Page 4 of Incident At Monticello

‘In the beginning…’

  For you, the story begins in 1755 and ends in 1790. Genesis; the first book of the historical text America. Those thirty five years when the architectural foundation of America was planned, designed, and built.  As in the Old Testament, there were many more books to be written, but this was the beginning.

  The American Genesis; these thirty five years in our short history were arguably the most important and interesting years in American sovereignty. The years from the infancy of the French and Indian war, through the American Revolution. All culminating with the Great Compromise of 1790.

  The architects were The Founding Brothers.  These, so labeled by Joseph Ellis, were all in place in 1755.  Some, like James Madison and James Monroe, were still young boys. Madison being only four years old.  However, none could foresee the tumultuous path that their lives would travel.

  Others, like the nine and forty Benjamin Franklin, were coming into the prime of their colonial political lives and had already accomplished so much.  It is safe to say that there were few like Benjamin. Yet there were others of his age to control the spice and vinegar of the young Founders.  Mentors if you will. But again, few indeed like our own Benjamin.  Franklin was the elder statesman, the unbreakable diplomat.

  My historical mind’s-eye, seeing through my optical eyes, takes in Doctor Franklin thusly. Now seventy years of age and in Philadelphia during the meetings of the Second Continental Congress. Leaning back in his chair, sweat from the stifling heat slowly rolling down his cheeks.  Watching, listening, and contemplating. He does not speak; he only observes.  Then amongst murmurs of expectation, a hush falls upon the previously tumultuous room.  Franklin slowly rises. In as few words as possible, he ingratiates the room with a plea for serenity and thought.

  John Adams, nine and thirty, a lawyer and farmer from Massachusetts, was attending the Continental Congress as well.  Mr. Adams, our first Vice President and second President, was a fiery revolutionist. Or so was the part that he wished to play.

  During that first meeting of the colonial delegates, Adams was a fiery and determined orator for the cause of independence. Thus, the cause of revolution. On a Philadelphia summer night, Adams and Franklin had cause for a private meeting.  The two met in the unofficial gathering place of the first Continental Congress. It was a tavern not far from Carpenters’ Hall called The City Tavern Restaurant. The private discussion between the two men exacted the moment. A tiny sliver from the historical pie.

  A rare awkward pause inflicts the conversation. Dr. Franklin leans over towards Adams and says; “Mr. Adams. Men thinking aloud are responsible for much of mankind’s misery.”  Adams stares into Franklin’s eyes with the words swirling in thought.

  “Surely, good advice Mr. Franklin. However, it is advice that I will respectfully decline at this moment in time.”

  In 1755, Thomas Jefferson was a young man of twelve years of age.  He was learning to be a Virginia tobacco and corn farmer; as well as a future estate lord. Something he never learned to do profitably.  On July 4th 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, he passed away deeply in debt.  Ironically, as is our federal government today. Irony that would not have been lost on our third President. A reality he tried to repress his entire political life.  If Plato were to describe Jefferson’s life, he would express a need for emulation. Jefferson walked a spiritual plane unfound by most; truly, he had great wealth.

  Probably, among the authors of America’s Genesis, only Franklin lived a more diverse life than did Jefferson. And as I understand, only Washington meant more to the new republic.  Surely John Adams would debate this. And surely Adams would have a strong rebuttal.  I venture few people to this day, can say that they have done more with their time on earth than did Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson lived an incredible political, educational, diplomatic, and self-disciplined life.  In creating our country, none more, and few equal.

  Thomas Jefferson’s quest to educate, to educate the people of what he called ‘His Country’, Virginia, probably was unmatched by any of his Founding Brothers.  He worked endlessly to establish a college in Virginia.  It eventually became a dream fulfilled; The University of Virginia.  Jefferson was a Founding Brother, and a Founding Father of this institution. Jefferson’s thirst for knowledge went unquenched during his lifetime.  He studied and mastered: math; science; botany; anatomy; and other academia.

  In his search for mystery revealed, the western frontier, Jefferson commissioned the Lewis and Clark Expedition.  A water passage to the West Coast was its defined goal. This goal went unfulfilled. However, Jefferson knew before its inception that the expedition would be so much more.  The documented information that Meriwether Lewis and William Clark brought back, was immeasurable in its usefulness.

  In Exodus, the second book in America’s Historical Bible, the King George version, George Washington is the prominent icon.  Perhaps not the scribe, but certainly the chosen one. America’s Moses. America’s deliverance was never promised by Washington. But the land of promise was delivered to Americans.

  In 1755, Washington was a twenty three year old lieutenant in the Virginia militia.  Washington had an insatiable wander lust. Washington’s desire lay in the unsettled western frontier.  The western frontier at that time was anything west of the Appalachians.  His employment with the British army seemed an ideal way to satisfy his craving.  Unfortunately his military experience was short lived.  He was sent into the Ohio Valley by British General Braddock. Washington’s mission was to regain control of strategic forts from the French and the Ohio Indians.  Washington’s troops were repelled. His desire for a commission in the British military, and his participation in the Seven Year War was over.

  All the players for this story are now on the ball field. They were practicing their skills and working towards Opening Day. That fateful day in early July 1776.  The cast is plentiful; all unknowingly waiting to perform and design an America.

  I have touched on the Leading Men that make up the smallest cornerstone of this story. But I do not in any way wish to ignore the others that contributed to destiny.  The many others that my mind has met. However, to depict those thousands would be reminiscent of Tolstoy. I do not have Tolstoy-like-skills.  I will leave their depictions to the Historians that have so long studied them. The words chronicled within this writing are more of who I’ve spent time with than it is of history defined.

   

  “Ask not, what your county can do for you; but what you, can do for your country.”

  John Kennedy

   

  Thanksgiving Day, 2009

  My 28 pound turkey was slowly roasting in the oven.  I perished the thought of a hen less than 25 pounds being presented on my Turkey day table. It would be just a baby!  Dr. Benjamin Franklin would be proud. He was in favor of the Turkey being declared our National Bird.

  I also had logistical and tactical plans for all the other delicacies of the day. Plans that deployed them all at the exact time to insure the victory of the meal.  It seems that early in my twenty six year marriage, Turkey Day became my culinary cause.  Except for the baking. Baking was my wife’s domain, and that was fine with me.  Possibly because I did not have the baking skills. But mostly, she makes a killer Pumpkin and Pecan pie.  I hate baking and that works out perfectly. My wife has forgotten more about baking than Rachel Ray ever knew.  Pamila is from Kringle Country and learned baking from her Grandmother.  I can’t keep this girlish figure without Pami’s help.

  Sorry mom, when you stopped mailing all of those amazing Christmas confectionaries, your title was stripped.  My therapist says that I have issues with the stoppage of her annual treats.  I simply don’t understand how retirement in Florida equates to no more: Date Nut Rolls; Hershey Kisses Cookies; Lemon Love Notes; and other morsels of delight.  I also blame my seasonal neurosis on my Aunt Betty; my mother’s former baking conspirator. 
Serenity now.  Serenity now!

  I like to think of coffee as my singular vice. My family may beg to differ.  Having consumed more caffeine than I should have, it was time to take Mervin (Bubba) for a walk.  Mervin may not be a classic dog name, but if you ever saw him, Mervin is perfect.  Bubba is a Portuguese Water Dog.  I know what you are thinking, but the Obama’s got theirs because we had one; not the other way around.  Bubba looks like a black miniature Sheep Dog.  Of course the Whitehouse dog is continually groomed and all pretty; Mervin is not.  My daughter Rebecca claims Mervin is Rastafarian.

  No walk would be complete without a stop at the park for his usual business and a game of Chuckit.  Cat people don’t know Chuckit.  A cat would never play this beneath them game. Chuckit is a plastic stick with a claw on the end.  A tennis ball is inserted into the claw, thus enabling one to throw for great distances. Much like a Jai Lai player can.  My dog will play Chuckit until his cardio system no longer allows.  Mervin needs Chuckit, like Americans need television.

  His legs wobbling signals the end of the game. Mervin wants shaded rest.  Resting, shading, panting, and praying I don’t fetch the ball myself and Chuckit again. If I do so, he must fetch it. He can’t not.

  Arriving at the park Mervin is greeted by two of his buddies.  After the usual greetings and mandatory butt sniffing, they go their separate ways.  Shortly into our cycle of toss and fetch, my cell rings.  Identifying the caller as Rojer Ousten, and not wanting to cut short Chuckit, I let the call go to voice mail.  Rojer is someone that I usually video conference with. I can’t pass up that digital playing.

  Mervin completing all things related to a park visit, we head home.  On our way I send Rojer text explaining that I will ‘IM’ him when I get home.  Being not the best texter, and not wanting to fall into an open man-hole, my message was broken Greek.  But I knew the message would be received and understood.

  After my near death experience with texting, I am kind of curious why Rojer would be calling me on Thanksgiving. It did seem a bit out of character pattern for him. Rojer Ousten is an old friend that I have known since High School. We’ve stayed close through the years.  It is not unusual that we speak monthly.  Although, I don’t ever remember a conversation on a holiday. I know and you need to as well; Mr. Ousten is the smartest person I have ever met. Not the most knowledgeable, but definitely the smartest.

  Rojer is the fifth of five boys begot to Uta and Clark Ousten; second generation Scandinavian immigrants.  Rojer’s four older brothers lived on ‘The Farm’.  The two of us, spent a lot of time at The Farm.  This farm was not like most in northern Illinois.  There were no farm animals on the farm; only cats and dogs.  There were no crops either. Well, only one, and it was not a cash crop.  It was for personal consumption only.  Rojer and I would often go to The Farm, partake of the one crop grown there, and talk history.

  Rojer is six feet tall, a former football player and built like one.  He has reddish-brown hair and sports a full beard.  If this beard was ever trimmed, it wasn’t often.  He has kind of a square face and wears John Lennon eyeglasses.  Rojer is a country kid in both mannerism and appearance.  His parents were God fearing people that liked to listen to a police scanner. I thought it creepy that they often knew where the big High School parties were. Even when we didn’t.  Sometimes we would pump them for information without them knowing; at least we told ourselves that.  There were times when I felt guilty even if I hadn’t done anything wrong and I would refuse to go into their house.  I guess I did not want to know exactly which way God was going to smite me if I didn’t behave.

  Rojer loved to talk history, and so we did for hours on end.  He had an almost eidetic memory which I was very jealous of.  He usually only had to see or hear something once and it was permanent.  Unlike me, Rojer was what I called a New Age Historian.  Most of his knowledge was from the 20th century.  It wasn’t that he didn’t care about other times; he simply didn’t care about acquiring that knowledge.  Rojer never forgot anything he heard, saw, or read. But he didn’t hear, see, or read a whole lot.  I have a theory on this; I think it had something to do with The Farm.

  Anyways… we would talk history endlessly. From me he would learn history that he couldn’t learn elsewhere. From him I would learn written history. Even though Rojer was brilliant, he chose not to attend college.  Throughout his life he has had several interesting jobs.  Currently, and for the past four or so years, he has been the Curator of Thomas Jefferson’s home at Monticello.  I would take my dog back to the pound and leave my wife to have his job.  Just kidding; I would miss my dog.  (It’s okay, remember, she won’t read this far.)

  Arriving back home I basted the turkey, made sure Mervin had water, and kissed my wife Good Turkey Morning. Punctuating all with a; “Gobble Gobble Gobble.”  Leaving her with my annual holiday jargon, I added; “Rojer called while I was at the park. I’m going upstairs to video with him.  Back in a few.”  I headed towards my office amidst soft mumbling from Pami; something about Rojer and The Farm.

  I ascended the stairs full of anticipation. Was a digital mystery about to be presented me, or did my old friend simply want to wish me a happy Thanksgiving? Entering my office tranquility comes upon me. A perpetual tranquility; my Friendly Confines.

  Wrigley Field; where every Cub fan brings hope eternal. Where every Cub fan leaves dreams again dashed.  The North Side gathering place for eternal optimists.  Gather there at least once; something every baseball fan should have on their Bucket List.  I recommend the left field bleachers. A day in the sun with the Bleacher Bums, a day forever etched.  (Leave the little ones at home.)

  My Office, the only place that is all mine.  Pami’s fingerprints are on every square inch of the house, except my place of solace.  She wanted it that way, and I loved her for it.

  Sitting down I warmed up the computer.  At the end of every family dinner, my father would clear his throat and decree; “Daniel, go warm up the television.”  So it is said; so it shall be.  (If you are under 40 you probably have no idea what I am talking about.)

  As if I was sending a coded message to Europe during WW II, I IM’d the following: ‘Adams’ friend, is in the nest at Quincy, put some digis into your magic box.’  Rojer knew where Quincy was and who Adams’ friend was.  I chuckled at myself; thinking me clever. My wife would say; “Only in your little mind Honey.”  I am quite sure that she is right.

  Leaning back in my chair, I waited for the digital highway to come to life.  In a sentimental mood that always takes hold of me on this holiday, my eyes search The Wall of Memories.  The wall behind my desk; a collage of family memories that I wished never to depart me.

  A single picture opened the floodgates of memory; a black and white photo of me taken in 1973.  It was a picture of me standing with my back to the camera.  I was standing at the base of a grassy hill.  The grass, a dark green and freshly mowed.  Standing amongst endless rows of flawless white headstones.  I remember thinking how the rows of limestone reminded me of music; rhythmic and flowing.

  The hill was six feet from base to peak.  A small group of blossoming Cherry trees covered the right side of the hill.  A gravel vehicle path ran halfway around the left base of the knoll.

  Viewfinder to my right eye, I held a Kodak Box Camera; framing a black and white snapshot. Looking very 1973 hip in blue and white striped pants, and a long sleeve button down shirt; also striped.  To accentuate the wardrobe, I wore a Henry Blake fishing hat; minus the fishing lures.  I watched as a choreographed military burial was taking place.

  Idle on the path were numerous cars, two limousines, and a somber looking Hearse.  A full military honor guard, and casket bearers, were choreographing an oft rehearsed, and too oft performed ceremony. As had been done thousands of times past at this sacred place.

  Seven rifled warriors, with ordered instructions, fired three volleys.  “Order arms; left face; forward march.”  The seven, departed a
round the base of the hill. After removing from a covered casket and folding, Stars and Stripes was presented to a seated young woman. A small boy too young to be now left alone was at her sullen side. The casket was slowly lowered; delivered to its finality.  ‘Taps’ sounded from the crest of the hill; a single bugler standing in the Cherry’s shade.

  With the ceremony quietly concluding, faint music was heard from a source not seen; approaching me from beyond.  The soloist was barely audible at first. Then with slowly increasing volume, I heard the unmistakable sound of Bagpipes.  Gradually showing himself, a man in a Scottish military uniform.  His dress complete of Kilt, tassels, epaulettes, and military ribbons.  He slowly circled to his right towards the gathered mourners. All the time squeezing out Amazing Grace.  Surreal amongst fog from nowhere, he continued around the knoll and disappeared. The finality of the sound that is Amazing Grace on the bagpipes faded from my ears. But still, my boy soul hears its haunt.

  These thespians forever stirred a hidden part of who I’d become. I never forgot My Funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. Eight years to the month, I was on my way to San Antonio Texas.  Basic Training; United States Air Force.

