...Maybe he had been destined to die in the Soviet offensive across the North German plain, an assault that never came. Maybe not to die, but to give the bad guys a good biffing. Then the bad guys not only had the effrontery not to attack, but also to give up the ghost decades before he could find another heroic vocation.
The nerve of people.
If that was true, then of course things were rotten. He wasn’t supposed to be here. How could he prosper and succeed in a mundane life that should have climaxed gloriously twenty years ago?
For what had served him in a non-material environment like the Army, brash courage, loyalty, initiative, were the exact opposite of the attributes like feral intelligence, mercenary loyalty and commitment to profit at all costs that defined the civilian world.
The only way he had ever been successful there was by finding ways to replicate the parts he liked in a military environment without the military.
Even that wasn’t working anymore.
Danny Weller was having a George Bailey moment that was stretching into a year.
His fall had come because he had put his love of battle over his honor. He was unable to follow the rule that demanded at least an appearance of prudence.
The competitive natures within him was so overwhelming, the necessity to control his surroundings and the people who inhabited such so vital, his need to win to prove to others he was at least their equal so crucial, they had proved his undoing in less time than it used to take him to get a decent tan.
But there was a time, such a time, when he could and did pull off political miracles for his clients. Always the faster gun, seldom defeated and even then by razor thin margins. The expense account, vacations at Hilton Head, the fawning volunteers, the headlines proving his virtuosity, the thrill of the hunt, the glorious Wednesday happy hours after victorious Tuesdays, the dishy media ad reps who cooed at him because of the cash he represented to them, the insider of insiders status, the cheerily Sloane Ranger life and the rest of the amorally glamorous package all had been his once.
Now gone, all gone.
He doubted he could do anything else successfully. Proof of such was his recent attempt at solvency and regular nutrition by taking a job at the local beachhead of a national chain of sandwich stores. He was hired to make sandwiches and otherwise shut up.
Not content with a decent hourly wage to keep the wolf from the door, he had lasted there only a day after the ‘Mr. Sandwich’ incident. Asked to don the anthropomorphic national logo and prance around distributing balloons at the opening of the franchise’s newest venue, he had fortified himself prior to the event with Wild Turkey and then taken shots of the helium used to fill the balloons. This caused him to violently lurch about the sandwich emporium, scare the Gap for Kids ensembles off the assembled children and slur double-entendres in a weird cartoon-like falsetto at offended young mothers.
So much for Danny Weller, working man....
Monday, September 7, 2009
...“Is everybody corrupt?” asked Janine.
“I don’t know everybody,” retorted Danny.
“You can make a joke out of it if you want, but scraping your head on the carpet towards that jerk Erik Grendel in any way, shape or form should be reprehensible to a human being.”
“Oh fine,” he replied, “I’ll throw away a bigger contact merely because Grendel is a slimebucket and Joe Carteret is a crooked and tendentious party robot? Oh sure I will. Then we’ll all sit around, braid our hair and paint our toenails. By the way, human beings don’t get into politics.”
“If you in actual fact cared about the Party…”
Danny shot her one of his exasperated know-it-all sighs and said, “Cared? Cared? Listen closely,” and she did. “Bugger the Party. Political parties are repulsive collections of well-heeled dinosaurs, talentless bootlickers and middlebrow prostitutes. They serve an above average fundraising or direct mail function, but that’s it. In this show you dance with who brought ya’ and the Party never made me a nickel. They think people like me are trespassing onto their exclusive game preserve and they treat us accordingly. Simple, Machiavelli, chapter nine: never trust the nobles.
Remember, when a party functionary splutters ‘Sure’ it means ’Probably not’, when they say ‘Maybe’ it means ‘No’ and when they say ‘Let me see what I can do’ it means ‘Naff off.’ Unless you are connected to a campaign contributor, that is. Then every line is translated into ‘Let me see how quickly I can get on my knees for you.’ Looking for staffer slots after election victories taught me this lesson. So, I owe them nothing. My loyalty is to who signs the checks.
I hope you don’t think the Republican Party machine is any different from the Dem one? No way. They both stand for nothing but getting their people in. No ideals, no principles, cold, hard power. The GOP ‘the Party of Opportunity’? Hah! The opportunity to vacation in the Caribbean if you’ve got the cash. If not, you don’t exist. The Dems ‘the Party of the Working Class’? Double Hah! They have millionaires in the Senate who piously weep tears for people they’d set the dogs on if they ever came near their estates. Nah, both are repellant, both are crass and both contain certifiable idiots who couldn’t fight their way through a political drizzle and who are in the show just to siphon off money from the fundraising spigot. The people who are supposed to be afflicting the comfortable and comforting the afflicted? Turning a glaring spotlight on this guttural avarice and stupidity? Our pals the media? Most of them are in bed with the same people they cover on a daily basis. Their egos can’t handle just reporting so they take sides and then gradually get co-opted by one side or the other. Whores, the lot of them.
You see, the whole system is a con, an extortion racket. Not a shining city on a hill but a tasteless exurban development built on a dung heep.
Upset? Get over it. There’s not a damned thing you or I can do about it. Why? Because the bad guys and the idiots employ people who have all the really scary guns and the even scarier lawyers.
Are we clear on that?”
Janine nodded; she knew at that point, when he was on a rant, it was an argument for a different day.
“Thus endeth the lesson. Next on today’s list?” asked Danny.
That, in relation to political parties, was half the story. It always appeared to Danny, after working for both parties, that the Republicans were generally good on the issues but smoothly gutless in that way of theirs, while the Democrats were usually wrong but ballsy. On the personal side, the Republican leadership (though with exceptions) were not the most unconventional or spontaneous people on the planet and tended to place much emphasis on whether or not their Dad knew your Dad at prep school.
And he wasn’t that cynical about the system, he just talked that way because he thought it made him sound tougher.
It was also a matter of perceptions. Republicans thought most Dems were either effete crypto-socialists or hippie retreads who congregated on either coast. Dems thought Republicans were either mouth-breathing rural truck trash or plastic suburbanites who lived in places called “Land Rape Estates.”
Both were right, to a point.
For as Pat Buchanan had correctly analyzed at the ’92 Convention, this was the modern equivalent of a civil war. The sides were still culturally about the same, but the locations had changed.
The Rebs had moved to places like Pennsylvania and suburban Atlanta was chock full of cultural Yankees. Order versus freedom, faith versus humanism, the land versus the city, the arguments hadn’t changed as much as the players had.
Danny was caught in the middle. A cosmopolitan patriot, a smartass conservative, a culturally reactionary lover of intellectual freedom, poxes from both their houses were thrown his way...
“I don’t know everybody,” retorted Danny.
“You can make a joke out of it if you want, but scraping your head on the carpet towards that jerk Erik Grendel in any way, shape or form should be reprehensible to a human being.”
“Oh fine,” he replied, “I’ll throw away a bigger contact merely because Grendel is a slimebucket and Joe Carteret is a crooked and tendentious party robot? Oh sure I will. Then we’ll all sit around, braid our hair and paint our toenails. By the way, human beings don’t get into politics.”
“If you in actual fact cared about the Party…”
Danny shot her one of his exasperated know-it-all sighs and said, “Cared? Cared? Listen closely,” and she did. “Bugger the Party. Political parties are repulsive collections of well-heeled dinosaurs, talentless bootlickers and middlebrow prostitutes. They serve an above average fundraising or direct mail function, but that’s it. In this show you dance with who brought ya’ and the Party never made me a nickel. They think people like me are trespassing onto their exclusive game preserve and they treat us accordingly. Simple, Machiavelli, chapter nine: never trust the nobles.
Remember, when a party functionary splutters ‘Sure’ it means ’Probably not’, when they say ‘Maybe’ it means ‘No’ and when they say ‘Let me see what I can do’ it means ‘Naff off.’ Unless you are connected to a campaign contributor, that is. Then every line is translated into ‘Let me see how quickly I can get on my knees for you.’ Looking for staffer slots after election victories taught me this lesson. So, I owe them nothing. My loyalty is to who signs the checks.
I hope you don’t think the Republican Party machine is any different from the Dem one? No way. They both stand for nothing but getting their people in. No ideals, no principles, cold, hard power. The GOP ‘the Party of Opportunity’? Hah! The opportunity to vacation in the Caribbean if you’ve got the cash. If not, you don’t exist. The Dems ‘the Party of the Working Class’? Double Hah! They have millionaires in the Senate who piously weep tears for people they’d set the dogs on if they ever came near their estates. Nah, both are repellant, both are crass and both contain certifiable idiots who couldn’t fight their way through a political drizzle and who are in the show just to siphon off money from the fundraising spigot. The people who are supposed to be afflicting the comfortable and comforting the afflicted? Turning a glaring spotlight on this guttural avarice and stupidity? Our pals the media? Most of them are in bed with the same people they cover on a daily basis. Their egos can’t handle just reporting so they take sides and then gradually get co-opted by one side or the other. Whores, the lot of them.
You see, the whole system is a con, an extortion racket. Not a shining city on a hill but a tasteless exurban development built on a dung heep.
Upset? Get over it. There’s not a damned thing you or I can do about it. Why? Because the bad guys and the idiots employ people who have all the really scary guns and the even scarier lawyers.
Are we clear on that?”
Janine nodded; she knew at that point, when he was on a rant, it was an argument for a different day.
“Thus endeth the lesson. Next on today’s list?” asked Danny.
That, in relation to political parties, was half the story. It always appeared to Danny, after working for both parties, that the Republicans were generally good on the issues but smoothly gutless in that way of theirs, while the Democrats were usually wrong but ballsy. On the personal side, the Republican leadership (though with exceptions) were not the most unconventional or spontaneous people on the planet and tended to place much emphasis on whether or not their Dad knew your Dad at prep school.
And he wasn’t that cynical about the system, he just talked that way because he thought it made him sound tougher.
It was also a matter of perceptions. Republicans thought most Dems were either effete crypto-socialists or hippie retreads who congregated on either coast. Dems thought Republicans were either mouth-breathing rural truck trash or plastic suburbanites who lived in places called “Land Rape Estates.”
Both were right, to a point.
