took them through the story as the colonel had told it to him. Then he brought in two new characters: a writer in Hollywood and a former military technical advisor he was working with, hoping to develop a story.
“The writer is dubious about all this,” he said. “But he thinks it’s a good story idea, and when he tells the colonel this the colonel realizes that he’s said too much.”
Confusion on the faces around the table now, but he had their interest.
“The colonel takes the writer to his apartment. Say, it’s in the W on Hollywood and Vine. He uses his computer to access some real-time spy satellites that the public never gets to see, but the colonel is still able to access. He shows the writer that oil wells all over the Middle East and in Russia are burning.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Jenna said. “Oil wells
are
burning all through the Middle East and Russia.”
“Which will make it all seem even more plausible,” he said, plunging ahead. “The colonel tells the writer that the business of the fires being started by terrorists is a cover story. Meanwhile, rumors start to surface. Lots of chatter on the Internet, lots of theories, most of them bogus. The stock market, the futures markets, they all start to fluctuate wildly as the big investors try to get good information.”
“You can’t be serious,” Dennis said, for once seeming to be frozen in position with none of his nervous tics.
“I’m serious as cancer,” he said, abandoning the fiction once and for all.
There was a long silence around the table as they all shifted mental gears.
“You’re saying all this happened,” said Roger. “It happened to you.”
“I’m saying the parts about the colonel and the writer happened. I am the writer. The colonel was Lionel Warner.”
“Is this on the news?”
“No, which is scary in itself. But I was there, and I saw him shot, and fall eleven stories to his death.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“What about all that other stuff? The Area 52, and the crazy scientist?”
“I can’t vouch for that. I’m not even sure if Colonel Warner was certain of the details. But I can tell you what I saw. There were
way
too many oil wells burning for it to have been a terrorist act.”
Dennis seemed to want to reject the whole thing. Bob was frowning. Jenna kept her own counsel, and Roger was inscrutable. But he had a question.
“So why are you sharing all this with us?” Roger asked.
“Because I had to talk to somebody about it, and you guys are the only people I could trust not to reject all of this out of hand.”
“What about Karen?” Jenna wanted to know.
“I wanted to run it all past you guys first.”
“Well,” said Dennis, standing and stretching and walking toward the glass wall that framed his million-dollar view, “I think that old man pulled a fast one on you.”
“Then why did they kill him?” Jenna asked.
“That part I don’t know,” Dennis admitted, “but I don’t think it had anything to do with some crazy superbug that eats crude oil.”
There was a short silence. Dave certainly wasn’t going to ask for a vote on the matter, but he hoped the others would weigh in.
“I’m reserving judgement,” Roger said. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, and I’m having a tough time figuring out any other reason these storm troopers you speak of would kill the man…but
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