  With the yellow-red glow of the Tubes, and a Tsunami of digis crashing the coast that is my processor, my PC sparked to life.  “Thomas? Mr. Jefferson.” The called name came from within.

  “Huh?” Me clearing the fog of Arlington.

  “Damn Danny you daydream more than anyone I know.”

  “What the hell do you know Rojer you still think that the Bicentennial was the day the Declaration of Independence was originally signed.”

  “Ouch! Nice Danny thanks!  You’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous of you?” 

  “No! Jealous of where I’m sitting.”  Which I was.

  I could tell by the authentic 1804 map that was over his left shoulder, Rojer was in his office. The map was one of three that still existed; it was created post Louisiana Purchase.  I recognized it from my two previous visits to Monticello.

  His office and living facility was located in a former slave house that was only thirty yards north of Jefferson’s home. The Main House that was of Monticello.  One of two slave houses still located on Mulberry Row. One of seventeen original houses.

  It is believed that the building was once occupied by Jefferson’s household slaves; including Sally Hemmings.  Miss Hemmings, being Jefferson’s mistress of some thirty seven years.  Reportedly, proven by DNA testing, mother of at least one of Jefferson’s children.  However, it is believed that Sarah (her birth name) and Jefferson, begot six children; four that survived child birth.

  Rojer’s living area had been refurbished. His bedroom, office, and kitchen, all included heat, electricity, and indoor plumbing.  Note: I did not mention air conditioning. Apparently there was not an ascetic way to install a compressor while leaving the outside very much as original.  Visitors were welcome into the building. Therefore the accessible part of the interior was kept in what was perceived to be the original condition.  Rojer’s living area was creatively hidden from the public.

  Rojer looked much the same as in High School. Thirty years older, but he looked good.  He always tried to stay healthy. He was after all a former Eagle Scout. Something Rojer was very proud of.

  His beard was as short as I had ever seen it. It was peppered gray and well groomed. His hair also short and graying. Still with the Lennon glasses.  Despite these spectacles that he would never abandon, he looked very business-like.  I’m sure he would tell me he looked too much like ‘The Man’.  He still had a Hippie philosophy in him; a Hippie that he never was.

  “Danny…”  There was a change to his tone. Rojer definitely had something cluttering his brilliance.  He paused; I was attentive; he continued; “I want to run something by you.”  I still did not speak, feeling he needed to open up.  “Four days ago something happened here. On Sunday morning.  You know that the main house is not open on Sunday right?”

  “Yes Rojer.”

  “Well around 10:32 a.m.-” 10:32 is ‘around’ for Roger.  “I went into the main house to check on the place. We’d had a really bad thunderstorm the night before.”  I was listening patiently, waiting to see what had Rojer’s emotions spiking.  “As I walked through the house it all seemed to be as it should. No apparent damage.  I walked through the living area and entered the Study.  You know Danny you’ve been here.”

  “Yes Rojer I have.”  I answered trying to ignore his nervous question. Yet another sign that he was flustered.  Hoping to harness his emotion, I bridled a question.

  “Rojer, how many different men have been President?”  For years I have been asking him this exact question whenever his concept of reality was being challenged. This seemed like one of those times.

  “Not now Danny!”  Apparently it was not one of those times. He looked frustrated with me.

  Glaring hard he scorned; “As I was saying… there was no apparent damage. Then as I circled the outer part of the room, the Study, something caught my eye.  On Jefferson’s writing desk… you know the upright desk with the stool.” Rojer paused. I waited. “I took six steps to the desk and found some papers.”  He paused again as if I knew what he was talking about. I did not, but I wanted to.

  “What do you mean some papers?  I do remember that there is some old looking paper on the desk. In some sort of antique wooden tray.”

  “Yes!” He boomed loud and then kept booming; “But the paper is always in the paper cozy.  Always Danny.”  He sat back and then came to the camera again. “Danny. There is something else. There was writing on the paper. Writing that shouldn’t have been there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything stop asking that. Sorry Danny. Hell I don’t know. But there are three pages with writing on them.”  Rojer’s face went sullen and his words silent. He was expecting me to dissect his words. 

  “What else Rojer?” He just looked at me. “Go on Rojer.”

  “Danny… and damn it Danny don’t you laugh at me.”  His expression went to confused. He needed me to guide reality back towards him.

  Worried with what I would do with his words, he chose them Rojer carefully. “The papers, you know, on the desk, the ones on the desk, well… they were dated 2009 and signed by Thomas Jefferson.”  Before ‘Jefferson’ had cleared my ears I knew I was in big trouble.  It was very clear that I was not to laugh. But it was more clear that this would be impossible.

  His eyes were fixed and inspecting.  Filled with an emotion that I was not to display, I was in big trouble.  Realizing that a few pieces of paper with Thomas Jefferson’s name on them had Rojer in a state of great anxiety, I knew this would be a blow of epic proportion.

  My lungs filled with molten lava and headed up my esophagus. My cheeks filled with sulfuric gas. I was going to erupt like Mount Pinatubo.  Pressure built; I looked into his confused eyes and released.

  The toxic air rushed from my cheeks; I was trying to expel my lungs.  It was too late I knew, but I escaped from the camera to my right. But not from the microphone.  Like a Congressman caught with his pants on a hotel-room floor, I was busted.  I knew Rojer’s response would be swift and punishing.

  “You son of a bitch!  I thought you would be the one person that would understand.  Damn it Danny you’re my friend.  You couldn’t tell that this was bothering me?”  Around 10.5 seconds elapsed. (As Rojer would say.)  I took a deep breath but it didn’t matter; my weak attempt at hiding my emotion was futile.

  Still, I returned to my seat and forced out; “I’m sorry.”  Head down, wiping my eyes; “I… I… I’m sorry Rojer. Really sorry.” Trying to suppress my laughter, I was momentarily lost to any conversation that might have been.

  “Thanks!  Thanks Daniel.”  Uh oh, I got a ‘Daniel’. I often get Daniels from my wife and use to more often from my mother, but I don’t think I ever got
one from Rojer.

  Punishment had been very swift and I was certain it would get harsher. “Rojer I am sorry. But I’m not sure that I understand what is bothering you so.” My face now not so warmed tight from laughter, I searched weak in an effort to find his worries. “What bothers you so much about this… this whatever? This letter?  It seems obvious that someone is having some fun with you.”

  “Danny-” (‘Danny’ is better.)  “I am the curator of this place. I work for The Foundation.”

  “Yes you do Rojer.”  His slight break told me my tone was not appreciated. But come on! You! You reader. What would you say?

  “Danny don’t you understand that I can’t explain how this happened. Where the document came from or how it got on his writing desk.”  I thought he was pausing, but my previous unappreciated-ness caused me slow to reply.

  “Well you didn’t do anything wrong Rojer. It just seems like maybe an employee is getting your goat.”  I chuckled briefly. “Rojer, sometimes, just sometime, you do kind of attract goats.” He didn’t chuckle, he didn’t anything.

  “Danny don’t you see I can’t explain why or how this happened.”

  “Look Rojer… who do you have to explain this to?  Who knows about it? Just take it easy.  If the prank pullers know that you are this upset they will enjoy it even more.  Don’t give them the satisfaction Rojer.”  He seemed to be calming down. The reddish tint on his forehead was fading.

  Rojer considered my question. “Only a couple of employees know about it. I don’t think that you are right about them Danny.  The reason that I say that is because there is one more thing.” He slowed his thoughts to words but continued. “The three page letter seems to have a tone.”

  “A tone?” I asked.

  “Well maybe not so much a tone as a message. A philosophical political message.  It seems to me that someone is trying to make a statement.”

  “Roj-” I paused slight to choose good words. “What do you want me to do? How can I help you with this? I’m not sure that I-” 

  “Danny all I ask is that you look it over. That’s all! You’ve read more dead presidents’ letters than anyone I know.  Especially TJ’s. As you like to call him.”

  In my best soothing voice, being careful not to offend him again; “Rojer, Thomas Jefferson died on July 4th 1826.  He didn’t write you a letter four days ago.”

  “The letter’s not for me. Just look it over please.  I’m sending you a copy overnight.  Look it over. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Trying to let him know that I was taking this serious, I said something New Age. “I will ask not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”  His face lit up like a boy with a new puppy.

  “Thanks that’s all I ask. So when you get it look it over and get back with me okay.” Rojer appeared to be finishing his request but then there was; “Oh yeah I forgot. There is one more thing. There was a passage in the letter that I recognized.  The last paragraph is a quote from a Reagan speech. Around thirty two days after Hinckley shot Reagan, my boy Ronnie gave a speech to America and to both houses of Congress.  In that speech-”  My turn to cut him off.

  “How do you think a paragraph from a Reagan speech got into a Jefferson document?”

  “I don’t know maybe Reagan wrote the paper.” I’m still trying to figure out what that meant.

  “Rojer! Reagan! Also dead.”

  Not wanting to inflame his forehead again I said calmly; “Okay Rojer.  I look forward to reading it.”  This may have been a white lie.

  “Thanks buddy you’re the best. Give me a call when you’re done.”

  “I will and remember, don’t let them know that they got you.  And Rojer… I wouldn’t mention this to anyone.”  Rojer’s face displayed a confused questioning.

  “Goodbye Danny.”

  As quickly as his face had found me at Arlington, it returned to Monticello. All of the digis drained from my magic box. A few reflective seconds went by with me looking through a Rojer-less screen.  I took a breath, chuckled, and moved on with the day. Turkey day.

   

  “All we need to do is act, and the time for action is now.”

  Ronald Reagan 

  Turkey Day, Plus One.

  Waking early; the anticipation of pumpkin pie for breakfast a possible cause.  Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is really all about?  Or was it the abnormal warmth in our bedroom that was the cause of my early wake.  My hearing told me the furnace was running unabated. The 76 degree telling thermostat told me that it had been for some time.

  Legs stiff from sleep and from being fifty one years old, I started my morning ease down the stairs.  With every step I felt the temperature dropping. Reaching the last step, it was appreciably cooler.

  The chill of a November Colorado morning seemed to be emanating from the kitchen.  I tentatively turned towards the flow of cool air and walked through the living room into the kitchen. My eyes were alert and scanning for the unknown.  Looking right, concern tightened my throat and stiffened my neck. The kitchen door that yielded to the out-of-doors was almost completely open.  Seconds passed, and as they did, my concern for imminent danger changed to concerns of my doings.  A feeling of wonder; had I done it again?

  Easily edited by fractions of sound, the early morning silence was broken by the upstairs shower.  With wonder starting to fade into certainty, I pushed the door closed. The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the air. Thanks to the Coffee Fairies and our 21st century coffee brew system. Pouring myself a cup I head to the den to check cable-news.  I am hoping the world is the same as when I went to bed.  It wasn’t always.

  My wife is stirring in the kitchen. The usual sounds of cupboards closing, refrigerator door opening, and the replacing of the coffee pot, tell me so. Interrupting a report of a poor Opening Bell, her silhouette catches my peripheral vision.  Taking a slow sip and then looking in my direction, she informed; “You know you did it again. You were up and about.  I thought I heard you outside.”  Any wonder still pestering me was gone. 

  “What time was it?” I inquired.

  “I think it was one thirty or so.” Pami took another sip.  “I started down to corral you but you were headed back up the stairs.  Passing by me you grabbed my hand and shook it.” She took a noticeable breath. “You got back in bed, mumbled something, rolled onto your side, farted, and fell back to sleep.”

  Looking up at her, I said mostly to myself; “I was afraid of that.”

  She took a slow sip and stared at me. Gently and probably only to be wife polite, she asked; “Well? Who were you with?’ I didn’t answer. Being wife understanding, she knew I wasn’t ready to share. Pamila turned from me and continued her morning routine.

  I started Sleep Walking when I was a young child.  It use to scare me to tears; rather traumatic for a child.  When I first started straying from the security of my room, I always had a dream-like understanding of what was happening.  When I went down the stairs, there was a sensation of jumping from the top step. As if floating, my body would slowly drift towards the landing.  Suddenly a dream turned to a nightmare. I was going to crash through the large window at the bottom of the stairs.  This is when my parents usually became involved; wakened by terror screams of a scared little boy. Luckily though, during my forty eight years of early morning Zombie patrols, only minor bruises and cuts were received.  I wonder if my luck might change at some point.  No worries; I want pie!

  After coffee, pie, and Mervin’s daily, I head into town.  Even though it is the day after Thanksgiving, my grocery list is extensive.  What could we possibly need?

  Every year of our marriage, the day after Thanksgiving, I’ve heard; “Thanksgiving is over!”  Not that Pami dislikes Turkey day, just turkey leftovers.  She loves the day, the family, and playing Euchre. But in her mind, turkey is old the day after.  Not me; bring it on.

  Entering the local
King Soopers grocery store, I head instinctively to the produce section; a learned instinct.  While scrutinizing the Roma’s, searching for that perfect tomato, I hear; “Daniel!”  Turning away from my quest, I see Greg Tillman.  Greg is a former neighbor that works for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.  He is a Department Head in charge of the Forensic Investigation Department; this you need to know.  But more important to me, I know that he has always been warm for Pami’s form.  Never determined, very passive, but a man knows. I knew; I’ve known for a long time.

  “How are you Daniel?  How is lovely Pami?”  There it is!

  Ignoring the question; “So, state employees don’t work the day after Thanksgiving?” My words were added to by the mandatory Man-law slap on the upper arm.

  “No I’m off this weekend. Unless needed of course.”  He wanted me to know how important he was.  “I see you are off as well Daniel.”   He was trying to get a counter punch in.  Stupid bastard, he knows I’m a ‘Form 99er’.

  Already our discussion was growing tedious to me. I returned to my fruit.  He picked up on my body language.  In departing, feeling slighted, he attempted a countering slight; “Tell the wife I said hello.”

  “Yeah I will. Good to see you Greg.”  Trying to confirm what I had heard, I looked at his ring finger.

  “Tell Barbara I said hello as well.”  Pretending that I was unaware that his wife had left him a few months earlier.  Oh yeah!  A first round TKO.  No reply from him I smiled slightly and turned away.  Enjoying the victory in my mind, my smile grew to a soft chuckle. Have a nice day ass!

  y list complete, I checked out, drove home, and brought my gatherings inside.  I prayed it was a task well done.  Countering my groceries I heard Pami making her way to inspect my deed done.

  When she was within ear-shot; “Greg Tillman said hello.”  Now… you may be sensing, if not, you will learn that I don’t often keep my feelings cloaked.  Pami certainly knew, and she certainly knew of my feelings towards Mr. Tillman.  Therefore, she let his second-hand greeting slip away. 

  “Your overnight envelope from TJ arrived.” She diverted. It was only subtle sarcasm; she was building a foundation.  “It was delivered by a truck; not horseback.”  Wait! She’s not there yet.  “It is amazing though… that someone over 180 years old still has time to write you.”  She left me with a Pami-evil laugh.  I smiled; only after she was gone of course. It was pretty good.

  Trying to steal her momentum; “Sarcasm is not appreciated!”

  “Learned from the master!” Theft denied. Her exiting barb assured her victory.  Okay, so I’m one out of two for the day.

  Groceries stored, I walk into the dining room and step to the mail basket. Yeah, we have a ‘Mail Basket’. It sits prominent on a small hutch.  The mail basket is where the mail goes. It doesn’t go there! Or There! It goes in the basket! It always goes in the basket. My beautiful Bride’s neurosis. This one is not mine.