For as Pat Buchanan had correctly analyzed at the ’92 Convention, this was the modern equivalent of a civil war. The sides were still culturally about the same, but the locations had changed.
The Rebs had moved to places like Pennsylvania and suburban Atlanta was chock full of cultural Yankees. Order versus freedom, faith versus humanism, the land versus the city, the arguments hadn’t changed as much as the players had.
Danny was caught in the middle. A cosmopolitan patriot, a smartass conservative, a culturally reactionary lover of intellectual freedom, poxes from both their houses were thrown his way...
...He kissed her on the cheek, took a huff of her Chanel No.5 and walked to the garage. Janine took the cars keys from him and drove them both to the Chelsea Tobacco Club.
Danny greeted the retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant who was the proprietor of the establishment. Chelsea was an oasis. A place few trod that did not share a love of tobacco or at least a need to leave modernity at the door and lose themselves in a completely tranquil and antiquated environment.
“Hey Gunny,” said Danny. Janine nodded and smiled.
“Slumming Janine?” said Gunny.
“Picked him up at the bus station.”
“Is he housebroken?”
“We’re going to work on that.” responded Janine.
“Out-standing,” responded Gunnery Sergeant Ray Dallas.
“If you two are through playing verbal footsie,” asked Danny, “I’d like to go down to the lounge and get a drink of port.”
“I’d like a date with Elizabeth Hurley. That ain’t gonna happen either,” said Dallas, following them down with a bottle of port.
Appointed like a Pall Mall club circa 1925, Chelsea was the place certain wives knew to call when they had no idea of their husband’s whereabouts. Danny loved the Heywood Hardy prints on the wall, the oak paneling, the plush seats, the individual reading lights, the soft sonatas that played in the background.
Janine thought the place was tolerable. She could smoke there and the chairs were comfy, didn’t see what all the fuss was over. She thought it weird that hardly anybody spoke to anyone else, merely gave this half smiling nod in response to half-smiling nods. Must be middle-aged guy code, she thought. They seated themselves in a corner, away from the other members.
“What do we do about the Chicago thing?” asked Danny, getting his Algerian briar ready and cleared for action.
“You do what you are told,” responded Janine.
“We both know how good I am at that,” he said as he tapped Peach Blossom tobacco, from Edward’s in Atlanta, into his bowl.
“Would you prefer to be unemployed?”
At that moment Gunny Dallas came over to Danny and Janine. Danny could never get over how much he looked like Samuel Jackson. Natalie, the downstairs waitress, followed behind.
“You guys want anything to drink?” asked young Natalie; clad in the tightest jeans Danny had ever seen.
“The port for me and,” she nodded, “an espresso for the lady.”
“Sure,” said Natalie and scampered off.
Ray Dallas went behind the counter and made the drinks. Natalie brought them out. Her tip, by mutual unsaid understanding, would be around two hundred and fifty percent.
“Here you go Danny,” she cooed.
“Thanks Nat,” he said. Janine looked down at the carpet and slowly shook her head in patent disgust at her boss’s lechery and blatant annoyance that young Natalie was at the moment getting more attention than she was in that department.
Though it had usually been unusually creative lechery.
The most appalling example of such, though secretly attractive to Janine for its calculation, was his POMCUS program.
While serving with NATO, Danny has been impressed with the Prepositioning Of Material from the Continental United States (POMCUS) program of the US Army that supplied reinforcements with equipment already in place in NATO supply depots. Units just pulled up, collected their tanks, etc. and got on with the mission.
Danny, during his hunting period between marriages, formed casual liaisons with girls in cities he wanted to vacation in. Back home in South Florida or in DC, Manhattan, Ocean City or San Francisco, Danny, through initial attraction, occasional visits, long phone conversations and well-timed gifts, was able to see these women for long weekends and be assured of a temporary residence and female companionship without nary a farthing budgeted except travel to and fro.
That’s right- he pomcused girls.
Meeting Prudy had killed such fun and Danny had holstered his six-shooter in resignation to the uncertain joys of marital domesticity.
“If I cave on Chicago it’ll destroy my rep with their corporate types,” said Danny.
“You and I don’t work for them. We work for Geoff Fuqewe,” responded Janine.
“More pity that. What if we didn’t,” and he took a drag on his pipe. The smoke curled into small rings that wafted over Janine and past the dogs on point hunting print Danny’s parvenu taste found interesting.
“Didn’t what?” she said, intrigued.
“Work for Geoff.”
“What’s your alternative?”
“Maybe there are enough dissatisfied people at B&F who would want to leave. Faced with mass mutiny, or at least the specter of it, Geoff might crumble.”
“If it fails you’re out on your ear.”
“That might happen anyway.”
“What?”
“I can feel we’re taking a lot more chances, cutting a lot more corners. Now, you know I don’t mind a gamble. But are we tempting fate? We’re running two and three times the amount of skullduggery we’ve ever run before. It all could blow up in our face.”
“Losing your nerve?”
“I know the business. I know the risks.”
“If it doesn’t blow up?”
“I get canned and my name is erased from all the obelisks.”
“The subject is moot. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Which means I fold on Chicago and do my master’s bidding.”
“Yes it does.”
“Always nice to have your self-respect intact.”
“How would you know?” she replied.
He told Janine she could be on her way, though she was officially on the clock until COB, made his goodbyes at Chelsea and walked over to the WFFU studios.
WFFU was a twenty thousand watt radio station owned by the Herald Company, where, strangely enough, Danny had a good setup. He was there to produce a radio spot for a sacrificial lamb as a part of his monthly retainer fee from a local PAC.
The lamb was a neophyte kid with a heavy Puerto Rican accent who was running for the State Senate against incumbent Ernest Roame. Roame had tried to throw him off the ballot during petition season. They had survived the court challenge by three signatures. Though this kid was no threat whatsoever, Roame abused him.
Why?
Why not?
Danny was buzzed into the foyer and checked in with the receptionist at the front desk. He viewed her with academic interest. During his younger days he had gone out with a profusion of their receptionists.
Since he saw them regularly during election season, they had provided a welcome physical respite from the pressure. Since they also had such a large turnover rate in receptionists at WFFU, every time he came to the studio, it had been like eyeing presents on Christmas Eve.
His client was waiting for him.
“Chhhhai Danny,” said Francisco Jimenez. A slick Harrisburg player had given this young minority banker the “All This Can Be Yours” speech while taking him on a tour of the Capitol. Put stars in their eyes and send them on their lonely way. That was the drill. Now it was up to Danny to make him at least enough of a threat to Roame that the Senator would have to spend campaign cash.
Given Roame’s pathological paranoia, the move would keep the Senator close to home and out of the hair of Harrisburg’s more viable candidates.
They had handpicked Jiminez because the Party was determined to appear more interested in the “Hispanic” vote. Danny had patiently tried to explain to these white bread simpletons that there was no such thing as the “Hispanic” vote.
There was the Puerto Rican, Mexican, Cuban, Colombian, Dominican, etc. vote. But, his pale pals exclaimed, “you all (he loved the “you all” part) speak Spanish”. Uh huh, Danny would say, as if to a slow child, people from Jamaica and from Ulster both spoke English. Are they cultural, not to mention political, twins?
But, but, they would ask, what about George Bush and his relative success with the “Hispanic” vote in Texas?
With the Mexican vote, you gits. That was because Mexicans were social conservatives. Oh, right, the Party would say, thanks for the info!
Then they would proceed to ignore it.
Of course, nobody in the popular culture reminded any of the assorted “Hispanics” that once their Mother Country had ruled a major slab of the world from The Escorial. The Musico-Statist Complex wanted to keep many of them low-rent clots so they would continue to spend their money on loud car stereos and louder clothes.
To give them any sense of the Old World dignity of their culture, of Goya, Velasquez, Cervantes, of their current King, might one day get them to vote for the people who shared their socially ultra-conservative views.
Couldn’t have that.
That’s why the predominant Anglo opinion of him never ceased to amuse Danny. To them he was an exotic pet to be tolerated to showcase their worldly pretensions.
To Danny most of them were just desiccated and silly.
And gullible.
For kicks, he and the several other coconut Latin (brown on the outside, white on the inside) professional pals in Gering would sit together at civic functions. When an unsuspecting Anglo sat with them they would make up bizarre Hispanic customs and see how far they could push it.
“You know Roger, in Mexico, today is the Festival of the Antlers. All government officials wear them to work to commemorate the Battle of Huevo Ranchero.”
“You know Allan, in Colombia, it’s against the law to marry an ugly woman. Unless she’s rich. Then it’s against the law not to marry her.”
“You know Sally, in Uruguay, children are born with tails.”
He would work for them as long as they kept him in decent champers, good cigars and tailored clothes.
Towards that end and to cover the asses of cheap-suited GOP Babbitts who craved for the party the label of “diverse”, this pathetic animal was standing in front of Danny, looking for the media magic that would get the area’s non-registered, non-turning out downscale Latins to the polls for the GOP...
Danny greeted the retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant who was the proprietor of the establishment. Chelsea was an oasis. A place few trod that did not share a love of tobacco or at least a need to leave modernity at the door and lose themselves in a completely tranquil and antiquated environment.
“Hey Gunny,” said Danny. Janine nodded and smiled.
“Slumming Janine?” said Gunny.
“Picked him up at the bus station.”
“Is he housebroken?”
“We’re going to work on that.” responded Janine.
“Out-standing,” responded Gunnery Sergeant Ray Dallas.
“If you two are through playing verbal footsie,” asked Danny, “I’d like to go down to the lounge and get a drink of port.”
“I’d like a date with Elizabeth Hurley. That ain’t gonna happen either,” said Dallas, following them down with a bottle of port.
Appointed like a Pall Mall club circa 1925, Chelsea was the place certain wives knew to call when they had no idea of their husband’s whereabouts. Danny loved the Heywood Hardy prints on the wall, the oak paneling, the plush seats, the individual reading lights, the soft sonatas that played in the background.
Janine thought the place was tolerable. She could smoke there and the chairs were comfy, didn’t see what all the fuss was over. She thought it weird that hardly anybody spoke to anyone else, merely gave this half smiling nod in response to half-smiling nods. Must be middle-aged guy code, she thought. They seated themselves in a corner, away from the other members.
“What do we do about the Chicago thing?” asked Danny, getting his Algerian briar ready and cleared for action.
“You do what you are told,” responded Janine.
“We both know how good I am at that,” he said as he tapped Peach Blossom tobacco, from Edward’s in Atlanta, into his bowl.
“Would you prefer to be unemployed?”
At that moment Gunny Dallas came over to Danny and Janine. Danny could never get over how much he looked like Samuel Jackson. Natalie, the downstairs waitress, followed behind.
“You guys want anything to drink?” asked young Natalie; clad in the tightest jeans Danny had ever seen.
“The port for me and,” she nodded, “an espresso for the lady.”
“Sure,” said Natalie and scampered off.
Ray Dallas went behind the counter and made the drinks. Natalie brought them out. Her tip, by mutual unsaid understanding, would be around two hundred and fifty percent.
“Here you go Danny,” she cooed.
“Thanks Nat,” he said. Janine looked down at the carpet and slowly shook her head in patent disgust at her boss’s lechery and blatant annoyance that young Natalie was at the moment getting more attention than she was in that department.
Though it had usually been unusually creative lechery.
The most appalling example of such, though secretly attractive to Janine for its calculation, was his POMCUS program.
While serving with NATO, Danny has been impressed with the Prepositioning Of Material from the Continental United States (POMCUS) program of the US Army that supplied reinforcements with equipment already in place in NATO supply depots. Units just pulled up, collected their tanks, etc. and got on with the mission.
Danny, during his hunting period between marriages, formed casual liaisons with girls in cities he wanted to vacation in. Back home in South Florida or in DC, Manhattan, Ocean City or San Francisco, Danny, through initial attraction, occasional visits, long phone conversations and well-timed gifts, was able to see these women for long weekends and be assured of a temporary residence and female companionship without nary a farthing budgeted except travel to and fro.
That’s right- he pomcused girls.
Meeting Prudy had killed such fun and Danny had holstered his six-shooter in resignation to the uncertain joys of marital domesticity.
“If I cave on Chicago it’ll destroy my rep with their corporate types,” said Danny.
“You and I don’t work for them. We work for Geoff Fuqewe,” responded Janine.
“More pity that. What if we didn’t,” and he took a drag on his pipe. The smoke curled into small rings that wafted over Janine and past the dogs on point hunting print Danny’s parvenu taste found interesting.
“Didn’t what?” she said, intrigued.
“Work for Geoff.”
“What’s your alternative?”
“Maybe there are enough dissatisfied people at B&F who would want to leave. Faced with mass mutiny, or at least the specter of it, Geoff might crumble.”
“If it fails you’re out on your ear.”
“That might happen anyway.”
“What?”
“I can feel we’re taking a lot more chances, cutting a lot more corners. Now, you know I don’t mind a gamble. But are we tempting fate? We’re running two and three times the amount of skullduggery we’ve ever run before. It all could blow up in our face.”
“Losing your nerve?”
“I know the business. I know the risks.”
“If it doesn’t blow up?”
“I get canned and my name is erased from all the obelisks.”
“The subject is moot. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Which means I fold on Chicago and do my master’s bidding.”
“Yes it does.”
“Always nice to have your self-respect intact.”
“How would you know?” she replied.
He told Janine she could be on her way, though she was officially on the clock until COB, made his goodbyes at Chelsea and walked over to the WFFU studios.
WFFU was a twenty thousand watt radio station owned by the Herald Company, where, strangely enough, Danny had a good setup. He was there to produce a radio spot for a sacrificial lamb as a part of his monthly retainer fee from a local PAC.
The lamb was a neophyte kid with a heavy Puerto Rican accent who was running for the State Senate against incumbent Ernest Roame. Roame had tried to throw him off the ballot during petition season. They had survived the court challenge by three signatures. Though this kid was no threat whatsoever, Roame abused him.
Why?
Why not?
Danny was buzzed into the foyer and checked in with the receptionist at the front desk. He viewed her with academic interest. During his younger days he had gone out with a profusion of their receptionists.
Since he saw them regularly during election season, they had provided a welcome physical respite from the pressure. Since they also had such a large turnover rate in receptionists at WFFU, every time he came to the studio, it had been like eyeing presents on Christmas Eve.
His client was waiting for him.
“Chhhhai Danny,” said Francisco Jimenez. A slick Harrisburg player had given this young minority banker the “All This Can Be Yours” speech while taking him on a tour of the Capitol. Put stars in their eyes and send them on their lonely way. That was the drill. Now it was up to Danny to make him at least enough of a threat to Roame that the Senator would have to spend campaign cash.
Given Roame’s pathological paranoia, the move would keep the Senator close to home and out of the hair of Harrisburg’s more viable candidates.
They had handpicked Jiminez because the Party was determined to appear more interested in the “Hispanic” vote. Danny had patiently tried to explain to these white bread simpletons that there was no such thing as the “Hispanic” vote.
There was the Puerto Rican, Mexican, Cuban, Colombian, Dominican, etc. vote. But, his pale pals exclaimed, “you all (he loved the “you all” part) speak Spanish”. Uh huh, Danny would say, as if to a slow child, people from Jamaica and from Ulster both spoke English. Are they cultural, not to mention political, twins?
But, but, they would ask, what about George Bush and his relative success with the “Hispanic” vote in Texas?
With the Mexican vote, you gits. That was because Mexicans were social conservatives. Oh, right, the Party would say, thanks for the info!
Then they would proceed to ignore it.
Of course, nobody in the popular culture reminded any of the assorted “Hispanics” that once their Mother Country had ruled a major slab of the world from The Escorial. The Musico-Statist Complex wanted to keep many of them low-rent clots so they would continue to spend their money on loud car stereos and louder clothes.
To give them any sense of the Old World dignity of their culture, of Goya, Velasquez, Cervantes, of their current King, might one day get them to vote for the people who shared their socially ultra-conservative views.
Couldn’t have that.
That’s why the predominant Anglo opinion of him never ceased to amuse Danny. To them he was an exotic pet to be tolerated to showcase their worldly pretensions.
To Danny most of them were just desiccated and silly.
And gullible.
For kicks, he and the several other coconut Latin (brown on the outside, white on the inside) professional pals in Gering would sit together at civic functions. When an unsuspecting Anglo sat with them they would make up bizarre Hispanic customs and see how far they could push it.
“You know Roger, in Mexico, today is the Festival of the Antlers. All government officials wear them to work to commemorate the Battle of Huevo Ranchero.”
“You know Allan, in Colombia, it’s against the law to marry an ugly woman. Unless she’s rich. Then it’s against the law not to marry her.”
“You know Sally, in Uruguay, children are born with tails.”
He would work for them as long as they kept him in decent champers, good cigars and tailored clothes.
Towards that end and to cover the asses of cheap-suited GOP Babbitts who craved for the party the label of “diverse”, this pathetic animal was standing in front of Danny, looking for the media magic that would get the area’s non-registered, non-turning out downscale Latins to the polls for the GOP...
...Thus it was just over a week before the primary that Danny and Janine opened up almost the last full scale Executive Committee, “ExCom” to Danny, meeting of the campaign.
“Let’s get started. What’s the weather gonna be?” Weller asked one of the volunteer chairs who had become the Staff Weather Officer by default.
“It may be nice, sunny and warmish.”
“Merde,” said Danny.
“Don’t we want good weather?”
“Bad weather keeps the mouth-breathers at home. Our voters drive SUVs.”
“So we hope for bad weather?”
“We hope for locusts. We settle for bad weather.”
“I’m not convinced bad weather will hurt us,” said one of the “volunteer” advisors, a failed candidate who had turned to moneymaking pursuits.
“How not?” asked Danny.
“I think our support is so deep amongst Dems that we want them out at the polls.”
“With all due respect,” which Danny knew the chumped up little nobody understood meant absolutely none, “I mean, amateur analysis will not serve us at this stage of the show.”
“Neither will all your negativity. Your ‘kill or be killed’ media has lost us support.”
“When you’re over a target you get flak,” snapped Danny.
Carol Anderson interrupted, “Can we get back to business? Yes, I agree, we want bad weather. Next?”
“Budget?”
“We’ve taken in at least twenty percent beyond projected expenses,” answered Campaign Chair Darren Anderson, candidate spouse, moneyman and actual campaign manager, for he who controls the checkbook controls the campaign.
“Do we spend it?” asked Danny.
“Do we need to?” countered Darren.
“We’re quickly reaching the point of saturation. It can’t hurt.”
“Where would you spend it?”
“Last minute print. We could up that buy without overkill.”
“Do it,” said Carol, “Next? Let’s finish up, got a speaking engagement in thirty minutes.”
“Final thing. Carol,” he turned to Janine who handed him a paper, “here is a list of the polls we’d like you at and the schedule. You’ll travel by helo.”
Anderson took the list and glanced at it. “Shouldn’t I stay in one place more than ninety minutes?”
“In a perfect world, yes. But there are too many places we’re weak. Just enough time to get press.”
“Weak, who says we’re weak? The polls don’t,” said Finance.
“I know enough not to trust a local poll. Too much chance of contamination.”
“Contamination?” asked the candidate’s daughter, the sharpest of the group.
“The state party’s pollster has bigger clients. Long-term clients. Clients that may be interested in your numbers but who don’t share our goals in this campaign.”
“You mean he’d leak them?”
“Yes.”
“How do you stop that?”
“Go to a pollster way out of state. Mine’s in Utah. Knows nobody here, thus, no possible conflict of interest. Never met them, never want to either. You want complete impersonal objectivity. You guys already had your pollster when I got here, so I demurred.”
“That’ll be the day,” murmured Janine.
“So the numbers are low?” asked Carol.
“This race is too close to call.”
“What do we do?” asked Carol.
“The last two weeks are a sprint. If you look back, you lose a step. We work our firing solution and run like hell for the finish line.”
“Makes sense to me,” said Carol Anderson, “meeting adjourned.”
Hoare dialed Grendel.
“Found a target,” said Hoare.