  As always, the package was there.  Picking up the envelope I proceed to my recliner and begin my investigation.  Grasping the cardboard envelope I pull the tab. The perforated strip smoothly yields.  Clearing back the flap I reach inside and withdraw the contents.  Included with the three pages, is a small piece of paper with one hand written word: Thanks.

  Giving the three pages a cursory view, I confirm three copies of hand written pages, dated November 22 2009, and signed by Thomas Jefferson.  Nothing strange about that.

  Rojer told me the original document was penned on the same paper that was on Jefferson’s writing desk. The paper in the Cozy.  Paper Cozy?

  This same paper was also available for purchase in the gift shop. Rojer had once explained to me how the foundation purchased a special paper for display in the study and to sell to visitors.  The manufacturer used a special process to produce the desired texture and appearance.  It had something to do with spraying the paper with vaporous sulfuric acid, and then flash drying it.  It really worked well. It did indeed look like paper that someone would have used in the 18th century.

  Rojer complained about the expense. They had to purchase fifty cases at a time.  The gift shop sold it for $2.00 a page. I kind of liked it, having purchased ten pages myself.  Never using it of course; waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  The document was hand written with what appeared to be a fountain pen.  There were even ink drips on the paper. I surmised them to be a very determined attempt to look authentic.  However, 18th century documents were written with a quill.  Fountain pens and metal tipped pens did not exist yet.

  Still though, I was ecstatic to finally get a new letter from TJ. I began reading.

  ………

  November 22, 2009

  These larvae, being these thirteen sovereign colonies, have morphed into the most beautiful butterfly seen in any ecosystem.   Not an environment on any continent withstanding.  The social, economic, and government, hath never been brought forth by any culture.  Providence allowed a Pacific, Northwest, and continental republic of proportions never realized or challenged.  These United States of America, hath brought envy, and desire to emulate.  Those opposed, desire wrath and Jihad.

  Again, providence directed: the perfect time; the unyielding land; the men of unquestionable character; all within the grasp of declaration. Circumstances, divine guidance and perceived luck, have created a culinary feast. This being a democracy of plenty. Nearly perfect to those who conceived.  The astrological forces which created our universe would marvel at the dynamics which forged our country.

  Yet, a country with such a vast population, grand fountain of resources, and unlimited knowledge, stands weakening on the edge of an abyss.  The laws of gravity are working to determine our fate.  Unless actions are taken to avert our plunge, we will disappear into obscure insignificance.  Diamond to carbon. The so oft fate of cultures studied by archaeologists.

  My brothers dreamt of a republic invested in all of its citizens.  These that battle for liberty, are 300 million in count.  Dreams of the federalists, have come to application, and become an anvil upon the shoulders of America.  Fathers’ grandest foresight could not foretell such a population.

  A seed that is the federal government was planted, incubated, sprouted forth, and has grown into a healthy plant.  All persons of knowledge now see it as a plant needing to be thin cut.

  This encumbering cost of protection, service, and care, can not be sustained.  Taxation of its people, can no longer pay for their liberties.  Government that serves well serves least.

  If debt is evil, our republic’s debt, be the Devil.  The deficit is the temptation, be it we do not eat, for God will surely smite.  Trillions of dollars in deficit, is a plague trying to take the life of the country.  Like fruits and vegetables, an economy that is not growing, will soon wither and die.

  Leaders that have become melancholy, and fallen into a sleep of passivity, must be awakened by its citizens.  The people, the loud majority, must demand proactive resolution.  It is the responsibility of the governed to hold that government in faith; so as to fulfill that faith.

  The now and the future must be determined, guided, and nurtured. This path that is much littered with stones and covered with holes is a path to be traversed with the guidance of SDW.

  Deliverance upon this path may at times be a slow plow, but a strong team will complete the row. This path, will lead us to our destiny.  Destiny, can not be determined, only ignored or directed.  The choice is to be made.

  “We have much greatness before us.  We can restore our economic strength, and build opportunities, like none we’ve ever had before.  All we need to begin with is a dream that we can do better than before.  All we need to have is faith, and that dream will come true.  All we need to do is act, and the time for action is now.”

  Thomas Jefferson

  Reading pseudo Jefferson’s words once, again, and still once more, I had a general understanding of the content a
nd message.  The letter was written with care and thought.  Someone, with writing skills and knowledge of TJ had penned it. This I had no doubt.  Although sections seemed forced and overly dramatic, it had a poetic and rhythmic flow.  Parts seem to be 18th century literature. There were nuances of the era, and it was written with style and stoicism.  Other sections are written with a defined sense of facts. Very much the style of our century. The writer’s use of current concepts such as trillions, Jihad, and a 300 million populist, show new millennium knowledge. Thus giving credence to a recent creation.

  Thomas Jefferson was the author of over 20,000 letters during his lifetime.  Not completely unheard of, as writing letters was the social network of his peers.  Having read nearly a third of those letters, penmanship on this document did seem to resemble that of Thomas’. The text, did say Thomas Jefferson to me, however there was the implement thing. All writers of that era used quills. This document was written with a flat tipped fountain pen.

  A Jeffersonian vocabulary did seem to emanate from the ink; in places.  However, some words seemed to be from a different Wordsmith.  They were new millennium, and un-Thomas like.

  My unprofessional professional opinion was that this was written by an emulator.  Someone trying to copy Thomas’ penmanship, style, and vocabulary.  The author was a person of skill and knowledge. No doubt a Jefferson study.

  At the end of my truly unprofessional profiling effort, there is only one irrefutable fact; this document was written, dated, and delivered, less than a week ago.  As my wife had passed on to me, Jefferson has been dead for over 180 years.  Still, on the historical side of my brain, the neurons were pinging like a nuclear sub trying to set range and fix location on a bogey. A bogey of historical stealth.  I was intrigued.

  My thoughts were of questioning. Who was the scribe? What was the author’s point of reference?  Who is the intended audience?  And most curiously, who is SDW?  Should I assume he is the author? Should that be a starting point of logical thought?

  None the less, I had a copy, of an original, of a unique Thomas Jefferson transcript.  The signature said so.

  I slid the document back into the envelope and headed up to my office.  Passing my wife in the hallway she tossed me insincerity; “How is everything with Mr. Jefferson?”

  “He seems concerned,” I replied.  She made that leaking air sound. A Pami sound. An often sound.

  Gently tossing the envelope onto my desk, I turn to depart. Two paces to the door a feeling of carelessness overwhelms me.  My legs won’t move forward, motor skills lost. My exit mentally unacceptable, I turn back towards my desk.  A surge of sensibility made it very clear; I had to save the document from a potential household disaster. Spilled coffee or worse; a mistaken feeding of the Spinney Toothed Shredasaurus.  Opening the cramped, bottom-right drawer, I file it under ‘CURRENT’.  If bad Karma was afoot, I am sure that my soul felt its chilled breeze.

  R-hour was here; it was time to call Rojer.  Knowing that this debt would soon come due, I had been thinking about deferment.  I had no sensible answer for him.  I knew he was expecting me to part some Mystic’s answer upon him. But I was without one.  I did not have a tactical plan.  An attack now would certainly lead to high causalities.  Wait a minute, General Washington pulled it off on Long Island.  Facing certain annihilation, he pulled off the most tactical retreat of the war. Thus saving his troops to fight another day.  I to could fall back and regroup.

  So that’s what I did. With planned ignorance I did not call Rojer.  Not that day, or the next, or a fortnight.  Waiting for Rojer’s response to my indifference was a brutal wait.  Expecting a frontal assault and never receiving one, was a test of my nerves. Providence delivered me to safety. Rojer did not call.

  I felt bad about not calling him, but I hoped it was the prudent choice.  I imagined Rojer confronting reality and mastering his thoughts. Allowing him space and time, I hoped he would regain whatever dignity he might have felt lost.  Rojer I knew would call if and when he was ready.

   

  “Only stupid people don’t change their mind.”

  President (Wild) Bill Clinton. 

  January 14, 2010

  Leaving our home, we start a journey to Rebecca’s home. A trip we expect to take just short of an hour. Our arrival time, if it was to be a socially courteous one, was seven in the evening.  On the night’s agenda, a quiet dinner followed by a not so quiet Euchre encounter.  My family playing cards would never be described as quiet.  The decibel level can toy with intense.  Playing with Wade and Rebecca, Euchre becomes a baffling of wits. How shall I say this?  It probably won’t matter, feelings may get ruffled.  So here it is; Wade sucks at cards.  Not tactfully placed but accurately put.  My daughter did not marry him for his mastery of: Right Bauer Left Bauer.  Wade’s loose grasp of the game’s nuances, lead to frequent questions by his mate. “Why did you trump my ace?”  This question always tests my laughter control.  This being just the tip of frustrations expressed by all on Euchre night. Yet, without any commonsense, we all look forward to this quality time. And then to its eventual thankful ending.

  A little marital advice; “If your marriage is struggling, don’t take your partner as your Euchre partner.”

  As Rojer says; “I daydream more than anyone he knows.”  A quote I don’t deny.  This undeniable is even more pronounced when I travel in a car.  Because of my mental wandering, Pami won’t let me drive while she is in the vehicle.  “You’re dangerous!”  Claims she.  This kind of worries me. This coming from someone that works in a Senior Living Facility.

  This trip is no different. I climb into my safe zone in the passenger seat. It’s Time-Out for me.  We depart the driveway and this sends my thoughts away from all conversation.

  Knowing this is a rude habit, I do work on having better car etiquette.  However, on this trip I was resolved to the fact that there would be little if any etiquette.  The marital wrath that my easily chosen resolve would bring, I also understood.

  For the seven weeks since reading ‘The Document’, as Pami not so reverently calls it, my thoughts have never been far from it.  I have spent hundreds of hours re-reading Jefferson’s documents. Documents I have accumulated over the years.  Many from the Library of Congress and assorted colleges.  All of these are photo-copies of original hand written documents.  Of course, they all have to be purchased. A continual gentle disagreement that I won’t share with you. Not at this time.  But I will tell you that I never initiate its gentleness.

  Thirty two binders of varying sizes, crammed with Jefferson’s documents, sit on shelves in my office.  Of course, they are in chronological and alphabetical order; depending on the recipient.  Is there really any other way to organize them?  My son the marine thinks this anal.  I sent him the following e-mail.

  Derron,

  Because of the order that I have Thomas Jefferson’s written word filed; I have chronological access, to exactly the documents I need.  All for a special project I am working on.

  Dad

  He responded:

  Dad,

  That’s great news!

  Derron

  I sensed sarcasm.

  From my library, I’ve taken examples of TJ’s penned literature from eight different decades. The 1750s through the 1820s. Thoroughly did I compare them to The Document.

  Although the word anal does not sit well with me, (Pun totally intended) I think you have to be anal…  I mean organized, to keep good records.  Thus, be able to do this kind of evaluation and investigation.

  Spending countless hours comparing penmanship, vocabulary, and writing styles; analyzing which part of Jefferson’s life best compares to The Document; after tedious reviews; I believe Rojer’s Jefferson writes most like the last decade of the real Jefferson’s life.  Please, don’t ask me how I came to that hypothesis.  I will be happy to explain my deduction, but you really don’t want that.  No one does.?
? Just suffice to know; this is my semi-expert historical geek opinion.

  The front end of our car softly bumps on to our arrival driveway. This brings me back amongst the aware.  Arriving at my daughter’s house, I don’t remember uttering more than responsive words to my wife.  I do remember Pamila speaking, but of what I do not know.  My lack of car etiquette on this trip will surely surface again.  I don’t know when, or what marital punishment will be inflicted, but I am sure my Love will store it away, and deliver it when maximum damage can be done.

  I apologetically turn and look into her eyes. The weak initiative is wasted.  The gear shifter on the floor is engaged with abuse; her door is opened with deliberate temperament; she punctuates her cause; “We are here!”

  In one last attempt at fending off further retribution; “I’m sorry!  Love you Honey!”  This futile attempt at gaining forgiveness falls on intentionally deaf ears.

  Starting up the stairs to the house, I take her hand in mine.  It was greeted with less than abounding love.  She of course had the upper hand. It’s all good; she loves me.  I’ve never really been sure why, but she does seem to.

  Snow was starting to fall and add to the remaining un-thawed inches. We knew a small storm was heading our way and we planned on staying the night. The door jarred open in the right hand of Wade. He flinched, startled by his unexpected opening. Awkwardly he glanced into my eyes and then away.  His greeting stumbled uncomfortable awkward and forced.  I don’t know; maybe it was just my perception gone awry. “Hey!  Come on in.  I’d give you a hug but I seem to have another cold.”  I’ve noticed that Wade gets colds and other common illnesses more often than most.

  Looking at his mother-in-law, his greeting continued not flowing easily. “Everyone… well almost everyone…  I’m right here.  Their all upstairs in the living room.”  He would not look at me. I looked hard at him wondering what in the hell was wrong with him.  I gave a questioning look to Pami. She knew I was asking about who is everyone?  Turning his comment into my inquiring thoughts, I stepped into the foyer.  “Let me take your coats.”  He couldn’t play cards but he was courteous.  I could learn from him.

  We removed our artic garb, stowed our gloves, and handed our apparel to Wade.  Curious, I listened for voices coming from within and above.  There were muffled sounds of stirring, but no voices cascaded down the staircase.  Everyone was not presenting a clue to identification.

  Wade motioned up the short stairwell that led to the living room.  Eager to understand everyone I didn’t hesitate. Probably again rude but not enough for future wrath, I left Pamila to fall in behind.  Striding quick my senses were searching and still not finding. My eyes crested and picked up familiar faces. Sari and Kent, Rebecca, my local best friend Dennis, and Tina. Tina was lucky for Dennis to be his wife. There was one I didn’t know. Standing alone, looking directly into me, a face I didn’t remember ever meeting.  A woman. She was very short. She was, I’ll call it, a very healthy stocky. Her worn face that wouldn’t be described as attractive appeared to be in its mid-fifties.  Profiling, I cast her as a 16th century Inn keeper.  She seemed to be observing me with a Hunter’s gaze. Was I being sized?

  No one spoke or moved. Easy for me, a defense mechanism of humor dropped words. “God!  Am I getting whacked?”  Nothing! That should have killed. Although Dennis flinched with a short choking sound.  I continued my routine. “So, you’re not here for the show I see.”  After a joke bombs a good comedian always follows. Still no response. I was now in no-man’s-land. Obviously I was not one, but what would a good humorist do now? Old staples weren’t working and my gut was tightening.

  Pami grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the room.  This motion must have signaled the beginning of the ritual. The gathered witches and warlocks sprang into ceremony.  Sari stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek. I am getting whacked!  “I love you Daddy,” she said. Pami led me to the couch and gently pushed me into place. She took the seat to my right. Sari joined us on my left and with a circular motion started rubbing between my shoulder blades.  The others formed a half circle in front of me. Some sat and others did not.

  My mind questioned the proceedings; what the hell was happening?  I started scanning faces. All looked like President Nixon the night he told the nation that he was resigning. They seemed bewildered and scared. But most, looked not so pitiful.  From across the room, in the area of a Roll-top desk, I heard; “Danny?  Hello Danny!”