“Gullible?”
“A real lamb. And for an unfathomable reason, quite smitten with our Danny Boy.”
“You’ve justified my investment in you.”
“You have him and his comely workmate under watch?”
“Only a matter of time with those two.”
“Then I can use that event to leverage my own operation.”
“My thinking also.”
“Then after this next move, we can renegotiate?”
“After this next nail in his coffin, yes.”
“What do we do if we lose the Anderson race?” asked Janine, now that they were safely back at Trooper Keogh’s.
“We hope we haven’t lost a bunch of others, and/or we lost by a small margin, and we go on to next year.”
“Will they hold a grudge?” As the m.o. for clients always was: if they won, they’d never heard of the consultant. If they lost, it was entirely the consultant’s fault.
“Nah, if they punt this one,” he took a sip of his Wild Turkey and Coke, “they might need us for the next run. Carol’s not a quitter, neither is her husband. You can feel it.”
“I like them too. Hope we don’t let them down.”
“Hold on sport, don’t start getting all squishy on me. I may faint.”
“Don’t faint yet Danny. The night is young.”
They had another cocktail.
That led to another. She suggested they go to a club she knew in Philly. Just to let off a little steam. What the hell he thought? She deserved a break; she’d been working hard.
Going back to the small house he was renting was too depressing to contemplate at that moment.
What the hell? He was up for a bit of fun.
On the way there she reached across the car seat and started stroking his neck. What was this? He’d never picked up this vibe.
When they reached the club they found an out of the way table by the bar and after another four cocktails apiece, decided to bar hop.
They departed in a cab from there and towards one of Danny’s haunts, La Majorca, an authentic Spanish (as in Spain, not as in the label many ignorant Anglos give to anything vaguely Hispanic) restaurant on South Street.
As he reached for his cell phone after he entered the taxi, she reached for his crotch. He made a vain attempt to ignore her.
“Janine, just a moment.”
“Why?” she purred in her patented little girl/sleepy cat tone.
“Let me just make this one call.” He told Noelle he was too drunk to drive, was going to stay in town with a pal and would meet her for lunch tomorrow. After all, if Noelle was THE ONE, he deserved at least one more time at the plate before forever hanging up his bat. Didn’t he?
At La Majorca, much to the distraction of the waiters, she waved her cigarette around so much she nearly set her hair on fire and permitted Danny liberties upon her person usually reserved for medical professionals. They left the restaurant and hailed another cab.
As they were waiting, she whispered in his ear, “Now.”
Alighting into the taxi, Danny requested, “The Sheraton Society Hill,” and was wisked there in three minutes. Not a peep from Janine but the soft throaty rumble against his neck that was her evening’s timbre of contentment. They arrived, quickly checked in and galloped to their room.
Wasting no time with preliminaries, which was not the norm for Danny, the event progressed to a strange stalemate where Janine had disrobed save for black slitskirt and thong. Danny had stripped down to his boxers and was endeavoring to control himself by thinking of baseball.
After he regained control, he slowly pulled off her skirt and massaged, as he did, her inner thigh with his tongue...
“Let’s get started. What’s the weather gonna be?” Weller asked one of the volunteer chairs who had become the Staff Weather Officer by default.
“It may be nice, sunny and warmish.”
“Merde,” said Danny.
“Don’t we want good weather?”
“Bad weather keeps the mouth-breathers at home. Our voters drive SUVs.”
“So we hope for bad weather?”
“We hope for locusts. We settle for bad weather.”
“I’m not convinced bad weather will hurt us,” said one of the “volunteer” advisors, a failed candidate who had turned to moneymaking pursuits.
“How not?” asked Danny.
“I think our support is so deep amongst Dems that we want them out at the polls.”
“With all due respect,” which Danny knew the chumped up little nobody understood meant absolutely none, “I mean, amateur analysis will not serve us at this stage of the show.”
“Neither will all your negativity. Your ‘kill or be killed’ media has lost us support.”
“When you’re over a target you get flak,” snapped Danny.
Carol Anderson interrupted, “Can we get back to business? Yes, I agree, we want bad weather. Next?”
“Budget?”
“We’ve taken in at least twenty percent beyond projected expenses,” answered Campaign Chair Darren Anderson, candidate spouse, moneyman and actual campaign manager, for he who controls the checkbook controls the campaign.
“Do we spend it?” asked Danny.
“Do we need to?” countered Darren.
“We’re quickly reaching the point of saturation. It can’t hurt.”
“Where would you spend it?”
“Last minute print. We could up that buy without overkill.”
“Do it,” said Carol, “Next? Let’s finish up, got a speaking engagement in thirty minutes.”
“Final thing. Carol,” he turned to Janine who handed him a paper, “here is a list of the polls we’d like you at and the schedule. You’ll travel by helo.”
Anderson took the list and glanced at it. “Shouldn’t I stay in one place more than ninety minutes?”
“In a perfect world, yes. But there are too many places we’re weak. Just enough time to get press.”
“Weak, who says we’re weak? The polls don’t,” said Finance.
“I know enough not to trust a local poll. Too much chance of contamination.”
“Contamination?” asked the candidate’s daughter, the sharpest of the group.
“The state party’s pollster has bigger clients. Long-term clients. Clients that may be interested in your numbers but who don’t share our goals in this campaign.”
“You mean he’d leak them?”
“Yes.”
“How do you stop that?”
“Go to a pollster way out of state. Mine’s in Utah. Knows nobody here, thus, no possible conflict of interest. Never met them, never want to either. You want complete impersonal objectivity. You guys already had your pollster when I got here, so I demurred.”
“That’ll be the day,” murmured Janine.
“So the numbers are low?” asked Carol.
“This race is too close to call.”
“What do we do?” asked Carol.
“The last two weeks are a sprint. If you look back, you lose a step. We work our firing solution and run like hell for the finish line.”
“Makes sense to me,” said Carol Anderson, “meeting adjourned.”
Hoare dialed Grendel.
“Found a target,” said Hoare.
“Gullible?”
“A real lamb. And for an unfathomable reason, quite smitten with our Danny Boy.”
“You’ve justified my investment in you.”
“You have him and his comely workmate under watch?”
“Only a matter of time with those two.”
“Then I can use that event to leverage my own operation.”
“My thinking also.”
“Then after this next move, we can renegotiate?”
“After this next nail in his coffin, yes.”
“What do we do if we lose the Anderson race?” asked Janine, now that they were safely back at Trooper Keogh’s.
“We hope we haven’t lost a bunch of others, and/or we lost by a small margin, and we go on to next year.”
“Will they hold a grudge?” As the m.o. for clients always was: if they won, they’d never heard of the consultant. If they lost, it was entirely the consultant’s fault.
“Nah, if they punt this one,” he took a sip of his Wild Turkey and Coke, “they might need us for the next run. Carol’s not a quitter, neither is her husband. You can feel it.”
“I like them too. Hope we don’t let them down.”
“Hold on sport, don’t start getting all squishy on me. I may faint.”
“Don’t faint yet Danny. The night is young.”
They had another cocktail.
That led to another. She suggested they go to a club she knew in Philly. Just to let off a little steam. What the hell he thought? She deserved a break; she’d been working hard.
Going back to the small house he was renting was too depressing to contemplate at that moment.
What the hell? He was up for a bit of fun.
On the way there she reached across the car seat and started stroking his neck. What was this? He’d never picked up this vibe.
When they reached the club they found an out of the way table by the bar and after another four cocktails apiece, decided to bar hop.
They departed in a cab from there and towards one of Danny’s haunts, La Majorca, an authentic Spanish (as in Spain, not as in the label many ignorant Anglos give to anything vaguely Hispanic) restaurant on South Street.
As he reached for his cell phone after he entered the taxi, she reached for his crotch. He made a vain attempt to ignore her.
“Janine, just a moment.”
“Why?” she purred in her patented little girl/sleepy cat tone.
“Let me just make this one call.” He told Noelle he was too drunk to drive, was going to stay in town with a pal and would meet her for lunch tomorrow. After all, if Noelle was THE ONE, he deserved at least one more time at the plate before forever hanging up his bat. Didn’t he?
At La Majorca, much to the distraction of the waiters, she waved her cigarette around so much she nearly set her hair on fire and permitted Danny liberties upon her person usually reserved for medical professionals. They left the restaurant and hailed another cab.
As they were waiting, she whispered in his ear, “Now.”
Alighting into the taxi, Danny requested, “The Sheraton Society Hill,” and was wisked there in three minutes. Not a peep from Janine but the soft throaty rumble against his neck that was her evening’s timbre of contentment. They arrived, quickly checked in and galloped to their room.
Wasting no time with preliminaries, which was not the norm for Danny, the event progressed to a strange stalemate where Janine had disrobed save for black slitskirt and thong. Danny had stripped down to his boxers and was endeavoring to control himself by thinking of baseball.
After he regained control, he slowly pulled off her skirt and massaged, as he did, her inner thigh with his tongue...
...“Now,” he said as their breakfasts were put before them and she stole the bacon from his plate, “what are we doing?”
“Doing turnout recon for the State Chairman. So, are you gonna tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who she is.”
“There is no ‘she’!”
“I know why.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gay as a picnic hamper.”
“Oh that’s such bosh. If I recall, you and I have…”
“Gay as a summer hat. Though, not sexually.”
“Sorry?”
“Read about this in Vogue.”
“You can read?”
“I look at a lot of big pictures, but I call it reading. Think about it. You dress terminally prep. Look at the Brooks Brothers suit you have on today.”
“This old thing? Cutest outfit west of Sloane Square.”
“You see!”
“I was joking.”
“Sure sister. So you’re a clotheshorse, have short well-groomed hair, wear pastel shirts with French cuffs and get your eyebrows done. You regularly have manicures and pedicures. You have more shoes than I do…”
“Do not.”
“How many do you have?’
“A dozen, maybe sixteen, max. Not counting sneakers and deck shoes, but counting my opera pumps.”
“You have pumps?!”
“It’s an unfortunate expression. They’re just patent leather loafers with, well, with black bows.”
“Bows? On pumps? A guy wearing pumps with bows? That’s the gayest thing I have ever heard. I, on the other hand, normal for my gender, have two dozen pairs of shoes.”