  Surprised and questioning I sked; “Mom?”  I gained my feet and looked into the face of my mother.  Her face and voice were emanating from a laptop on the Roll-top.  “What the heck are you doing Mom?”  I never swore in front of my mother. Unless I wanted my mouth washed out with soap.

  “It’s okay Danny we are here to help you son.”

  Rebecca being my eldest took charge. “Please sit back down Daddy. We need to talk.”  Reluctantly I assumed my seat. My wife pulled my arm and held it tight against her side. Sari resumed the circular pattern.  At this immediate moment, the attention was what would normally be desired, but this was not normal.  Rebecca again; “We all are here, because we love you.”  I looked at Pamila with what I will describe as a dumfounded look and a questioning thought. Thoughts that were bantering around an intervention. Rebecca knelt down in front of me. Not reverently, sympathetically.  She grabbed both my hands in hers. She pierced my eyes as if she was trying to get to my inner-self.  “Daddy we love you, and we want to help you.”  Her words were paced and seemed cooled.

  Wade stepped in. “Dan this is Tiffany. Tiffany is from our church.”  Wade said this slow as if I was new to English. He put out his hand to her.  My instinct was to use the Lord’s name in vain, but my mother was here; at least digitally.

  Tiffany was a mystery to me, but this mystery was beginning to tell its story.  She’d been introduced as from our church; spiritually, this was going to be a self-analysis of some sort. This I was sure.  This is an intervention!  But an intervention for what?  I don’t drink, do drugs, or beat my family.  Wait a minute… is this about the coffee?

  “Hello Mr. Rengaw. I am here to help you and your family.  I want to guide you. To help you see that the path you are on is hurting yourself and your family.”  The Inn Keeper said this standing over me with hands clasped.

  “Path?  I’m on a Path?  I didn’t know!” These words came from me without premeditation.

  Pami, sounding very insincere; “It’s alright Dear. We love you.”  Pami didn’t call me Dear unless she was being snotty.

  Sari joined the healing; “Dad… you have a problem!”

  Dennis added; “It’s okay buddy.”  I looked at him. He had a goofy look on his face.

  “Danny listen to the nice lady she wants to help you.”

  “Thanks Mom!”  Rebecca knelt down in front of me again and placed her hands on my knees.

  “Daddy…”  She paused and seemed to be searching for words.   “Daddy, you’re tearing apart our family.”

  Pami emphasized; “And it’s not good for you either.”

  Rebecca continued; “Daddy you have got to quit.”  She paused again. If only in me it seemed a dramatically long pause. Her moment at hand, she said; “You have got to stop… stop reading Jefferson’s letter and start writing again.”  It got loud silent. My head fell from her eyes.

  Looking back up with squinted eyes, I came up with; “What?  Are you kidding me?  This is an intervention about The Document? About me not writing?  Really!”  Not expecting an answer, I searched the eyes of the room and forced an unconvincing laugh. No one joined in.

  With the hope of crossing back into the real world, I looked to my wife.  Pami looked deep into my eyes and softly said; “You’re killing me Daniel.” Her light tone and harsh word did not match.

  “Daniel?” I asked.

  Stick, who hadn’t spoken, now did. “Dan you have got to stop calling me
at work.”

  Wade; “I can’t sleep; I’m up all night worrying about what you are doing to this family?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you Daniel?”

  “Mom!”  My mom, my mother, who swore only once in my fifty one years, just asked me what the hell is wrong with me.

  Lurching to my feet I looked at Dennis.  “Dennis?” I asked this toning for buddy support.

  Dennis looked at me with his usual unconvincing poker-face, slowly raised his glass and said; “Free booze! Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Like the Pharaoh telling Moses to take your people and leave my land, the people rejoiced. Egypt’s slaves erupted with laughter.

  The laptop cut the jocularity. “We got you Danny. Got you good!”

  “Got your dumb ass Buddy.”  Dennis could barely spit it out he was laughing so hard.  I looked to a laughing uncontrollably Pamila.  Laughing so hard that she was snorting. All my girls possess that emotional trait.

  Rebecca; “You’re tearing us apart!”  Along with her laughter came a devious smile. It was all perfect.

  I had been got; got good. Their deception delighted them to no end.  I knew I would be hearing this story for my lifetime. One of those tales that gain length of deviations over the years.

  Dennis continued his share of delight with me. “You should have seen your face.  First you were pissed. And then you just looked lost. I almost choked trying not to laugh.  It was awesome you looked like a lobotomy patient.”  I wondered how he knew what a lobotomy patient looked like.

  The conspirator that dwelled within the laptop added; “Sorry Danny. But when Pamila asked me to help mess with you… well I couldn’t refuse. We all owe you several times over.”

  “Thanks Mom!  So glad you were here for me mom!”

  Mom wanted to log off.  “Good night all. Thanks for letting me play.”

  “Thanks Grandma,” Sari replied.

  “Love ya Grandma,” added Rebecca.

  Pami closed the departure; “Thanks Mom. Good night.”

  Mom; “Got ya Danny!  Be safe everyone.”

  “Good night Mom.  Love ya.”  I said this with a soft resolve of being got good. Unseen was a laughing father heard. The pixels faded to blue. The always loving smile slipped back into my memory of things good.

  The extended moment of glorious redemption for all, slowly passed to new. The evening moved into phase two. There was good food, assorted beverages, Euchre, and merriment had by all.

  The party worked its way through the evening. It was around midnight that that the job was complete.  The mandatory hugs and kisses were exchanged.  The intervention turned party was at an end.  As planned, we spent the night’s rest in the guest room.

  Next morning.

  The four of us enjoyed our previously anticipated meal. It consisted of coffee, biscotti, scrambled eggs, and hash-browns.  The discussion, mostly at my expense, was the initial. The first re-telling of ‘The Intervention’.  This first accounting was still fairly accurate. However, I knew future telling through their creativity would glorify and expand the tale. I guess they had earned that.  Good for them.

  Finishing the evening past, it was time for us to head home.  The snow storm left only a few inches; therefore we felt comfortable traveling. Again hugs kisses and goodbyes. We headed to our car and I climbed into my seat of shame. All there was in front of my mind was highway etiquette.

  With determination, I forced the start of a conversation.  It was either misguided paranoia, or self-idealized sensitivity, that led me to believe that Pami knew of my forced effort.  It didn’t matter, I was sure that the effort was appreciated.  I hoped this would be a healing effort; maybe the wrath for my previous indiscretion would be pardoned.

  The core of our conversation was of course our visit.  Immersed in a thoughtful adult conversation, Pami threw a knuckle-ball; it fluttered to the plate.  “You do know, I meant it when I said you were killing me.”  I couldn’t even swing; it was un-hittable.  What could I say?  Silence I felt would be best. I’d let her throw another pitch.  She continued; “Have you thought about what your next project might be?”  Strike two! Fastball, right down the middle.  “Its been almost a year since your last book was published.  I love ya Honey, but I wish you would keep yourself busy.  Sometimes…. time together, is not time well spent.”  Strike three!  Grab some pine Rengaw.

  Walking back to the dugout I knew what she meant. Also I knew that she was right. I needed to respond; anything that showed forethought.  “I have an idea I’ve been percolating.”

  Her eyes briefly strayed from the highway and she asked for a positive response. “I hope it’s almost done brewing. Can you tell me what you’re percolating?”  A tinge of sarcasm. But her seeking was not unusual. We’d been down this road before.

  I was not self-convinced of my project. Therefore, I was not sure how to frame my reply. “It’s kind of something I’ve wanted to do; kind of a historical thing.”

  “No way! Historical! You?”  No tinge there.  I glanced at her. She’d amused herself and was enjoying a self-indulged giggle. It was the often and annoying type.

  I continued with a whining tone; the often annoying type. “I just don’t know if I have the knowledge or the temperament.  I would have to do extensive research.  In fact Honey… I have already done some research on it.”  She continued driving in waiting silence.  “It is sort of a discussion. No! More of a debate. Yes, a debate, a debate about slavery.  Was slavery the right thing for America?”

  Her waiting abruptly ended. “You’re kidding right! Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “No no not a moral discussion. More of a necessity debate.”

  “I’m still not with you.”

  “See… your reaction is exactly what I don’t want. Let me see if I can clarify.”

  Taking a mental breath I gathered and tried to clarify. “Okay, at the conception of the Union, the declaring of independence, and writing of our Constitution, would our republic have failed without slavery?  That is the debate.”  Her face softened slightly.  It seemed receptive as I continued; “See I could follow the debate through the decades all the way to the current. Presenting both sides of the argument.”  With some trepidation I asked; “What do you think?”

  She took more time to answer than I was comfortable with. “Well… I know you are not afraid of research. Lord do I know that. However, I do have some concerns. There is the obvious one-”

  I cut her off. “The moral issue of slavery would not be the question.  Slavery, in its simplest form, was undoubtedly horrendous.  The culture of slavery, morally right or wrong, that is not the debate.  The question to be considered would be could the young republic survive if colonial slavery was abolished.”  I paused waiting for feedback.

  “Secondly Danny I don’t think that you have ever done anything like this before.”

  “No. I haven’t.  And this is my fear. I mean I don’t want to spend a lot of time on it and then produce something sub- par.  This subject deserves quality consideration.  I would never release something like this if I did not think it had validity.  It must have power. I’m not sure I can make it powerfully valid.”

  Leaving both of us to think about it, the discussion took a thoughtful pause.  Pami when ready picked it up again. “Although I agree this is a powerful topic, my question is: Is this your kind of subject?  It is up to you. Can you give it the rendition it calls for?”

  Several Klicks closer to Morrison and to home, I try to close the topic. “I’ll think about it. Do some more research and see if I can come up with a viable outline.”

  Sometimes I write using an outline. Other times my thoughts just seem to breathe life into a story. Either way, I never know where I’m going until I get there.  I close the close with; “The only way out is through.”  Pami has heard this many times before. She smiles. Closed.

  I thought it
was closed, but apparently the door was still slightly ajar. Toned with softness, Pami slammed it shut. “Do what you think will work for you. But for me, do something. Anything! That will work for me.” Her ending told me it was so. But then there was this; “And get over The Document for God’s sake.”

  Even with her minor wifely reprimand, I sensed and opening. I rushed on her what I’d been thinking but not having the proper moment for. “Okay I will but I want you to do one thing for me.”  With a look that a husband recognizes, she was quick to me. It understood that something disagreeable was heading her way.

  I began my plea. “Okay. Pretend you’re the Governor.  Hear my petition and consider granting me a stay of execution.  Don’t be quick to judge.”

  Pami grumbled and quickly eye flicked me.  I held for a verbal response.  She glanced again, held pause still, and reluctantly gave in. “Okay I promise. I promise… to hear you out.”  Good enough; but I knew it was good enough for only now.

  I started in; “I have been trying to contact Greg Tillman for over a week.”

  “Greg?”

  “Yeah Greg.”  She was bursting to challenge with more. I gave her quick pause to do so but she held.  “I’ve left several messages with him but he won’t call me back.  I guess he did not like our last conversation.  Anyways... I want him to get his team to examine The Document.” That was too much for her.

  “Oh hell no.”

  I objected to her objection. “You promised to listen!”  I waited. She held a tongue that so wanted to be free. I continued; “I want to get the letter analyzed.  You know, forensic hand writing analysis.”

  She questioned my mental health. “You know you have a problem right?”

  “If I can get it analyzed I can move on.”

  Her voice rose in volume and intensity; “Are you kidding me?” I left that unanswered and she posed another question. “Do you, really think, that Thomas Jefferson, wrote that letter?”

  “No!” My no came easier than I would have expected. Slower; “No I don’t.  Please, just humor me.”  She could see that the ball was in her court.

  It was garbled mumbling, but I heard; “Humor you this is a joke humor you.” She longer than a glance at me. Again and one last time. Shaking her head, not believing that she was going to say what she was about to, she yielded; “What do you want me to do?”

  Even for an at times Dullard like me, I saw the opening despite the trees.  I leaned towards her and softly proposed; “I want you to call him.”  Wanting to quickly clear any hitting attempt, I recoiled.

  “Not just no, but hell no!”  These words meant nothing from a Pami that I felt I had turned.

  “Come on!  Please!”

  “And say what? Hi Greg, this is Pamila Rengaw, the reason I’m calling is because my husband is certifiable and he thinks Thomas Jefferson wrote him a letter. Could you please analyze it for me?”  She bats her eyes and gives her best fake-flirt-face.

  “Yes!  That is exactly what I want you to say. Leave me out of it of course but yes.  Look… you know he will do anything for you as long as he thinks there is a chance that you may light his candle.”

  “Light his candle?” She questions my inference.

  “Just give him a call and leave him a message in your most playful voice. Tell him you need to speak with him.  That should get his wax melting.”

  “Are you prostituting me?”

  “Yes… no… well sort of.  No crimes will be committed.  Come on please!”  I laughed sensing I had her.  “When he calls you back tell him you would like to come see him.”

  “Why don’t you go see him Daniel?”

  “I’ll admit, I have great legs, but you’re the one that lights him up.”

  “What do I tell him, during our, appointment?”  Sarcasm, good.

  “Tell him that you have this document that was left to you by a dead aunt. Tell him you need it analyzed to determine authenticity.  I will provide you with other documents that you want it compared to.  Give them to him and ask him if he could have them analyzed.”

  “And when he sees that it’s dated last November and signed by Thomas Jefferson?”  I sensed persuasive success. ‘Always Be Closing’.

  “I will make a copy and black-out the signature and date. I’ll black-out all dates and signatures.  He won’t suspect anything. He’s an idiot!”  She was closed. I could smell it. Come on… come on… say yes.

  “If this will give you your sanity back I’ll do it.”

  “Yes!”  Closed.  However, the Governor was about to put stipulations on the Pardon.

  “But this is it Danny. I mean it!”

  Instantly; “Yes. This is it yes.”

  She continued; “I do this and you’re finished. It’s time to check back in with the rest of the world.”

  “Yes; finished; promise!”

  She spoke from perceived experience; “Don’t promise me Danny. You don’t know the meaning of the word.” A little harsh I thought but I wasn’t touching it.

  “That’s my girl!  I knew you would do it.  I love you.”

  “Shut up!  Freak!”

  I did.

  Later that morning.

  I waited about an hour after arriving home; that was as long as I could take it.  “Here. That is the number to the CBI building.”  She gave me a blank stare and nonchalantly took the small paper.  Not ruffled; “This number will put you into the directory. When you get the proper request, enter the number fifteen. Fifteen will get you into Greg’s voice mail.”  As I was handing Pamila her cell phone, I was definitely non-Christian in my thoughts; Fifteen. His registry number is fifteen. Loser!’

  Pami dialed the number, waited, entered fifteen when prompted, and waited again.  In a voice that sounded more pitiful than seductive; “Greg, this is Pamila Rengaw. I would like to speak with you.  I hope you can call me back.  My number is … Thanks Greg.  I look forward to hearing from you.”  Signaling the end of an unpleasant task she handed me her phone.

  “That was perfect. That’s my girl!”  Planting a kiss on her she squirms away from me like I have Kooties.

  “Now that I’ve called my John, what do we do next Danny?”

  In Character, in any old black and white spy film, I go with the moment. “Synchronize watches. 1121 hundred hours. Hack!  Let’s see how long it takes Mr. Tillman to call you back.”  She laughs a brief not wanting to humor me chuckle.