“You have more.”
“I’m a twentysomething single girl. Most guys have their sneakers and one or two pairs of dress shoes.”
“How do you know this? Take a survey during…?”
“I just know.”
“I bet.”
“As we also know, I’m not most guys.”
“That’s for damn sure. I digress. You don’t watch sports, any sports…”
“Wimbledon, the Masters, the America’s Cup, the Ashes…”
“That’s only because Wimbledon is Sloanie, the Ashes is phenomenally Sloanie and The Masters and the cup are ultra-preppy. They don’t count since you watch them for style, not for sport.”
“I see, only sports with badly dressed spectators count.”
“You don’t even watch the World Series!”
“I don’t watch any sport where grown men wear capri pants.”
“You love old Broadway, early twentieth century British public schoolboy poofy poetry and bubble gum rock. You like shopping with women. Your dream date would be a threeway with Dorothy Parker and Flannery O’Connor, supported by an Edith Piaf soundtrack.”
“Naturellement. Don’t forget Debra Messing in that ménage. I’d drink her bath water.”
“The way you go on about her, how could I forget? You own a boxed set of ‘AbFab’. You live for old films. You cry over schmaltzy love stories…”
“I only snarfle.”
“We went to Love Actually together playing hooky from work, remember?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You love to dance, specifically to disco music. How do I know? I’ve seen you move in the car to ‘Heaven Must be Missing an Angel’ when you thought I wasn’t looking. You read Cosmo…”
“It’s like being back in Army Intel and reading enemy transmissions. Gotta know how the other side is thinking.”
“I vote mostly Republican…”
“Like that would be unheard of, a closeted gay Republican. You’re missing the point. I don’t think you like guys in a sexual way. I think you like spending more time with women than you do with guys. Why do you think so many of your best friends are women and you spend hours on the phone with them each week?”
“Because sharp women are funnier and smarter than most guys?” said Danny.
“Also because they relate to you as a culturally gay male. Think how very Will and Grace you and I are.”
“Cut this out.”
“If you and I ever split up over whomever…”
“There is no ‘whomever’…”
“If you’re free you should call Pete Felcher and go gay bar-hopping with him.”
“At least we wouldn’t be hitting on the same type of girls. If I’m not gay sexually then why go gay bar-hopping?”
“Because silly, cute girls like me hang out with gay guys and…”
“You do? When?”
“During the little time off you give me. Anyway, we hang out with them because they won’t paw us or think they’ll impress us by mentioning the car they drive or where they live or how much money they make.”...
“Doing turnout recon for the State Chairman. So, are you gonna tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who she is.”
“There is no ‘she’!”
“I know why.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gay as a picnic hamper.”
“Oh that’s such bosh. If I recall, you and I have…”
“Gay as a summer hat. Though, not sexually.”
“Sorry?”
“Read about this in Vogue.”
“You can read?”
“I look at a lot of big pictures, but I call it reading. Think about it. You dress terminally prep. Look at the Brooks Brothers suit you have on today.”
“This old thing? Cutest outfit west of Sloane Square.”
“You see!”
“I was joking.”
“Sure sister. So you’re a clotheshorse, have short well-groomed hair, wear pastel shirts with French cuffs and get your eyebrows done. You regularly have manicures and pedicures. You have more shoes than I do…”
“Do not.”
“How many do you have?’
“A dozen, maybe sixteen, max. Not counting sneakers and deck shoes, but counting my opera pumps.”
“You have pumps?!”
“It’s an unfortunate expression. They’re just patent leather loafers with, well, with black bows.”
“Bows? On pumps? A guy wearing pumps with bows? That’s the gayest thing I have ever heard. I, on the other hand, normal for my gender, have two dozen pairs of shoes.”
“You have more.”
“I’m a twentysomething single girl. Most guys have their sneakers and one or two pairs of dress shoes.”
“How do you know this? Take a survey during…?”
“I just know.”
“I bet.”
“As we also know, I’m not most guys.”
“That’s for damn sure. I digress. You don’t watch sports, any sports…”
“Wimbledon, the Masters, the America’s Cup, the Ashes…”
“That’s only because Wimbledon is Sloanie, the Ashes is phenomenally Sloanie and The Masters and the cup are ultra-preppy. They don’t count since you watch them for style, not for sport.”
“I see, only sports with badly dressed spectators count.”
“You don’t even watch the World Series!”
“I don’t watch any sport where grown men wear capri pants.”
“You love old Broadway, early twentieth century British public schoolboy poofy poetry and bubble gum rock. You like shopping with women. Your dream date would be a threeway with Dorothy Parker and Flannery O’Connor, supported by an Edith Piaf soundtrack.”
“Naturellement. Don’t forget Debra Messing in that ménage. I’d drink her bath water.”
“The way you go on about her, how could I forget? You own a boxed set of ‘AbFab’. You live for old films. You cry over schmaltzy love stories…”
“I only snarfle.”
“We went to Love Actually together playing hooky from work, remember?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You love to dance, specifically to disco music. How do I know? I’ve seen you move in the car to ‘Heaven Must be Missing an Angel’ when you thought I wasn’t looking. You read Cosmo…”
“It’s like being back in Army Intel and reading enemy transmissions. Gotta know how the other side is thinking.”
“I vote mostly Republican…”
“Like that would be unheard of, a closeted gay Republican. You’re missing the point. I don’t think you like guys in a sexual way. I think you like spending more time with women than you do with guys. Why do you think so many of your best friends are women and you spend hours on the phone with them each week?”
“Because sharp women are funnier and smarter than most guys?” said Danny.
“Also because they relate to you as a culturally gay male. Think how very Will and Grace you and I are.”
“Cut this out.”
“If you and I ever split up over whomever…”
“There is no ‘whomever’…”
“If you’re free you should call Pete Felcher and go gay bar-hopping with him.”
“At least we wouldn’t be hitting on the same type of girls. If I’m not gay sexually then why go gay bar-hopping?”
“Because silly, cute girls like me hang out with gay guys and…”
“You do? When?”
“During the little time off you give me. Anyway, we hang out with them because they won’t paw us or think they’ll impress us by mentioning the car they drive or where they live or how much money they make.”...
...After they both were uncuffed and released, a luckily delayed boarding progressed without further incident and the plane took off. It was a three-hour flight to Denver, short layover, then they’d change planes and it would take another couple of hours to DFW. From there Red Star would meet them on the ground and point them to Louisiana. Brooke had done her work through the local Red Star chapter and she had been assured they would be deployed as a team. She was seated next to Danny and couldn’t sleep.
“You up?” she said and nudged him in the ribs.
“I am now.”
“You think everyone’s alright?”
“Jimmy’s into this. Josh is glad to be away from home. Rowan is out. Tony is a little nervous, he’s wondering if he’ll have a job when he gets back.”
“Will he?”
“Hard to say with Geoff Fuqewe. Anyway, Ty is a rock, he’ll be fine. Fred is on the phone, brought his work with him.”
“Surprised he came.”
“Trust me, he’s a man you want around. Sam is too busy already with logistics not to be fine.”
“That guy is frigging sharp.”
“Been so for thirty years.”
“And Little Princess?”
“What is it between you two?”
“She has a crush on you and she thinks that you listen to me, that I don’t like her and that I made you drop her. Mark my words, that skinny blonde will bide her time and pounce again. When she does, it won’t be so easy to get out of it.”
“Who knows if I’ll want to get out of it?”
“Janine’s a child.”
“Not all that much younger than Noelle, and you liked her.”
“The decade between them constitutes more than years. I liked Noelle because she was good for you. Maybe perfect.”
“Perfect? You mean she’s a nymphomaniacal, but loyal, college cheerleader whose deaf and blind father owns a chain of high end liquor stores situated on the shores of the Chesapeake?”
“Pig.”
Danny snorted. “ Also apparently perfectly good for a no pants party with Eugene Hoare.”
“No way,” gasped Brooke.
“Way.”
“That sock puppet?”
“The very same.”
“Even you rate higher than he does.”
“Oh thanks… after all she put out about integrity, faith, candor, love, blah, blah, blah. What a hypocrite, what a whore, dumb cow, hosebag…”
“You forgot brazen hussy or that she’s ‘fast’.”
“Those too.”
“Finished?”
“No. Badly educated middlebrow goo goo. Pathetic trollopy swine. Hope she rots in hell.”
“You’re not over her then?”
“Not even close.”
“Can we get off the subject of Miss Bayshaw for a minute? The subject du jour is Miss Villiers and her feelings for you that, as your closest confidante and guardian angel, I know you won’t take advantage of anymore, even in extremis.”
“She’s not my type and I am not her’s. We both knew that when it was going on.”
“I heard that exchange between you and her earlier on the bus.”
“You’re bluffing. You were asleep.”
“By the saints, I’m never that asleep. She’s probably spying on us at this moment and would bite me I she thought I was talking about her.”
Janine heard that and tried to look more convincingly asleep.
“Now c’mon…”
“We’ll see. She’ll be fine as long as she’s close to you.”
“Need her close, she’s my right arm.”
“She’s more interested in another appendage.”
Danny made the football time-out sign, “Too much information. Next question.”
Denver was spent getting from one end of the airport to the other in time to catch their connecting flight. They landed at DFW around noon and groggily deplaned.
“Listen up,” said Sam, “I’ll go and find the American Red Star people. You guys stay put.”
“Roger that,” said Danny.
“Will you stop with all the John Wayne talk?” said Brooke, “We get it. You’re having fun.” Janine laughed at that.
“Roger that ma’am,” said Danny.
“Wilco and out,” seconded Sam.
“Have you five by five,” said Jimmy.
Brooke wondered how long it would take them to lose their boyish bonhomie in the face of the extant reality.
Sam returned with an attractive tall blonde college girl decked out in a geeky American Red Star Emergency Services red vest and a lanyard sporting at least four different ID badges.
“Welcome to Dallas. I’m Leah and I’ll get you to Baton Rouge and our Headquarters at Cortana. Yes, I know what the acronym spells. You came from ARS, which is the organization back home. Here we’re the line troops and thus get the ‘Emergency Services’ tag. When you see people with ARS ID or ARS clothes, that means they’re veterans. All us disaster rookies, like you and me, are ARSES. Are we clear on that?”
The team slowly nodded like they cared.
“How many with you?”
“Eleven,” said Danny.
“Who are you?”
“Danny Weller.”
“He’s the Brownie Troop Leader,” said Janine.
“Weller’s Eleven,” said Leah.
“Danny and the Juniors,” countered Josh.
“Eleven Group,” said Danny.
“Can you all squeeze into a van?”
“No sweat,” answered Danny.
“Awesome. Follow me,” said the ARSES vixen. Rowan sped up and walked beside her. Danny and the rest were trading wiseass insults.
“You been there?” Rowan asked Leah.
“You go where they send you.”
“Heard what it’s like?”
“They’ll send you to either Disaster Assessment, going down to N.O…”
“N.O.?”
This one wasn’t quick, thought Leah, “New Orleans.”
“Disaster Assessment or what?” asked Rowan.
“Or put you at HQ at Cortana, at Belle Chase Airfield, have you at a staff shelter or at an evacuee shelter, wherever they need you.”
“Which is most needed?”
“If I get out of here, wanna go to DeRidder. Heard they got hit bad.”
“Could they send all of us there?”
“You’ll go wherever they want. I guess if they can use you all together then they’ll do it.”
Danny smelled Rowan on the hunt. Ten minutes in country and he’s pursuing skirts.
“Hey Cartland?” called Danny from three feet back.
“Yeah?”
“How’s the wife?” The ARSES girl let out a laugh.
“Fine,” he turned around and mouthed “S.O.B.”
“Okay,” she said as they got into the rental car office, “here’s where I turn you over to Avis. They’ll get you set up with wheels.”
“Thanks Leah,” said Danny.
“Good luck down there,” she said and left them signing for keys pondering, Can’t they send more interesting people like these? If not, this whole thing is going to get awfully earnest.
The drive down was uneventful, as everyone who wasn’t driving slept this time. They got into Baton Rouge and the Cortana HQ at 3pm.
The HQ was housed in a huge abandoned Wal-Mart and had a humungous parking lot to match. The spaces were full of every imaginable vehicle from Humvees to motorcycles to eighteen-wheelers. They found a spot across the street on the grass and got out, stretching the sleep away as they did.
Hundreds of people were coming in and out of the building; it reminded Danny of an Army Replacement Depot. Lots of movement, maybe for real, maybe not. They flashed the ID badges they had been issued by ARS Gering and walked into the lobby. Various overhead signs pointed to the proper line to stand in.
Brooke took the lead. She led them to ‘Inprocessing’ and, after a half hour, their turn came. She told them to hang back while she spoke to the Red Star volunteer.
“Name?” asked the man, who looked like a NARC at a junior high school.
“Brooke Asquith. We’re pre-processed.”
“We?”
“Eleven of us from Gering County, Pennsylvania.”
“Got nothing on that lady. We put you where we need you.”
“We want to stay together.”
“Depends on what skills you have.”
“We’ve got a lawyer, me…”
“Government liaison.”
“A television reporter…”
“Media and PR.”
“Our team Leader…”
“Shelter Management.”
“Hold on,” said Brooke, as she didn’t like the way this was going, “We were guaranteed, assured mind you, we could stay together. That’s one of the main reasons we came down.”
“See here Missy,” said the NARC, and the hackles on Brooke’s neck jumped to attention, “You are not a tour group and you and the In Crowd don’t get to pick what you do. The mission dictates where we send you. Or are you people too good to work with us lowlifes?”
Hackles stood down.
“Give me a moment,” she said to the admin volunteer, as she turned around and walked back to the group.
“Got all day lady,” he answered.
They met her with expectant stares. “Which one, good news or bad news?” she asked.
“Good news,” said Tony...
“You up?” she said and nudged him in the ribs.
“I am now.”
“You think everyone’s alright?”
“Jimmy’s into this. Josh is glad to be away from home. Rowan is out. Tony is a little nervous, he’s wondering if he’ll have a job when he gets back.”
“Will he?”
“Hard to say with Geoff Fuqewe. Anyway, Ty is a rock, he’ll be fine. Fred is on the phone, brought his work with him.”
“Surprised he came.”
“Trust me, he’s a man you want around. Sam is too busy already with logistics not to be fine.”
“That guy is frigging sharp.”
“Been so for thirty years.”
“And Little Princess?”
“What is it between you two?”
“She has a crush on you and she thinks that you listen to me, that I don’t like her and that I made you drop her. Mark my words, that skinny blonde will bide her time and pounce again. When she does, it won’t be so easy to get out of it.”
“Who knows if I’ll want to get out of it?”
“Janine’s a child.”
“Not all that much younger than Noelle, and you liked her.”
“The decade between them constitutes more than years. I liked Noelle because she was good for you. Maybe perfect.”
“Perfect? You mean she’s a nymphomaniacal, but loyal, college cheerleader whose deaf and blind father owns a chain of high end liquor stores situated on the shores of the Chesapeake?”
“Pig.”
Danny snorted. “ Also apparently perfectly good for a no pants party with Eugene Hoare.”
“No way,” gasped Brooke.
“Way.”
“That sock puppet?”
“The very same.”
“Even you rate higher than he does.”
“Oh thanks… after all she put out about integrity, faith, candor, love, blah, blah, blah. What a hypocrite, what a whore, dumb cow, hosebag…”
“You forgot brazen hussy or that she’s ‘fast’.”
“Those too.”
“Finished?”
“No. Badly educated middlebrow goo goo. Pathetic trollopy swine. Hope she rots in hell.”
“You’re not over her then?”
“Not even close.”
“Can we get off the subject of Miss Bayshaw for a minute? The subject du jour is Miss Villiers and her feelings for you that, as your closest confidante and guardian angel, I know you won’t take advantage of anymore, even in extremis.”
“She’s not my type and I am not her’s. We both knew that when it was going on.”
“I heard that exchange between you and her earlier on the bus.”
“You’re bluffing. You were asleep.”
“By the saints, I’m never that asleep. She’s probably spying on us at this moment and would bite me I she thought I was talking about her.”
Janine heard that and tried to look more convincingly asleep.
“Now c’mon…”
“We’ll see. She’ll be fine as long as she’s close to you.”
“Need her close, she’s my right arm.”
“She’s more interested in another appendage.”
Danny made the football time-out sign, “Too much information. Next question.”
Denver was spent getting from one end of the airport to the other in time to catch their connecting flight. They landed at DFW around noon and groggily deplaned.
“Listen up,” said Sam, “I’ll go and find the American Red Star people. You guys stay put.”
“Roger that,” said Danny.
“Will you stop with all the John Wayne talk?” said Brooke, “We get it. You’re having fun.” Janine laughed at that.
“Roger that ma’am,” said Danny.
“Wilco and out,” seconded Sam.
“Have you five by five,” said Jimmy.
Brooke wondered how long it would take them to lose their boyish bonhomie in the face of the extant reality.
Sam returned with an attractive tall blonde college girl decked out in a geeky American Red Star Emergency Services red vest and a lanyard sporting at least four different ID badges.
“Welcome to Dallas. I’m Leah and I’ll get you to Baton Rouge and our Headquarters at Cortana. Yes, I know what the acronym spells. You came from ARS, which is the organization back home. Here we’re the line troops and thus get the ‘Emergency Services’ tag. When you see people with ARS ID or ARS clothes, that means they’re veterans. All us disaster rookies, like you and me, are ARSES. Are we clear on that?”
The team slowly nodded like they cared.
“How many with you?”
“Eleven,” said Danny.
“Who are you?”
“Danny Weller.”
“He’s the Brownie Troop Leader,” said Janine.
“Weller’s Eleven,” said Leah.
“Danny and the Juniors,” countered Josh.
“Eleven Group,” said Danny.
“Can you all squeeze into a van?”
“No sweat,” answered Danny.
“Awesome. Follow me,” said the ARSES vixen. Rowan sped up and walked beside her. Danny and the rest were trading wiseass insults.
“You been there?” Rowan asked Leah.
“You go where they send you.”
“Heard what it’s like?”
“They’ll send you to either Disaster Assessment, going down to N.O…”
“N.O.?”
This one wasn’t quick, thought Leah, “New Orleans.”
“Disaster Assessment or what?” asked Rowan.
“Or put you at HQ at Cortana, at Belle Chase Airfield, have you at a staff shelter or at an evacuee shelter, wherever they need you.”
“Which is most needed?”
“If I get out of here, wanna go to DeRidder. Heard they got hit bad.”
“Could they send all of us there?”
“You’ll go wherever they want. I guess if they can use you all together then they’ll do it.”
Danny smelled Rowan on the hunt. Ten minutes in country and he’s pursuing skirts.
“Hey Cartland?” called Danny from three feet back.
“Yeah?”
“How’s the wife?” The ARSES girl let out a laugh.
“Fine,” he turned around and mouthed “S.O.B.”
“Okay,” she said as they got into the rental car office, “here’s where I turn you over to Avis. They’ll get you set up with wheels.”
“Thanks Leah,” said Danny.
“Good luck down there,” she said and left them signing for keys pondering, Can’t they send more interesting people like these? If not, this whole thing is going to get awfully earnest.
The drive down was uneventful, as everyone who wasn’t driving slept this time. They got into Baton Rouge and the Cortana HQ at 3pm.
The HQ was housed in a huge abandoned Wal-Mart and had a humungous parking lot to match. The spaces were full of every imaginable vehicle from Humvees to motorcycles to eighteen-wheelers. They found a spot across the street on the grass and got out, stretching the sleep away as they did.
Hundreds of people were coming in and out of the building; it reminded Danny of an Army Replacement Depot. Lots of movement, maybe for real, maybe not. They flashed the ID badges they had been issued by ARS Gering and walked into the lobby. Various overhead signs pointed to the proper line to stand in.
Brooke took the lead. She led them to ‘Inprocessing’ and, after a half hour, their turn came. She told them to hang back while she spoke to the Red Star volunteer.