  Walking away she leaves me with Pami love; “You’re an idiot!”

  1133 hours; Pami’s phone rings.  My sandwich making stops and I look at my watch.  As a 19th century English Town Crier, I chime out the day’s news. “Twelve minutes.”  Back in Rengaw character, be it good or bad, I add; “It took him twelve minutes.”

  “Daniel Hush!”  Turning from me she flits her hair and places the phone to her ear. Easing away from me; “Hello…  Hi Greg. Thanks for calling back… Well, I was hoping I could come by and see you. I have something I would like to talk to you about.”  (Long pause.)  He finishes what I perceive as an attempt at charm. Pami giggles like a school girl and continues; “Tomorrow, that would be wonderful. What time?  Three fifteen would be fine…  Look forward to it…  Bye.”  She buttons off her cell and irreverently tosses it on the counter top. Pami seems upset as she laments; “That bastard! A Division Director, of the CBI, has time to see me tomorrow.  He didn’t even ask what it was about.”

  Not at all concerned with her disgruntlement I elate; “You did great!”

  Her reply did not reflect my compliment. “You owe me Daniel!”  Disgusted with him, and probably me, she disappears upstairs.  From the top of the stairs, muffled but heard; “That dog!”  I chuckled not to her.

  “Hack!”

  Caraway seed rye bread; Poupon mustard; ‘Bread and Butter’ sandwich slices; honey ham; tomato slices; Baby-Swiss slices; my culinary creation.  Garnished with vinegar and salt Kettle Corn chi
ps, my meal is ready for consumption.  My new-born, and never to grow old friend and I, head to the best seat in the house.  I place the plate on the quasi-coffee table in my office; a converted 1938 Hartmann steamer trunk.  A near mint piece of history.  It was laid open, exposing the useable inner workings.  A custom made piece of tempered glass is its top.  The glass covering allowed witness to: five lockable drawers; a garment hanging area which included custom wooden hangars; and a space for leather Wing Tip Shoes.  All of its keys are on an authentic rabbit-foot keychain.  It is an incredible piece of made in Racine Wisconsin Americana.  A great conversation piece. Indicative of most pieces in my mini Smithsonian.  Almost everything in my office has historical significance. At least to me.  I imagined the adventures that the trunk had been on.

  My trunk, my sandwich, and myself, had a working lunch.  I had to work on this feast, and work at work.  Work as defined by me, probably not by Webster.  I am one of the lucky, my work is my passion.  I fear that there are those that go on metaphorical archaeological digs, and never discover their passion.  Providence had granted me passion in my work.  I worked, on my lunch; passion’d, through TJ’s documents.

  A bite here, a gathering there.  Gathering the copies of the copies, I copied them one more time.  Them, being the writings that I had used earlier to come to my conclusions.  I would supply them all to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation and let them make their own conclusion.  I blacked-out all dates and signatures; as well as the addressed.  Creating and implementing a secret Rengaw code, I labeled each one for the decade that it was scripted.  The set from the 1750s, as 50 and 51.  I coded the other seven decades similarly.  Thus, creating a systematic method for identification.  If the CBI could tell me which documents, The Document most matched, I would have a way to identify the period.

  Blackened and coded, I inserted the copies into a legal size envelope. Setting-up Pami for success.

  Finishing my task and my lunch, I spin and slide. Docking my chair with my workstation.  A fingertip-flick of the mouse sends my screen-saver into hibernation.  It is time to check e-mails and update my blog.

  Rengawraves.com had also been neglected post-transplant.  It was time to be more productive and responsive. Pre new kidney, Rengaw Raves had approximately 17,000 semi-loyal and semi-sane followers.  I suspect that some have left me over the past six months. The attention-span of Millennia’s seems very short.

  The semi-loyal included several Senators, a former President, and a few Historians.  The semi-sane included Jim Morrison, Harpo Marx, and Winston Churchill.  A potpourri for sure. And I enjoyed all that corresponded. Well… almost all.

  My site theme, and blog topics, are much like our Constitution; structurally defined, yet open to interpretation. The conversation has historical and political philosophy prevalence. However, all topics are open.  But the true purpose of my site is thought; generating it, being mentally questioning, and hopefully placing thought within actions.

  I’ll post a discussion topic; trying not to smother it with my opinion. But sometimes… The e-mail discussion then ensues.  I follow the replies and introduce into the discussion the pertinent and thought filled.  Sometimes quality replies are not. I am not sure if it is a reflection of my writing, or a lack of interest in the topic.  I will, if in digital hand, post a quality document from a reader. Then the frenzy can feed off of someone else’s opinion.

  My goal is thought. Creative thought that leads to knowledge and implementation of knowledge. Thinking out of the circle. Not going around and around with the same used up thoughts. Not wasting time with the attempted implementation of stale thoughts. In its most simplistic-ness, it seems common sense that generation-ally has been left in the past. Be creative with thought and then implement that creativeness. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  An Instant Message grabs my attention. The author is Rojer.  The fifty year old question. Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?  I was braced for the worst, but happy that Rojer was still with me. This being his first post video-conference attempt at communicating with me.  The now famous: Turkey Day Internet Interlude.

  It reads: (Hope you have a good B-day. You’re getting old buddy.)  Yes!  It’s a good witch.  By not saying much, Rojer has said volumes. This is the Rojer I understand.  My birthday is still five days away but ever prompt Rojer did not want to miss it.  All is good in Monticello.

  My survey of e-mails finds a plethora of the usual. How to make others happy; my father. The monthly family update; my sister. Readers; many asking where I’d gone.  I decided that none needed immediate attention. Only my sister needed immediate attention, and I didn’t have the psychological training for that.

  Digital mail delivered and mostly ignored for now, I move on to my now task; creating and posting a new blog.

  ………

  Posted this 15th day of January, 2010

  ‘Kidney, Thanks, and Slavery’

  Most of you don’t know, but I recently received the gift of life.  My bride, my wife, and the Love of my Life, gave me a new kidney.  A gift I can never repay.  My health is rebounding in an amazing way. My prognosis appears excellent.  For those of you that sent well wishes, they were greatly appreciated.  For those of you that didn’t; “What the hell?”  The not so good news; I’m back!

  Debate this:

  If, in July of 1776, our founders had abolished slavery, would the Infant Union have survived?  In the simplest form, this is what you are to ponder.

  I wish this to be an open debate. Therefore, at this time, I will offer no opinion.  Please mail me your thoughts. I will review all opinions and post both sides of the debate.

  Next posting: January 23rd

  ………

  Not wanting to acknowledge that I have topic insecurity, I wish to call this posting research. This topic is a sound one for my site, but I do have guilt of stealing; being so cloak and dagger. I will acknowledge that maybe I am forcing guilt to mask insecurity. You need to take my acknowledged weakness while you can. I don’t like acknowledgement.

  From this posting I am hoping to get quality feedback. Maybe it will help with my decision.  It’s posted; I shall see.

  Next morning.

  ‘Pami visits Greg Day’.

  Over breakfast I give the coded, blackened, and collated documents to Pami.  Like a teacher instructing a four year old how to tie shoes, I gave her detailed directions.  The instructions, were how I wanted her to go about her infiltration of the CBI.   During my deliverance I got ‘The Thousand Yard Stare’ from her.  With a flip of her hair she played with me. “Could you go over that one more time for me? I’m just a girl!”  Point taken. Still, I did think about going over it one more time. Wisely I chose my pancakes instead.

  The remainder of the business-day was spent engulfed in research.  My research habits were oft and overly defined by Pami as; “When he’s researching, he’s learning. When he’s learning, he’s happy.”  I had to give her that she was right. I did love learning. Anything.  I’m not sure how I should take it, but Sari likes to tell me; “You have more useless information in your head than anyone; ever!”  I hope not all is useless.

  The bronze statute, of the founder of Faber College, has a plaque which reads: ‘Knowledge Is Good’.  This briefest of clips in the movie Animal House, I know is supposed to be ironically funny. But to me, its humor is ironically lost by its truthfulness.

  At 5:33 the low rumble of the garage door lifts Bubba’s head and brings barks of anticipation with his leaving. Pamila is back from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.  Listening to the door close I decide to play a married game. I would question her sense of my normalcy.  She will expect me to rush downstairs and ask her the details of her meeting. Like a puppy overly excited by its owner once again magically finding her way home. Which was my first instinct. But I’ll take a more feline approach; snottily unimpressed.

 
As I wanted the game to play forward, my obstinate-ness peaked an inquiry.  Walking through the living room she asks of my location; “Danny?”  Moving more forward, I didn’t respond. Mervin leads her up the stairs.

  My silent pause long enough played, I offer; “I’m in my office.”  Faking work that can’t be broken, I feel her standing in the doorway.  She didn’t speak. I began to break but held unbroken. Her eyes were burning and I was sure I twitched.

  Just about to slip into the abyss, she did so first. “Well! Don’t you want to know how it went?”

  Swiveling to face her; “What?  Oh… I’m sorry.  How did it go Honey?”

  “Oh please!  I know it is killing you. You suck at this game Danny. You know that right!”

  “What so ever are you speaking of Pamila?” As I said this I wanted my face to show sincerity, but I’m sure it was just stupid. With a scrunched smile she shook her head slow. After a deep sigh she came clean.

  “It went well.  First I met with Greg.  I explained what I had and what I wanted. Exactly per your anal instructions.”  There is that word again.  She continued with her performance presented; “I could tell his wax was starting to dry when he found out why I was there.” She was for her use using my words and it made me smile. “After his weak-ass-attempt at flirting-”

  “Do I want to know?” I interrupted.

  “No.”  Her soft word clipped my flare of jealousy and she continued. “He called a woman into the office. A Special Agent. The supervisor of that department I guess.  Greg, in a very authoritative manner, gave her all of the documents and instructed her as to what he wanted.  Which matched your wishes.  He told me it may take a couple of weeks for the results. According to him they were very busy.  I don’t doubt it.  He said he would call when the report was ready.  We socialized briefly and I left.” She paused with a purpose. “As I am now.”  She turned and started down the hallway.

  Again flaring, I pseudo wanted more. “What do you mean socialized?  Is that all I get?”

  “Yes.”  She said this in a way that she knew would make me wonder. I chuckled as I knew that she is the queen of this game, and I merely a Jester.

   

  ‘We are all on a deadline; every minute.’ 

  January 17, 3:18 a.m.

  “Danny are you awake?”  Pami startles me from the hallway.

  “Yes. I’m okay.  Go back to bed. Didn’t mean to wake you.  I’m good just an early morning neuron surge.”  With no further concern, she returned to her bed.  Her slumber time was running out as she needed to be up at five; nursing called.  Pami was use to my early morning ‘Newtons’, as well as my sleeping travels.  Her reason for searching me out was to determine my current level of consciousness.

  Sound sleep was not always easy for me; especially when I was working on a project.  I referred to my neurological locomotion’s as Newton’s.  Newton’s law of the brain: A brain at rest, tends to remain at rest. A brain in motion, tends to remain in motion.  Newton’s…  Perhaps I shouldn’t force this law on him. My brain in motion law, often caused me restless or no sleep.  Trying to control the symptoms of this law, I experimented with one rule; no writing after 8:00 p.m...  Although I’ll admit that this rule was at times broken.  Even when followed, there were no guarantees of a mind at rest sleep.  The only guaranteed resolution was transferring thoughts to a hard drive. This was the cure I was currently attempting.

  I went to bed holding on to the inner thought that I was still undecided about The Debate. But if this was indeed so, why were my fingers on my keyboard at 3:30 in the morning. Hours before the rooster was to crow.

  Living in Morrison Colorado, city codes probably allow for farm animals. But we don’t have a real rooster.  However, thanks to my lovely wife, a rooster’s crow is the sound that screeches from our alarm-clock.  Pamila thinks it cute. It scares the hell out of me.

  A potential opening on the rails, a Newton was definitely in play. It was either purge my thoughts or stare at the ceiling waiting for the Cock to awaken.  Purging seemed a less scary best.

  ………

  January 17th, early a.m.

  The USS Constellation might have been the prologue of the story titled: ‘The end of slavery in America’.  In 1859, the African Squadron was on station; patrolling off the west coast of Africa.  The squadron consisted of eight wooden sailing vessels. The Flagship was the Constellation.  Her mission was to find, board, seize, and arrest the crew of any ship participating in human trafficking.  America, along with England, had made slave trafficking illegal in 1808.  In 1820, America made trafficking an act of piracy; punishable by death.  However, there is only one documented case of imposing that punishment of finality.

  The African Squadron’s sole purpose was to battle illegal slave trade.  For many reasons, but mainly, the cunning tactics of the slavers, the squadron was very ineffective.  The squadron did however make the smugglers earn their contracts.

  The USS Constellation was decommissioned in 1861. More correct, its mission changed.  The Constellation was a very swift three mast’d warship. A very prized vessel, she was armed with 26 powerful guns.

  In 1861, slavery was one war from being abolished.  The Constellation was an anti-slavery Icon.  When the proud ship sailed into New York harbor in the spring of 1861, American slavery would soon go the way of the Dodo Bird.

  Of the travels of American slavery, the Constellation sailed toward the beginning of the end.  The debate was first argued with meaning in 1774. But without a means to an end, the debate had been an American argument for a century. Although slavery as defined by the word ended, the debate continues.

  Except among a very small genetically limited group of people, there is no debate.  All slavery, starting with the Pharaohs, and continuing today in many forms, is morally, ethically, and spiritually a horrible abuse of God’s creations.

  The debate I attempt to bring to life is this: At its conception and subsequent birth, could a group of thirteen colonies, now united, survive without slavery?  Could thirteen, soon to be United States of America, grow and survive socially, spiritually, economically, and governmentally.  Could it do all of this if slavery was abolished?  Abolished at its American infancy.

  One can only guess when Americans started to debate: Do we need slavery to perpetuate our way of life?  Was it 1610 in Jamestown? Or was it Native American’s a century earlier?  It does seem impossible to hypothesize. No matter; within the scope of this debate this question is insignificant.  The laser point of our discussion is pinpointed on national creation and its subsequent survival.

  While nationalism was surely discussed in taverns during the beginning of The Seven Year War in 1755, the permanent scripting of nationalism was inked in the spring of 1776.  For our sojourn, this will be our port of demarcation.

  May 15th, 1776: A referendum was voted on and passed by the Continental Congress.  This document, among other propositions, called for the colonies to be free of King George’s encumbrances.  John Adams was its author. Incidentally, in Mr. Adams’ eyes, mind, and heart, this document was the true Declaration of Independence.  This he believed all his life and loved to tell anyone that would listen.

  June 28th, 1776: Charles Lee called for a definitive declaration to be drawn, debated, and voted upon.  This is the exact moment in history that our debate begins. The nexus of our debate is the Declaration of Independence.

  The president of the 3rd Continental Congress was John Hancock. Mr. Hancock’s jumbo signature on the Declaration of Independence is one of those great anecdotes of history. Hancock wanted to make sure that King George could clearly read his signature.  Often the best parts of history are the nearly hidden personas that fall between the cracks of the facts.

  Hancock formed a five man committee. Their function was to create a cornerstone. A declaration that would capture the desires and determination of the people. At least as
it was seen through the eyes of the Continental Congress.  The foundation of a new republic, anchored by this cornerstone, was about to be laid.