“Name?” asked the man, who looked like a NARC at a junior high school.
“Brooke Asquith. We’re pre-processed.”
“We?”
“Eleven of us from Gering County, Pennsylvania.”
“Got nothing on that lady. We put you where we need you.”
“We want to stay together.”
“Depends on what skills you have.”
“We’ve got a lawyer, me…”
“Government liaison.”
“A television reporter…”
“Media and PR.”
“Our team Leader…”
“Shelter Management.”
“Hold on,” said Brooke, as she didn’t like the way this was going, “We were guaranteed, assured mind you, we could stay together. That’s one of the main reasons we came down.”
“See here Missy,” said the NARC, and the hackles on Brooke’s neck jumped to attention, “You are not a tour group and you and the In Crowd don’t get to pick what you do. The mission dictates where we send you. Or are you people too good to work with us lowlifes?”
Hackles stood down.
“Give me a moment,” she said to the admin volunteer, as she turned around and walked back to the group.
“Got all day lady,” he answered.
They met her with expectant stares. “Which one, good news or bad news?” she asked.
“Good news,” said Tony...
...“We’re ready,” said Ty.
“Ready for what?” asked Linda.
“A little fun,” Ian said.
“When you say that I get very nervous. What are you up to?” Linda said.
“Watch,” he advised and swooped low over the store, he spoke to Ty over the intercom, “Mr. Eden, Initiate Operation Roto Looter.”
Ty pulled an M-16 out from under a blanket and shoved in a clip, “Initiating,” Ty answered.
“This is unauthorized!” she shrieked.
“There are times,” the Skipper of the helo Prancer commented, “you gotta say…,” and with that Ty put down a three round burst smack dab on the looters.
“Stop this! You can’t!” Linda hysterically yelled as Ian and Ty laughed. Another burst then another and another. She thought, they’re out of their minds! We’ll all go to prison for this! Omigod! They’re laughing harder!
The shots ceased for a second and then she noticed. The looters had all dropped their booty and were running away like bats out of hell. But, no pings from the shots. The way Ty was aiming, she should see and hear the shots hit either pavement or see looters go down.
Nothing, no dust, no fallen bodies…those sons of bitches…
“You bastards! You butt pirates! You’re firing blanks, aren’t you!?!”
Through his laughter, Ian wiped away a tear of glee, “I...I...hold on…I can’t stop,” and he lapsed back into euphoric mirth. He turned the helo back towards the highway.
She balled up her fist and hit him hard in the shoulder.
“Okay…okay…,” he gained semi-control, “Of course they’re blanks you ringknocking simpleton!”
“The look on your face when I opened up on them!” said Ty.
“Very funny laughing boy,’ she said and smirked in spite of herself, “What if one of them caught our tail number?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo Honey. What are they gonna do? Call the cops and say, ‘Hey, I was looting a Best Buy when…’It’s like seeing your priest in a whorehouse.”
“ Anyway,” said Ty,” if you gotta eat, no problem, take it. If you need diapers or water, you should go get it no matter what when it’s bad like this. You sure as hell don’t need plasma televisions and CD players to keep your family safe and fed. Do ya?”
“Why didn’t you two tell me?”
“Because you are such a straight arrow you would have whined and bitched the whole way here. Look how you…,” and he began to break up again.
“I lost it because I thought you two were gunning down unarmed civilians!”
“ You cost me five bucks.”
“What?”
“Bet our pal here you’d figure it out before the second burst. You didn’t.”
“Man, sweetest fiver I ever won,” Ty grinned.
“Before you start pouting in that cute way of yours, yes, you would have bitched, but you would have come along and eventually gotten in the spirit of it. I know that or you wouldn’t be sitting in that seat,’ he said and winked at her.
“Jerkoff,” she laughed.
“Crack whore,” he responded.
“Fake cowboy.”
“Cousin It.”
“Registered Libertarian.”
“Child of the Corn.”
“Passive aggressive douche.”
“Product of affirmative action.”
“Sissy boy.”
“Girl pilot.”
“Police pilot.”
“Whoa! That’s too far!”...
“Ready for what?” asked Linda.
“A little fun,” Ian said.
“When you say that I get very nervous. What are you up to?” Linda said.
“Watch,” he advised and swooped low over the store, he spoke to Ty over the intercom, “Mr. Eden, Initiate Operation Roto Looter.”
Ty pulled an M-16 out from under a blanket and shoved in a clip, “Initiating,” Ty answered.
“This is unauthorized!” she shrieked.
“There are times,” the Skipper of the helo Prancer commented, “you gotta say…,” and with that Ty put down a three round burst smack dab on the looters.
“Stop this! You can’t!” Linda hysterically yelled as Ian and Ty laughed. Another burst then another and another. She thought, they’re out of their minds! We’ll all go to prison for this! Omigod! They’re laughing harder!
The shots ceased for a second and then she noticed. The looters had all dropped their booty and were running away like bats out of hell. But, no pings from the shots. The way Ty was aiming, she should see and hear the shots hit either pavement or see looters go down.
Nothing, no dust, no fallen bodies…those sons of bitches…
“You bastards! You butt pirates! You’re firing blanks, aren’t you!?!”
Through his laughter, Ian wiped away a tear of glee, “I...I...hold on…I can’t stop,” and he lapsed back into euphoric mirth. He turned the helo back towards the highway.
She balled up her fist and hit him hard in the shoulder.
“Okay…okay…,” he gained semi-control, “Of course they’re blanks you ringknocking simpleton!”
“The look on your face when I opened up on them!” said Ty.
“Very funny laughing boy,’ she said and smirked in spite of herself, “What if one of them caught our tail number?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo Honey. What are they gonna do? Call the cops and say, ‘Hey, I was looting a Best Buy when…’It’s like seeing your priest in a whorehouse.”
“ Anyway,” said Ty,” if you gotta eat, no problem, take it. If you need diapers or water, you should go get it no matter what when it’s bad like this. You sure as hell don’t need plasma televisions and CD players to keep your family safe and fed. Do ya?”
“Why didn’t you two tell me?”
“Because you are such a straight arrow you would have whined and bitched the whole way here. Look how you…,” and he began to break up again.
“I lost it because I thought you two were gunning down unarmed civilians!”
“ You cost me five bucks.”
“What?”
“Bet our pal here you’d figure it out before the second burst. You didn’t.”
“Man, sweetest fiver I ever won,” Ty grinned.
“Before you start pouting in that cute way of yours, yes, you would have bitched, but you would have come along and eventually gotten in the spirit of it. I know that or you wouldn’t be sitting in that seat,’ he said and winked at her.
“Jerkoff,” she laughed.
“Crack whore,” he responded.
“Fake cowboy.”
“Cousin It.”
“Registered Libertarian.”
“Child of the Corn.”
“Passive aggressive douche.”
“Product of affirmative action.”
“Sissy boy.”
“Girl pilot.”
“Police pilot.”
“Whoa! That’s too far!”...
...The flight got into Baton Rouge Thursday at 130pm and he was met at the airport by a bald Cajun man that any connoisseur of punditry and exuberant partisanship would recognize in a heartbeat.
“Hello James.”
“Hey Boss. You look like shit.”
“Rough flight. How’s our boy?”
“All nice, a real certified gooder I hear. Won’t hardly talk ‘bout politics no more.”
“Perhaps best for him.”
“Oh c’mon. He was made for the show. Bred for it.”
“ That brings us to my reason for being here. How’s Mary?”
“Sends her love. We both finally gotta ask you, he’s never suspected what you, you, were doing there?”
“Don’t think so. I’ve covered my tracks these several years.”
“You’ve been blitzin’ that state with his virtues all that time and he never wondered where those contracts out of the blue came from?”
“I’d guess not.”
“He’s in for a surprise.”
“If he’s like his old man, he’ll deal with it.”
“Blood does tell.”
Danny and Noelle sipped on their second cocktail before dinner and laughed. He had decided to tell her everything, no matter how embarrassing, about his recent travails.
“Any more skeletons? Done with things you later have to admit to? ” she asked.
“Hope so. Had enough.”
“What are you gonna do now?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Maybe marketing? Creative staff at an ad firm?”
“Maybe. Want to get through this.”
“I bet you miss it.”
“You mean the show?”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
“It’s been your life, your total ambition, since you were a kid. How are you gonna replace it?”
“With having a life. Not a never-ending ExCom masquerading as one.”
“One question though, one I’ve been wanting to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you see anyone after I chucked you?”
“Aside from Janine? No.”
She sighed with relief, “How long will you stay here?”
“A couple more weeks and I’ll go home. Though, I’m not sure what I’m going home to.”
“Your kids, your friends…us.”
“Us as in, ‘us’?”
“I think we can try.”
“Is this just the romance and intensity of this adventure talking? Paris is burning so let’s love tonight?”
“I’ve watched you here and you’re not operating at all like you did in Gering.”
“How so?”
“Back to your core. You’re a man I could fall for. I got you this today at a Goodwill store.”
She reached under the table and brought up a garishly wrapped package. He opened it and gawked. It was The Partridge Family’s Christmas Album. Dear God, not counting his mom making him a toga and laurel wreath for a high school party and his staff’s thirty-fifth birthday present to him of an ink rendering of a Spitfire about to bounce a 109 with his name, and seven kills, on the cockpit of the Spit, this was the nicest thing any adult had ever given him.
Once more, into the breach...
“Hello James.”
“Hey Boss. You look like shit.”
“Rough flight. How’s our boy?”
“All nice, a real certified gooder I hear. Won’t hardly talk ‘bout politics no more.”
“Perhaps best for him.”
“Oh c’mon. He was made for the show. Bred for it.”
“ That brings us to my reason for being here. How’s Mary?”
“Sends her love. We both finally gotta ask you, he’s never suspected what you, you, were doing there?”
“Don’t think so. I’ve covered my tracks these several years.”
“You’ve been blitzin’ that state with his virtues all that time and he never wondered where those contracts out of the blue came from?”
“I’d guess not.”
“He’s in for a surprise.”
“If he’s like his old man, he’ll deal with it.”
“Blood does tell.”