  Roger Sherman, Thomas Jefferson, Robert Livingston, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, were the five called upon. Called to construct our Declaration of Independence.  These five men potentially held within their cask of ideology, a nation free of slavery. Potentially, because the Continental Congress still had to ratify their architectural design.

  Hancock designated Adams as committee chair.  Adams ceremoniously offered the scribing task to Franklin. Benjamin being the Elder Statesman of honor.  Franklin graciously declined; citing the physical pain of writing at his age.  But undoubtedly, all were well aware of Jefferson’s mastery of the quill.  Adams offered young Jefferson the task.  An offer that Hancock surely would have wanted. Historians suggest that Hancock made Adams committee chair so that rules of etiquette would not allow Adam’s to appoint himself to the task. Providence dictated Jefferson, and Jefferson dictated a masterpiece.

  As much as Thomas Jefferson was disinterested in public speaking, he was Masterful in text.  Like his contemporaries, the era was communication led by hand written documents. But beyond few of his fellow founders, his writing reached towards works of art. Few quills flowed every note like Jefferson’s.  With his sharp intellect, precision of language, and sense of enlightenment, he was providence chosen Moment in Time. Embodied in a single, he was Dickens, Socrates, and Churchill. All in a single living 18th century vessel.  In the context of Enlightenment, George Washington often spoke of Time and Space.  Jefferson was Washington’s Time defined.  The perfect man; the exact moment.  The Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, June 1776, Time tri-perfect.

  As written by Thomas Jefferson, approved by the committee of five, overwhelmingly indulged by the Continental Congress, I present you the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence:

  “We hold these truths, to be self-evident:  That all men are created equal; that they are endowed, by their creator, with certain inalienable rights. Those among these are: life; liberty; and the pursuit of happiness.  That to secure these rights, government is instituted among men. Deriving their just powers, from the consent of the governed.

  ………

  The body of the Declaration of Independence, written by Jefferson, with only minor changes by the committee, and presented to congress, was not approved in its original form.  In fact, the original document, condemned slavery.

  Jefferson listened in quiet disgust as the debate over the final form of the document continued.  Phrases, ideology, and declarations, were changed or eliminated.  The voted on, and ratified declaration, had not a single mention of slavery.

  Slavery had lost its first chance at abolishment.  Yet the words ‘All men are created equal’ are approved and held within the preamble.

  So, here is our beginning; the Debate’s Opening Arguments.

  ………

  Pami’s goodbye kiss is now over an hour old.  Mervin waits for me with anticipated impatience. Finished with my task we head out for a brief walk around the block.  Walking at a quickened pace, I perform a mental rewrite of my morning’s work.  Thinking it a little loose, I’m not thrilled with it.  However, I am pleased to get a start; even if it never flourishes. Mostly I think of sleep. My brain now purged, I can surely put restlessness aside and fall into a sleep of the eased.

  Not knowing how later, but later, I wake to Mervin’s alarm. His barking at the front door tells me of Lenny’s visit.  It’s an excited bark; friendly and inviting. One that he will not yield unless I act.  Checking the rooster I see that it is 10:33. Although still in the fuzzy of waking, the warm glow from outdoors tells that it is still morning.  Senses beginning to process all that senses do, I head down the stairs.  In my happiest dog voice; “What’s up boy?  Is it time?  Was Lenny here?”  Mervin’s butt swings side to side following the most excited tail. He twice runs halfway up the stairs and then back to the door.  An anticipating paw swats at the door.  “Hang on hang on.”  Asking me to open the damn door, he gives a single sharp bark.  “Okay!”  Opening the door he brushes me aside getting past.  There it is, on the mat, the object of his persistence; a dog biscuit.  Lenny, our mailman, has come and gone.  Mervin gets his treat.

  Turning to my left I look to the mail receptacle; the usual mail is sticking out. Only, there is one irregular piece.  Grabbing all I re-enter the house.  Treat gone, Mervin follows.

  Sorting through Lenny’s delivery, my attention goes to a legal size envelope. Heavy and pushing its limit. Inspecting further I notice that it is hand written, addressed to Dr. Rengaw, with an unfamiliar return address.  All in hand, I head to the kitchen to scope out the coffee situation.  Cold coffee, words I hate, remains in the pot. Microwave earn your keep.

  Sitting at the kitchen table I take a sip of coffee pretending to filter through the other mail.  Who am I kidding?  Grabbing the envelope I open it and extract the contents. Again a cursory inspection identifies that it is a hand written document. The penmanship appears delicately distinctive.

  ………

  Dr. Rengaw;

  At the end of November, my pen livened.  With no clear direction, my ink started to fill pages.  Eight and sixty pages came in to creation.

  Apparently, divine inspiration guided my thoughts.  My heart intervened from within.

  Upon completion, the ink I guided had taken on viability.

  I have searched you out and sent this to you.  My desire, is that you consume the written word and determine your own possibility, for viability.

  Patrick Thomas

  ………

  Reading this, I look to Mervin lying on the kitchen floor. As I often do, I speak with him; “Do I look like an Idiot?  Well do I?”  He lifted his head, glanced at me and laid his head back down. He thinks: Yes you do. Let me sleep.

  Where did this freak come from?  Where do they all come from? A sixty-eight page hand written document?  He wants me, to determine viability?  Really!  Who the hell am I, The Shell Answer Man? (Over 40 crowd only)  This is all I need. I think I’m losing it.  Maybe I can get Pami to get Homeland Security to check out Mr. Patrick Thomas.

  Leaving the document on the kitchen table I nuke another cup of coffee and continue with my day.  Mervin needs to play chuckit. I need to get a life.

  Later that evening.

  Mervin lets me know that Pamila is home from work.  Like a teenager who had left a bad report-card on the kitchen table, I leapt to my feet, sprinted down the stairs, turned and headed for the kitchen. Mervin scattered before me.

  Just as my wife was opening the kitchen door, I grabbed the 68 page document.  “I’m home Ricky!” (In her worst Lucy voice.)  Trying to slow my actions, I slid the document back into its envelope.

  “Hi sweetheart.”  A greeting I only give when I can’t think and speak simultaneously.  She looked at me inquisitively, walked to a kitchen counter and placed down a small bag of groceries.

  Glancing at the bad report-card in my left hand, she asks; “Whatcha got?”

  “This?”  Hoisting the envelope in her direction.  “Nothing. Just some research I needed.”

  “More Jefferson crap?” she asks, staring at me as if I did have a bad report-card.

  “No it’s just some information I needed.  I’ll put it away.”  I fled like a Gazelle on the Serengeti. Heading for the safety of my office.

  Gazelle-ing away, I thought I heard a muffled; “His father warned me.”

  After The Document incident, there was no way I was going to let her see my newest gift from Lenny. Nor would I tell her about it.  I don’t need another intervention.

  Entering my sanctuary, with little respect for the contents, I toss the envelope onto the steamer trunk. Rejoining my bride.

   

   

  ‘January 9th, 1776. Common Sense, first edition, in the hands of the peo
ple.’ 

  Next morning

  Engaging my workstation, I settle in to work on Rengaw Raves.  Dissecting my e-mails, I print out all pertaining to The Debate.  The tally is as follows: 39 total responses; one, threatening my black-loving-ass; five, written without thought or reason; twenty three that liked the topic; ten that seemed uncomfortable with the topic.  Without meticulous analysis of all the responses, I feel mostly positive.  The Debate, may be do-able.  I guess it is up to me. More percolating on the topic may help. Percolating on my friend was time wasted.  My friend needed and deserved an immediate response. And immediate today of course means e-mail.

  ………

  Neanderthal;

  I will not try to explain with only small words; Soes youse can figger this out.  But if you would like to brings your lame ass, to my house, I am sure we can straighten this out.

  My address is:

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  Just come to the door and ring the bell.  I am sure, someone there, will help you.

  ………

  Needing to slip into a calm yet active creek of thought, Classic Rock and a comfortable couch were called upon.  But not just any couch. A large sofa that was originally in the Blair House. Lyndon Johnson found it in the Presidential Guest House. It fit his large frame perfectly and had it moved to the Whitehouse. It has been in storage for four decades. Then it was purchased on-line; by me.  At least that is the story. Good enough for me.

  Selection of music for successful percolating is a crucial part of the process. ‘The Wall’, Pink Floyd, side one, perfect.  This choice sure to make me comfortably numb.

  Discman at the ready, I assume the position.  With Roger Waters in my ears and not slowing the neuron’s wheels, the silver disc stops its spinning.  No Pulitzer taking shape as an unwritten outline, my eyes wander left to the envelope that still lay on the trunk. I do wonder though if maybe lied on the trunk may be better chosen words.

  My potentially new project not gaining structure, my inspiration, or lack of, sends me elsewhere.  With changed focus I sit and pick up the envelope. My last thought before reading brings new ones; it does seem that Mr. Waters has let me down. Something he rarely does.

  Pausing with pages in hand, I wade through the reeds of indecision one last time; Should I? You know that it will only perturb you. You don’t need the frustration. But can I? Can I not? No I can’t not.

  “Only unexplored time, is wasted exploration.”

  D. Rengaw

  Pulling the 68 page document from its manila protector and placing the cover page aside, I begin reading without expectations. Well I do have expectations, but they are not good ones.

  ………

  Colonial America had just ended its first war.  A war Winston Churchill called World War 1.  We know it as the Seven Year War. More commonly, the French and Indian war.  Among the colonists, there were rumblings of discontent with Mother England.

  Thomas Paine, with the publication of Common Sense, sent the spark that ignited a revolutionary firestorm.

  The most published pamphlet of the founding era, it was an 18th century roadmap to revolution, independence, and freedom.  Historians do debate Paine’s place in history.  Ranging from a loyal patriot, to a treasonist. However, one fact is undeniable: Paine’s Common Sense guided the fledgling colonies on a path to the future.  More specifically, an Opportunity for Solution.

  Every Opportunity for Solution, (OFS’s), requires three steps:

  1. Analysis of the opportunity.

  2. Development of a plan for solution.

  3. A determined, implementation of the plan.

  When I think of Common Sense, I ask myself, what would Paine write today. Today being this last month, of the first decade, of the 21st century.

  In order to start this highly speculative process, one would first have to identify the most pressing OFS’s of our country. Only then, can the three steps be applied.

  Here in lies the first stumbling block of this writing. We are now, a vast continental country.  We would need to identify OFS’s which concern a country, as well as states.  We are no longer thirteen independent colonies trying to survive and flourish.  However, as our republic ages, the separating line between states and federal sovereignty, becomes ever more blurred.

  Opportunity for Solution 1

  Any 18th century Democratic Republican, and many modern day Republicans may never admit it, but we have become a republic led by a federal government.  A Thomas Jefferson and John Adams debate on this topic would indeed be an epic one.  Thomas Jefferson would doubtless, not have enough philosophical and statistical information to win this debate.

  Opportunity for Solution 2

  OFS 2, which closely correlates to the first OFS, is the multi trillion dollar federal deficit.  This of course, is fodder against the federalists of Washington and Hamilton.

  Let’s just call it a mantra of current day Republicans.  Please let us move on to OFS 3; for I fear that James Madison may visit me as I sleep.  Clearly, Madison would express Thomas Jefferson’s opinion on this topic.

  Opportunity for Solution 3

  Not to let the states off the hook; OFS 3 is the deficits of the states.  I don’t think that Alexander Hamilton would wish to assume the debt of the states today.  I don’t see it helping with the federal government’s credit rating.

  Opportunity for Solution 4

  Bi-partisanism, or lack of; partisanism, or lack of.  Let’s just call it the two party system.  It is easy to see, how the creators of the Constitution, did not foresee a two party system as the future of our country.  Or, did they simply not want to think about it?

  Opportunity for Solution 5

  Immigration reform.

  Opportunity for Solution 6 

  Education In this country.

  Opportunity for Solution 7

  Closely tied to OFS 6; our economy, current and future.  It seems that no one wants to address the 800 pound gorilla in the room.  Therefore, I will.

  Opportunity for Solution 8

  Related to all the above; unemployment benefits.  Should unemployment benefits be paid, and for how long?  Employment and the strength of the workforce will be addressed elsewhere.

  Opportunity for Solution 9

  OFS 9 is a grouping of social issues.  One that we as a nation spend too much time debating, arguing, and fighting over.  On a long list of problems facing this country, we should not still be spending so much time, and money on.  It is not, that they lack importance. It is simply that our society can’t seem to mature and move on.  Simpler yet, read the Declaration of Independence.  Even though our founding fathers could not adhere to its words, it is time that we do.

  Opportunity for Solution 10

  Global, U.S. military actions. Should we be involved with our current wars? Should we be involved in the future?  If so, how do we fiscally, pay for it?

  Before moving on to a discussion of Opportunity for Solution 7, several items need to be briefly addressed.

  The 10 OFS’s that I have chosen to discuss, are not all inclusive.  Others may not have chosen the same.

  Also, the OFS’s will not be presented in numerical order. However, I hope, in an order that makes sense.

  Secondly the purpose of this writing is to activate thought and imagination in others.  Hopefully inspire others to be mentally creative.

  Lastly, I am a self-educated historian.  My formal education is in Literature and business management.  I am not an economist, financier, scientist, or engineer.  Therefore all the numbers and science may not be perfectly accurate.  Yet, I hope to keep the philosophies and concepts workable.

  Opportunity for Solution 7.  The Economy

  When I tried to determine which OFS should be discussed first, my thoughts seemed to be on a Roundabout. All paths led directly to the economy.  When discussing the condition of our economy, several measurements could
be used to determine its strength.  These include: employment; unemployment; wages; and others.  To many economists, the tensile measurement of economic strength is rate of growth.  Economic growth rate appears to be the most determinant measurement of the overall health of an economy.  Our current growth rate of 2.5 percent annually, is slightly above the horizon of economic stagnation.  Compared to several countries that currently have growth rates of around 10 percent, we are lagging far from prominence.  Countries like Singapore and others, show us that substantial growth is possible.  We must however be careful not to compare apples to oranges.  Many of these countries have had a near 0 percent growth rate for decades or centuries.  However, they do guide us to a plausible path.

  So, what growth rate would lead us to prosperity?   Although debatable within the economic community; an annual growth rate, of 5 percent seems to be a happy medium.  Being an eternal optimist, I would like to set the goal at 6 percent.  In my opinion, if we want to be an eagle in a sky dominated by birds of prey, we must achieve this growth rate in the next five years and maintain it for at least the next decade.  History tells us, if we listen, that nations do not survive as global powers, unless they have economic and military strength.

  The Union Pacific and Central Pacific, the locomotive, the River Boat, steel, Thomas Edison, Eli Whitney, and Henry Ford, all ushered in the industrial revolution.  But where are we today on that historical time-line?  Retirement age for the Baby Boomers is fast approaching. In fact, for some, it is a day gone by.  Therefore, we must make a historical acknowledgement; Boomers were the beginning of the end of the industrial revolution.  In fact, we need to understand that the retirement of the Boomers, puts the time line square on the early stages of the technological and science revolution.  As soon as our society and leaders understand this, the sooner we can scabbard the sword that is the new age.

  So how can a country, with vast resources and an unlimited work force, not be a dynamo among profitable manufacturing countries?

  In order to answer this question, let’s analyze the opportunity.  First, from a strictly business point of view, two costs of production are high; labor and transportation.  Because of higher wages paid to American workers, we can no longer profitably produce low price items.   Low wages being paid in other countries, make competition nearly impossible.  Businesses can’t make a widget that sells for 3 dollars, while paying employees 13 dollars an hour.  We can no longer compete with other countries paying employees 1 dollar a day.  Is it too early to introduce China into this conversation?  Yes!  China is not our problem. But China can be a solution.

  Secondly, we as a nation, have not been able to self-satisfy our energy needs for nearly a century. Without foreign oil, without the vehicle’s life blood, fossil fuel, we would start the process that creates oil.  Logic tells us that we should not blame OPEC for the 100 dollars a barrel price of crude. Yet we do, and maybe, justly.  No need at this time to discuss why OPEC charges what they do; it does not further the discussion.  Bottom line is, crude prices over 100 dollars a barrel are an unsustainable transportation cost.  Foreign crude prices are only going to climb. Common Sense: If we are to keep transportation costs down, we must control our own destiny. Enough talking about it.

  Our insatiable thirst for gasoline, and the greed of the oil companies, create a broken will. A will to create alternative fuels and vehicles.  When will this recklessness end?

  So the analysis, of what is wrong with the economy, is a weak growth rate. Mostly due to high labor and transportation costs in the manufacturing sector.  Is this how simple it truly is?  No, but fixing this will be a huge boost for the economy. There are indeed other factors that affect growth. Yet, if we can control these costs, they will positively influence other parts of the economy.  Long term improvement will yield significant growth.  Franklin Delano Roosevelt, his New Deal, and NRA programs, put a small percentage of the unemployed population back to work.  However, World War II manufacturing was our true exodus from the Great Depression.

  The plan has to be devised to grow our manufacturing sector.  Hold on, earlier I stated that the Industrial revolution was over. We need to remember that the technological and science age is in its infancy.  In order to battle high labor costs, we must change directions.  We can, pay higher wages and meet our labor costs, if we can get more for our products.  If we can supply products that other countries can’t, either because of lack of technology or lack of needed resources, there will be demand. Sounds a lot like Economics 101. Please note the words; supply products. Supplied products do not necessarily have to be produced on an assembly line. Not Henry Ford’s type. Therefore, we again need to change paths.   Manufacturing needs to merge onto the highway of science and technology.  Please let me be clear, I am not preaching; "Will the last one out of Detroit please turn off the lights."  There of course still is a place for profitable manufacturing of durable goods; goods that can be touched. But profitable manufacturing means that these products must be in demand. Overseas as well as here at home.  Products and services that we have the knowledge, technology, and resources to profitably supply.

  Our country may have invested more time and money into science and technology development, than any other country on earth.   So why are we not striving to make this a stronger part of our manufacturing sector?  Is there any country that has more useable knowledge of: Bio-technology; genome science; aeronautics technology; medical sciences? As well as an unlimited supply of workers.

  This kind of manufacturing allows us to profitably run higher labor costs.  We can afford to pay wages that will meet a manufacturing budget. Also, technological services require low or no transportation costs. Let me at this time acknowledge that in business and economic terminology, this is not manufacturing.  Yet maybe it is correct 21st century terminology. Or should be.

  So how do we implement a determined plan to get us there?  The first step is education; which is the next OFS.  But bottom line is this; without a knowledgeable and skilled workforce, we will not meet our goals.

  Next, both the private and the public sector, have got to invest in the future. It will not happen overnight.  But other developing countries have shown it can happen within a realistic time frame.  It must be done without delay.  We can’t afford to wait years deciding on whether we should invest in education.  If our political leaders don’t take this path, they will fail.  Future history will reflect this failure.  In this time of trillion dollar deficits, this will seem to be a tough pill to swallow.  However if there is to be future prosperity, we must treat the illness now.  After all, it is an investment. One that we will bring many a profitable return.

  The second part of this economic recovery and future prosperity is implementation of a ten year energy program.  One that will make us independent of foreign oil.  Again time has run out; we need implementation. We don’t need more talking about it. Immediately implement a responsible energy program.

  This energy plan would have to include energy resources that we currently have. Such as clean coal, natural gas, and other developing technologies.  Continuing development of petroleum free vehicles is a must. And lastly, the time for a renaissance in nuclear power is now.

  We have the technology to safely produce and operate nuclear power plants.  Even in the worst accident scenarios, doomsday results are no longer a reality.  Feasibility studies have been done, and they show that nuclear power plants can be built economically and in a relatively short period of time.  I am not going to detail these studies; they are accessible by anyone with internet.  But, I will only say that our leaders know it is so. They need to stand up and make it happen.  Oil lobbyists be damned.

  As mentioned above, there would have to be a time frame set. I will set it at ten years.  We have got to set time frames. Realistic time frames that we will convert all new vehicles to petroleum free energy.  And not just time frame goals, time frame laws.  Ol
d Testament laws.  Let the Lord God, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, smite them, if the automobile industry makes a vehicle that runs on petroleum fuel.

  We are on the cusp of making this happen.  However, the Federal Government can do only so much. Yes, more than they are now for sure. But the people must demand it, and manufacturers must come through.

  Although the aerospace industry is not ready to convert yet, now is the time to set goals.  When can they be ready to convert to alternative fuel?

  Think about being free from foreign oil, in ten years.  If in 2021, we could survive on U.S. produced oil only, our economy would grow strongly.  Energy costs would decline in private homes and industry as well.

  However, in order to make this happen we would have to be aggressive in other energy producing technologies. These include: natural gas, which we suddenly seem to have a lot of; clean coal technology; and the aforementioned nuclear fuel.

  For brevity reasons I will not bore you with a lengthy discussion on how our government can produce, implement safety measurements, and pay for the additional cost of monitoring nuclear energy production. I will only say that it involves partial government ownership in new nuclear plants, and their development and implementation by a solitary company.  Again, research and thought on this topic has been done by people much smarter than me.  This topic will be further discussed when we address the federal deficit.

  So after analysis and planning, a determined energy plan needs to be implemented.  My ten year plan may be too simplistic and in fact unrealistic; but we won’t tell that to our politicians.  What does need to be implemented is a plan with set time-line goals.  Goals that will get us energy self-sufficient and free from foreign oil.  This must of course be done with the help of the automotive industry.  Is there anyone out there that still thinks we don’t have the technology to mass produce reasonably priced alternative energy vehicles?

  President Kennedy promised to put a man on the moon by the end of the decade.  In July of 1969, Neal Armstrong stepped on to the surface of the moon.  Don’t tell me we can’t do this.

  Lastly, it is up to us, the people, to make this happen.  If we don’t put our leaders to the task, and demand they serve their country, we have failed.  Our government is one of the people, and for the people.

  Opportunity for Solution 6, Education.

  I would give you statistics on where we stand worldwide educationally, but I’m not educated enough.  I do however know that if we are less than top of the worldwide class, it is a travesty; which I do know to be true.

  There are those that say we should model our education system based on China.  Again with China?  But obviously, the cultural difference is too extreme.  I would have had an issue with our government taking my children from me and sending them off to a school far from home for thirteen years.  However, maybe there are some things we can learn from them.  For instance, the Chinese and other countries apply a dedicated studies program.  The goal is to identify where the aptitude of the child is and then guiding them towards that aptitude.  The way they do this certainly screams against human rights for all organizations that scream about such things. But again, are there things we can learn?

  My analysis also leads me to the high cost of education.  Charter and private schools may be a way to go for those among us that can afford private primary schooling, but they are a minority among the consenting. Most can’t afford college for their children; let alone private primary schools.

  We need to fix grades 1 through 12 in our public schools.

  A staggering statistic: A student that attends an average costing college for six years, and pays for their education with student loans, will graduate with over two hundred thousand dollars in debt.  I believe that figure is actually higher, but I choose to err on the side of caution.  Is that the way we really want our graduates to start their post-graduation life; in a huge debt?

  Developing a plan to fix our public schools seems to be easier than implementing one.  Planning, is usually easier than implementing.  I am suggesting that the way we have educated our young people since the turn of the 20th century, doesn’t only need to be revamped, it needs to be replaced.

  The system, and the way we teach through the 6th grade, is fairly solid.  There could be some tweaking, but let’s take baby steps.

  Through the 6th grade the emphasis needs to be on the three R’s. All students should get a strong foundation in all areas.  These studies should follow a path that is used in all schools throughout the country.  Standardization is key. All students throughout the country should be following the same curriculum.  It is mandatory to be consistent; no exceptions.  Remember, we are talking about public schools.

  Here is where I propose wholesale changes in the current system.  When the child finishes the 6th grade, there needs to be an evaluation of proficiency.  A standardized test to determine where the child’s aptitude is and where the child excels.  Two more evaluation processes need to be implemented as well; student surveys and parental interaction.

  The child should be given a standardized survey to determine the student’s interests and disinterests.  Again, it must be standardized throughout the national school system.

  Secondly, there has got to be parental interaction. This interaction needs to be interpersonal between counselors, parents, and the student.  This may at times seem a daunting task; the family unit of the previous centuries seems to have become less of a family and more of a unit.  Still, parental interaction is the goal.

  After tests, surveys, and parental interaction, the goal would be to determine a future education path.  One that is best for the welfare of the child.  One that will best optimize the student’s strengths and interests. Neither an easy task.  However I think it can be done. But we do need knowledgeable people to design this kind of emotional, psychological, and aptitude analysis system.  As well, we need educated and skilled people to implement such a system.

  At this point, a curriculum needs to be determined and set up for each student; grades 7 through 12.  Grades 7 and 8 should be used to both strengthen any determined weaknesses from the first 6 years, and starting them towards the fields of future studies.

  High School should be a pre-college.  The student’s curriculum should be guided towards the anticipated college curriculum. For instance; a student that wants to be in the medical field, should be taking higher level math and science.  It is a waste of time, effort, and money, to have this student taking high level economics, woodworking, or social studies classes. With all of the knowledge that needs to be acquired by our college students, properly preparing our students for college will help to lower the failure rate and help to guarantee success for the student.  Is that not our end goal?

  However just as high school should be a preparatory school for college, it should also be a finishing school for students that will not attend college. The same students that wish to leave high school with useable skills.

  For students who wish to go on to college, their high school curriculum should be centered on their college aspirations.  For students that don’t plan on attending college, their curriculum should be centered towards the skills they wish to have upon graduation. First of all, making sure that they have all of the 3 R’s that they need, and then making sure that they have solid skills for a secure future.

  We need another change in the way we do things; we must have more strong technical high schools.  Today’s work environment demands a lot of technical skills. Skills that often can only be acquired in a post diploma school. Such as universities, junior colleges, or trade school. To this I ask why?  Do the students of the 21st century really have to get a college degree for many of the technical skills sought by employers today?  I just don’t see how our children that are more proficient on a computer when they are 10, then we are as an adult, can’t become proficient in many skills in high school?  Most employers believe that many of the jobs that high sc
hool graduates want, require technical skills.  Let’s teach these skills in high school.

  Do they need a college degree to be proficient in workstation programs? The same programs that employers are running and having a hard time finding qualified employees for.  Let’s teach them what they need to know. Let’s help them to be successful in the workforce.  Skilled high school graduates can put strength into the economy. Instead of collecting unemployment, they could be paying taxes. Statistics show that far less High School graduates get college degrees than don’t. This is a large percentage of the workforce that many employers can’t use.

  Neither developing a plan, nor implementing a plan, to combat the high cost of secondary education is easy.  The problem; it is almost entirely controlled by the private sector. A capitalist society displaying a fault.  If the demand is high, the provider can determine the price.  Many of today’s students know that if they want to live the life they wish, they need to get secondary education. Thus, a demand has been created.  What can we do to bring down the price?  Strong technical high schools?  Demand goes down, price follows.

  Other than that, I am not smart enough to figure out how to lower the cost of a college education.  Hopefully there are those that have some suggestions.  I guess industry leaders could appeal to the presidents and boards of the organizations of higher learning. All Industries need an educated workforce to be successful. Successful industries strengthen the economy.  It seems an easy riddle to solve.

  Of course the federal government could give billions in scholarships. Never mind… the government has 13 trillion debt reasons why they can’t.

  So implementing determined plans to fix our education system shakes out like this:

  1. The government needs to implement a standardized system to change primary education.  The kicker here, is all the bickering from the states.  They will want their education systems left alone.  No medaling from big brother.  Governors, take a knee and give it up.  Most of you aren’t doing it right anyways. So how about we try something new. It may even help with your budgets.

  2. Development of technical high schools.

  3. Someone, anyone smarter than me, come up with a plan to lower college costs.

  “We do not need to be a smart nation. However, we do need to be an educated nation, if we are to be a prosperous nation.  Education should be a right, not a privilege.  We have got to give all Americans the right to be skilled, educated, and employable.  Lest Americans be the slang that Europeans intended in 1776.”

  SDW

  10… 9… 8… 7… main engine ignition. 5… 4... 3… liftoff. We have liftoff.

  Main engine firing sent me prone to sitting. My clutching hand of the page tightened. The letters… the letters S D W. All systems were a go!  “Danny.  Danny!”

  “Huh?”  My head snaps left. Rojer’s face is square within the monitor.

  “You alright Danny?”  No reply by me.  Without voluntary movement I swap couch for desk chair.

  “Rojer?” I ask awkwardly.

  “What’s wrong with you Danny?  Why are you sweating?”

  “Umm… no… I’m not feeling well. Low blood sugar or something.”

  “Eat a Hershey square Danny.”  Rojer knew I sometimes used a Hershey bar when my glucose was crashing. Measured; to me it was a no-brainer. Really it was just an excuse to eat chocolate.

  “No I’m okay. What’s up Rojer?” I knew I wasn’t convincing. Rojer’s searching look reinforced my knowing.

   

   

  “I love it when a plan comes together.”

  General George Patton 

  Rojer must have been digitally spying on me.  “What were you reading?  You sure sat up quickly.  Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Nothing just some work.”  Having had no time to process the new S D W, there was no way I was going to tell him.  “What’s up Roj? Good to see you.”  Wiping my brow, again my words crashed stiff in my ears.

  “Danny you look like shit is Pami there?”

  “No!” I snapped.  “Sorry Rojer I’m fine I promise.”  Fighting hard to smother my emotions, I was sure I was losing.

  In an endless pause I guess he figured out that it was his turn to speak.  “Did you get my e-mail?” My blank look answered.  “I just sent it a few minutes ago. It includes a link to the Richmond Times Dispatch.”

  “The paper?” I asked rhetorically stupid.  Rojer had an open shot at a shot at me.

  He let it alone as he continued; “Two days ago there was a small article on the last page of the first section. Strangely there was no by-line.”

  “Am I in it?” I jokingly asked. No reaction.

  “It addresses… well you know Danny. What we talked about.”

  “You mean the Jefferson document?”  Again no reply. I’m not sure if it was from a sense of reverence, or perhaps fear, but he didn’t want to directly address it.  After a momentary still I answered; “Yes, I know Roj.”

  “Anyways…” His face was disgust. It was forced but it was what he wanted me to see. “I sent you the link to it.” He lost the tone with his next words. “Peter Henderson. Remember Mr. Henderson Danny, the Chairman of the Foundation?”

  “Yes.”