Danny and Noelle sipped on their second cocktail before dinner and laughed. He had decided to tell her everything, no matter how embarrassing, about his recent travails.
“Any more skeletons? Done with things you later have to admit to? ” she asked.
“Hope so. Had enough.”
“What are you gonna do now?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Maybe marketing? Creative staff at an ad firm?”
“Maybe. Want to get through this.”
“I bet you miss it.”
“You mean the show?”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
“It’s been your life, your total ambition, since you were a kid. How are you gonna replace it?”
“With having a life. Not a never-ending ExCom masquerading as one.”
“One question though, one I’ve been wanting to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you see anyone after I chucked you?”
“Aside from Janine? No.”
She sighed with relief, “How long will you stay here?”
“A couple more weeks and I’ll go home. Though, I’m not sure what I’m going home to.”
“Your kids, your friends…us.”
“Us as in, ‘us’?”
“I think we can try.”
“Is this just the romance and intensity of this adventure talking? Paris is burning so let’s love tonight?”
“I’ve watched you here and you’re not operating at all like you did in Gering.”
“How so?”
“Back to your core. You’re a man I could fall for. I got you this today at a Goodwill store.”
She reached under the table and brought up a garishly wrapped package. He opened it and gawked. It was The Partridge Family’s Christmas Album. Dear God, not counting his mom making him a toga and laurel wreath for a high school party and his staff’s thirty-fifth birthday present to him of an ink rendering of a Spitfire about to bounce a 109 with his name, and seven kills, on the cockpit of the Spit, this was the nicest thing any adult had ever given him.
Once more, into the breach...
...“When?”
“In just ten minutes,” said the dispatcher.
CLICK
“Sir, they’ve got the Sea King and I’ve got over a dozen media bigfoots here in an hour,” said Grendel.
“Alright,” said the Mayor of New Orleans, “can you stop them from taking off?”
“Under what pretext?”
“I thought you had a source inside who could do it?”
“Can’t get a hold of her. What do we do from here? Can’t have the media waiting until morning.”
“Let me get on the horn to the Chief. Given his recent track record, he owes me. Maybe he can get us a chopper.”
“We’d need a big bird, for all the invited personnel.”
“We don’t have anything like that. Don’t need it. Just need one that’ll intimidate a Sea King.”
Ian pulled up and headed north over Belle Chase. This was not like flying his beloved Dolphin. This was a monster, a mammoth. With her twin rotors and massive frame, this bird handled like an elephant. But she would get the job done.
Fifteen minutes later two New Orleans Police helicopters took off from a municipal airfield not far from Belle Chase. Smaller, faster birds, they quickly caught up with the lumbering Sea King. The police took up station directly ahead of them, stopping Ian dead in his tracks. The lead police pilot switched to the guard frequency and hailed the Sea King.
“What the…?” said Ian.
“Navy 0461, Navy 0461, this is Police 0367. Respond, over.”
“Police 0367, this is Navy 0461. Have you five by five, over. What’s this all about?”
“Navy 0461. Your flight is unauthorized. I say again, your flight is unauthorized. Return to base, over.”
“What?” said Ian, “Brooke?” He handed her a headset,
“Police Flight, this is Brooke Asquith of ARSES Government Liaison. This has been laid on by JTF Sabrina at Camp Shelby. I am authorized to clear in their name, over.”
The police pilots looked at each other across thirty yards of air, “Hold one Navy 0461.” The pilots switched to the police-only frequency.
“Manny, you know anything?”
“Beats me man. I just was told what you were by the Chief; get this guy to return to base. Do what it takes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just scare him I guess.”
“With what?”
“You got a rifle on board? If he continues to give us problems, just have your co-pilot point it at him. I can too. He’ll panic, flying that water buffalo, and he’ll comply pronto.”
“Roger that, out…” the Police lead pilot went back to playing chicken, “Navy 0461, Navy 0461, you are over the City of New Orleans. We have jurisdiction. Be advised, you will return to base or risk being forced down, over.”
“Police 0367, you be advised,” shot back Ian, “We are on a humanitarian mission to get food and water to evacuees in Ferriday. I don’t know what you people are up to, but how’d you like to explain four KIA to your Chief, huh? Think because I’m not going anywhere but Ferriday.”
“Navy 0461, we have our orders. Turn around and follow us back to Belle Chase or we will take action to compel you to, over.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Ian.
“You wanna risk it?” radioed back the Police.
“Been outflying guys like you for years,” replied Ian. No response.
“Think he bought it?” asked Ian.
“I don’t know,” responded Linda, “Brooke?”
“Danny?”
“This is just doing a priest a favor! Feeding the hungry, blah, blah, blah. How is it turning into The OK Corral?”
“Their side doors. What are they doing?” said Ty, as two police officers aimed M-16s dead ahead, their choppers turning their flanks to the Sea King.
“Damn,” said Ian, as he wished for his old Sea Hawk.
“What now Quickdraw?” said Linda, “We can’t run and we can’t hide.”
“They won’t risk it. They’re not trained for it,” he said.
“What if they’re buckaroos? A lot of these guys booked when the flood came. What if they’re trying to prove something?” Linda said.
“I know, I know,” said Ian, “Danny, just how important is this? Can we do it tomorrow?”
“There will be no food for kids there tonight if we turn and run. We gotta hold our ground here in the air until,” then suddenly, the crew of the Sea King heard a sound. A hum. Too quiet to be a helicopter, it nevertheless sounded like a helicopter engine on idle. No, two engines idling.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing,” said the Police lead pilot to his colleague in the second chopper.
Seeing the dark apparitions now themselves, everyone in the Sea King was not brimming with hope, “They must have called in reinforcements,” said Brooke, “They’re going to shoot us down!”
They all looked left and right. Coming into focus in the night sky were two jet black Apache Attack Helicopters. A pilot of one of the new birds on the scene pulled up beside Ian and motioned a thumbs up. The newcomers took up station on either side of the Sea King...
“In just ten minutes,” said the dispatcher.
CLICK
“Sir, they’ve got the Sea King and I’ve got over a dozen media bigfoots here in an hour,” said Grendel.
“Alright,” said the Mayor of New Orleans, “can you stop them from taking off?”
“Under what pretext?”
“I thought you had a source inside who could do it?”
“Can’t get a hold of her. What do we do from here? Can’t have the media waiting until morning.”
“Let me get on the horn to the Chief. Given his recent track record, he owes me. Maybe he can get us a chopper.”
“We’d need a big bird, for all the invited personnel.”
“We don’t have anything like that. Don’t need it. Just need one that’ll intimidate a Sea King.”
Ian pulled up and headed north over Belle Chase. This was not like flying his beloved Dolphin. This was a monster, a mammoth. With her twin rotors and massive frame, this bird handled like an elephant. But she would get the job done.
Fifteen minutes later two New Orleans Police helicopters took off from a municipal airfield not far from Belle Chase. Smaller, faster birds, they quickly caught up with the lumbering Sea King. The police took up station directly ahead of them, stopping Ian dead in his tracks. The lead police pilot switched to the guard frequency and hailed the Sea King.
“What the…?” said Ian.
“Navy 0461, Navy 0461, this is Police 0367. Respond, over.”
“Police 0367, this is Navy 0461. Have you five by five, over. What’s this all about?”
“Navy 0461. Your flight is unauthorized. I say again, your flight is unauthorized. Return to base, over.”
“What?” said Ian, “Brooke?” He handed her a headset,
“Police Flight, this is Brooke Asquith of ARSES Government Liaison. This has been laid on by JTF Sabrina at Camp Shelby. I am authorized to clear in their name, over.”
The police pilots looked at each other across thirty yards of air, “Hold one Navy 0461.” The pilots switched to the police-only frequency.
“Manny, you know anything?”
“Beats me man. I just was told what you were by the Chief; get this guy to return to base. Do what it takes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just scare him I guess.”
“With what?”
“You got a rifle on board? If he continues to give us problems, just have your co-pilot point it at him. I can too. He’ll panic, flying that water buffalo, and he’ll comply pronto.”
“Roger that, out…” the Police lead pilot went back to playing chicken, “Navy 0461, Navy 0461, you are over the City of New Orleans. We have jurisdiction. Be advised, you will return to base or risk being forced down, over.”
“Police 0367, you be advised,” shot back Ian, “We are on a humanitarian mission to get food and water to evacuees in Ferriday. I don’t know what you people are up to, but how’d you like to explain four KIA to your Chief, huh? Think because I’m not going anywhere but Ferriday.”
“Navy 0461, we have our orders. Turn around and follow us back to Belle Chase or we will take action to compel you to, over.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Ian.
“You wanna risk it?” radioed back the Police.
“Been outflying guys like you for years,” replied Ian. No response.
“Think he bought it?” asked Ian.
“I don’t know,” responded Linda, “Brooke?”
“Danny?”
“This is just doing a priest a favor! Feeding the hungry, blah, blah, blah. How is it turning into The OK Corral?”
“Their side doors. What are they doing?” said Ty, as two police officers aimed M-16s dead ahead, their choppers turning their flanks to the Sea King.
“Damn,” said Ian, as he wished for his old Sea Hawk.
“What now Quickdraw?” said Linda, “We can’t run and we can’t hide.”
“They won’t risk it. They’re not trained for it,” he said.
“What if they’re buckaroos? A lot of these guys booked when the flood came. What if they’re trying to prove something?” Linda said.
“I know, I know,” said Ian, “Danny, just how important is this? Can we do it tomorrow?”
“There will be no food for kids there tonight if we turn and run. We gotta hold our ground here in the air until,” then suddenly, the crew of the Sea King heard a sound. A hum. Too quiet to be a helicopter, it nevertheless sounded like a helicopter engine on idle. No, two engines idling.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing,” said the Police lead pilot to his colleague in the second chopper.
Seeing the dark apparitions now themselves, everyone in the Sea King was not brimming with hope, “They must have called in reinforcements,” said Brooke, “They’re going to shoot us down!”
They all looked left and right. Coming into focus in the night sky were two jet black Apache Attack Helicopters. A pilot of one of the new birds on the scene pulled up beside Ian and motioned a thumbs up. The newcomers took up station on either side of the Sea King...
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