  “He called me wanting to know all about it, and why I didn’t tell him about it.” Rojer took a deep breath and continued; “He was pissed!  I knew I should have told him I knew it.”

  “Rojer why was he so mad?” Asking this I understood that in Rojer, someone pissed was often an exaggeration.

  “Well, you can read it yourself Danny. But mostly because the article claimed the paper had contacted me and him.  Danny no one contacted me about it.  Danny…  You didn’t-”

  “Rojer!”  Again it came out harsher than I meant it to.

  “Sorry Danny.”

  “You know me better than that Rojer.”

  “I know I know. Sorry Buddy.”  He was beginning to get agitated. I tried to calm.

  “It’s okay.”  I know it was a weak effort. What can I say I’m not a priest.

  Rojer continued; “Peter said no one had contacted him either. He sounded like he was going to call the Dispatch.” Rojer paused, and at least to me, scarily changed the topic. “Apparently Peter knows someone at Quantico. You know FBI type.”  With widened eyes I nodded an acknowledgement that I knew the Federal Bureau of investigation. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity; all that. “The FBI is sending someone out here tomorrow. I am to turn over the security video and the actual document.”  Rojer made it sound like he was a murder suspect being subpoenaed.

  I asked what I already knew; “You still have it right?”

  “Yeah! That’s not a problem.  I guess they are going to analyze the video and the document. Whatever that means.”  My heart palpitated; I so wanted to tell him about my own covert operation.  My new probably not a coincidental finding. Possibly right, but probably wrong, I lay down to silence.

  “Check out the article and let me know what you think Danny.  This time call me back or send an e-mail. Anything!”  Being very sensitive to people’s feelings, as I am, I detected a slight tone.  My last lack of reply had obviously been vaulted.  Rojer’s vault is the size of Fort Knox.

  Taking in a Rojer look of reprimand, I try to assure. “I will Rojer.” Pause for affect. “I promise.”  Then I try levity. “Homeland Security is going to put us on a list if you keep calling me with this kind of information.”

  “That’s not funny!  Those guys are serious!”  Levity wasted.

  “Just kidding!”  Short pause. “Rojer, when was the last time you got laid?”  This time he laughed and I joined him. But he didn’t answer my question. His laughter did make me feel better about his overall demeanor amidst… well with everything.

  “Alright then. Thanks Danny.” Rojer’s dumping of insecurity seemed at end. Then there was; “Oh yeah!  I may have… mentioned to Peter th
at I’d discussed this with you and that I’d sent you a copy of the document.”

  I asked, if it was an asking; “You may have?”

  Rojer; “What! He knows who you are. I just thought he should know.  I don’t know it seemed right at the time.  Was it you think it was?”

  “No worries Rojer.”  ‘No worries’, is a phrase I rarely use. From my lips to my ears it sounded clumsy. The slightest pause by Rojer told me it did so to Rojer as well.

  “Thanks again Danny.”

  “Yeah no problem Roj.  And I am serious… you know… the Homeland Security thing.”  I enjoyed a chuckle with what I thought wit.

  “You’re an ass Danny you know that don’t you.”  Rojer disappearing; “Call me!”  This time there could be no tactical retreat. I’d better call.

  Wanting to let the day’s events decompress, I closed up shop for the day.  Having more than enough to think about, I made an executive decision; Rojer’s linked article would wait till morning.  It would be good coffee material.  Surely, if I probe and print now, it will consume me all evening.  Pami didn’t deserve that, and I didn’t need it.

  Searching and finding my wife downstairs reading, I questioned; “What are our dinner plans?”

  Her reply was quick and long determined. “I’m not cooking so unless you-”

  “Pig-n-Out pulled pork sounds awesome!”  I sorta finished her thought. She smiled a victoriously satisfied smile and went back to ‘Tainted Love in Tahoe’.  Yeah it was one of those.

  With me headed to the kitchen she tossed one of those nowhere else to drop it phrases. “Don’t forget I’m off tomorrow and we have to go to the icky place.”  Oh yes… our weekly horror trip to the Icky Place.  The single largest collection of screaming children and obnoxious adults ever assembled in one retail location.  Come on men, you know where I’m talking about.  With not so subtle sarcasm I expressed my anticipation; “How could I forget. Honey!”

  Next morning, 7:00 a.m.

  “Doo, doo, cocka doodle doo!”  Did I mention that the angry rooster is dyslexic?  I copped a cheek, kissed another, let the day begin.  (Straight from Tainted Love in Tahoe. The words, not the actions.)

  My olfactory cilia detected fresh brewed Caribou Coffee. Caribou Coffee being a Colorado name-brand. We don’t make coffee out of Caribou. However, we do eat Rocky Mountain Oysters.

  I created the perfect cup of Joe; no sugar, easy on the cream, and just a dash of cinnamon.  It seems an oxymoron to call it Joe.  I packed it for travel and headed to Digitalville.  My quest; the Richmond Times Dispatch.

  After some maneuvering that would have made Tricky Dick proud, I linked my way to the story.  Spit out by my printer, I grab the article and head back down to my morning sup; coffee, onion bagel, chive cream cheese, and tasteless no sugar cereal.  If Freud ever coined a food description complex, I’m sure I have it.

  Our usual breakfast small-talk was in the air. The banter entered a pause and I seized the moment.  I began reading, making sure she could not read it.  No sense in waking a sleeping wife.

  ………

  ‘Jefferson Writes Again’

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  Can someone past, for one hundred and eighty three years, be trying to speak to us? Most say no.  Houdini promised to speak to us on Halloween. So far, not a peep from beyond.

  A mystery has been born at Monticello.  Shortly before Thanksgiving past, a hand written document appeared in Thomas Jefferson’s study.  This document was dated November 22, 2009. It held the signature name of Thomas Jefferson.

  This letter, its contents, and its origin, seem to be a closely guarded secret.  All parties that may know of its existence are denying that knowledge.

  All requests for information were brushed aside by both the Curator at Monticello and by Peter Henderson. Mr. Henderson is the Chairman of the Foundation.  The curator at Monticello, Rojer Ousten, was asked for comment. None was given.

  Virginia, with such a historical heritage, should its citizens not be afforded the truth. A hoax, or from beyond? It seems that most Virginians and Americans would like to know; is Thomas Jefferson writing us again?

  ………

  Reading complete and dwelling begun, I push from the table, gather my feet under me and say; “That’s it!  I got it!”  Not so carefully I place my dishes into the dishwasher and start for the upstairs.

  In a fading voice I hear; “What’s it?  Oh no!”  Responding to her question that I am certain she knows the answer to: “I got it.  I have to throw-”

  “Some digis into the computer.” Pami finishes my sentence.  Damn! I need some new material.

  Pami now knows that this means one thing to her; no Icky Place for me.  Me continuing up the stairs, she profanes softly to no one; “Son-of-a-bitch. To her thoughts silently; “I hate it when this happens!” To me loudly; “You did this on purpose.”

  Arriving on the Bridge, sitting at the Helm, Shields up, I engage the mouse. Word.doc, click; New, click; Save as, click; 5 Kings, 6 finger taps; OK, click. ‘5 Kings’ would be my new project.  That’s it! Percolating complete. Juan Valdez my guide, my mountain grown coffee was brewed.  Roger Waters, you didn’t let me down after all.

  Moments like this are few and fleeting. I was locked in for hours.

  ………

  5 Kings

  January 11, 11:17 a.m. local time. 

  Dadar East, in the City of Mumbai.

  Sonia YADEV leaves out the front door of her place of employment; a small Dravidian café.  YADEV is an Ethnic Dravidian Hindu living in Dadar east, Mumbai.  She slings a small book bag over her-

  ………

  The Debate would have to wait.  This felt right. My fingers were flying and the words were flowing.  No Icky Place for me.

  The magnetic field holding my iron fingers to the keyboard had to be broken.  Against all sense of righteousness at that exact moment, I had to do that moment wrong.  I’d made an unbreakable promise to Rojer that I would call him. If not now, when?  When, 8-10 hours from now would have to be the answer.

  My problem was that I knew Rojer would not be accepting of another promise broken.  Memory inspired, I heard Rojer tell me how I could keep my vow to him while not interrupting my current word surge.  E-mail; he had offered that option. Probably not his first choice, but he had left it mine and I was taking it.

  ………

  Rojer;

  I read the article.  Seems mostly harmless.  I use to know an editor there; let me make a call, I’ll do some investigating.  I will get back to you.

  Danny

  ………

  No consoling words or solutions, but I felt that would hold him; temporarily.  I was giving birth and needed to work through the contractions. When the umbilical cord is cut, I’d make the call.

  10:33 a.m.

  The back door closed with an emphasis of Pami’s state of annoyance with me.  The impending marital discomfort caused my MOJO to fade.  Time to call an Editor.

  Self-disappointment inflicted my psyche as I was unable to find the information that I had had; and still should had had but didn’t.  An obvious breakdown in my filing system.

  “Time wasted, is time lost.”

  Upon entering the Dispatch’s site I find a phone number that will surely lead me into automated Hell. I dialed and connected. The voice coming from no one greeted me. “Thank you for calling the Virginia Times Dispatch-” After several options given me I select the number 4; an Editor’s directory.  Managing Editor, number 7, seemed the best selection. “This is the voice mailbox of the Managing Editor.  Please leave a message and I will return a call if necessary.  Thank you.”

  I boxed my mail; “Yes… this is Daniel Rengaw.  I am trying to get some information on a story.  The story is titled Jefferson Writes Again.  I believe it was in Saturday’s edition. Back page of the first section.”  I left my phone number. I directed to my web site;
my over self-important attempt at influencing a return call.  I closed my deposit; “I would appreciate a return call.  Thank you.  Again, this is Doctor Daniel Rengaw.” The ‘Doctor’, a late addition and again over self-worth.      

  Several hours later.

  My cell rings a generic ring tone. Screening, I recognize the area code as Richmond Virginia.  “This is Mr. Rengaw.”

  “Mr. Rengaw my name is Frank Batche. I am returning your call to the Virginia Times Dispatch.  How can I help you?”

  “Oh good… I appreciate you calling back. I have just a couple of questions.  Questions about the article. Jefferson Writes Again.  Are you familiar with it?”

  “I am.”

  “Good!  First I noticed that it was unsigned.”

  “That is correct it was an anonymous submission.”

  I inquired; “Did the author ask to be anonymous or was it left unsigned?”

  Frank replied; “That is correct.” My silence told him that I was trying to de-code. “It was not signed. We don’t know who wrote it. Sorry.” Frank’s ‘sorry’ was quite ambiguous.

  “Pardon me for my ignorance Mr. Batche, but is it common practice for the Dispatch to print an unsigned document?”

  “It is unusual. However we did our due diligence.”

  “Due diligence?” I asked. “Can I ask what you mean by that?”

  “We verified, with what we consider reliable sources, that indeed the document does exist.”  His word seemed an unusual choice to me.

  I blurted out; “Exist?  I’m sorry, verified by whom?”

  “We have a reliable source.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Yes I did. Anyways… one who wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “Of course!”  I said this in my best professional sarcastic tone.  I continued; “Mr. Batche the article states that the Dispatch tried to contact the curator at Monticello. Is that true?”

  “Yes it is and unfortunately we were unable to get collaborating information from him.”

  I was in full interrogation mode. “Is it true that you also called on Peter Henderson?”

  “Yes we did and there was no reply from his office either.”  ‘We’ clanked in my ears very off-key. Set the hook Rengaw.

  “Mr. Batche, here is my problem. I personally know Rojer Ousten-”

  “Who?”  He interrupted. Reel him in Daniel.

  “Rojer Ousten. The curator at Monticello.”

  He stumbled back with; “Oh yes. Mr. Ousten.” It was less than weak.

  “Mr. Batche, he told me just hours ago that no one from your paper contacted him.  He also said no one from the Dispatch had contacted the foundation chairman’s office.  Why would he say that Mr. Batche?”  No reply.  “Can you tell me why that is?”  Silence. Then the wonder thought tapped my shoulder. “Mr. Batche?  Hello?  Mr. Batche are you there?”  Damn! Cellphones, gotta love-em.  I redialed Mr. Batche’s number as it appeared on my phone.  I again got a voice that wasn’t there.

  “If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”  What? Again I tried. “If you would like to…” What the hell?  I dialed the previous site number.  “Thank you for calling…” Oh hell no I’m not going through that again. I dial zero hoping to get a breathing person.  My patience is waning as I find human.

  “This is Troy, how may I help you?”

  “Yes! Troy!” My words were hard and quick. I feared Troy may go away. “Troy could I please speak with Frank Batche.”

  “One moment please.”

  “Thank you.” My thank you I tried to ease a little less… a little less anything. Maybe creepy distracted might work.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes Troy.”

  “Do you know which department Mr. Batche work’s in?”

  “I’m not sure.” I memory-pushed through Frank’s words. “He didn’t say.  I assumed he was from the Managing Editor’s office.”

  “One moment please.” A short hold and Troy came back. “Sir it does not appear that we have a Frank Batche working here.”

  Probably more angry than confused, I asked; “Okay can I speak with the Managing Editor then?  Oh and what is his name by the way?”

  “His name is Dan Sheridan. By the way.” Oh… a little barely noticeable phone-person snotty. “I will send you to his voice mail.”

  “No my name is Doctor Daniel Rengaw and I am a writer and I wish to speak with Mr. Sheridan please.” My demand wasted only a single breath. A little caller-person snotty.

  “One moment Doctor, Rengaw.” Again a little phone-person- Never mind.

  Several head exploding hold music minutes later. “Doctor Rengaw this is Dan Sheridan. Can I help you?”

  I had lost all of my dilly-dally time. “Mr. Sheridan I spoke to Frank Batche just a few minutes ago. He represented himself as from your paper are you familiar with Mr. Batche?”  I heard my tone and didn’t care. It was the lack of dilly.

  “No I don’t think I do. But we of course have many writers that submit to us.”

  “No no no he spoke with management authority.” Dally?

  I’m pretty sure that Mr. Sheridan got on the phone knowing that he would say at some point what he said next. “I’m sorry Mr. Rengaw but I believe that this Mr. Batche may have misled you.”

  “Misled?” I asked questioning myself only. I was getting more miffed but still wanted to steer the conversation. “Mr. Sheridan may I ask you a few questions?” Dan didn’t like the direction I was taking.

  “Doctor Rengaw are you a journalist?”

  “No I am a writer. Not a journalist.”  That was intended to sting.  “I’ve published several non-fiction books.”

  “Good for you Doctor.”  Intended to sting back.  He wants to play. He continued; “I’m sorry but I’ am not familiar with your work Doctor Rengaw.”

  Regrouping, I thought I understood that I needed to be gentler. “Mr. Sheridan, I am calling in reference to an article that ran last weekend. It was titled Jefferson Writes Again.  Are you familiar with it sir?”

  “Yes, yes I am.”  His tone was uncomfortable. This threw gentler into a crevasse. Could I push a button?

  “Daniel... May I call you Daniel?”

  “No! I prefer Dan. My name is Dan.”

  “Dan there seems to be some mystery attached to this article.”

  “Mystery? Really?  What mystery would that be?”  One word questions from him. All good interrogators know that means guilt.  Kit Glove time again.

  “Mr. Sheridan, look, I am not a journalist seeking a story. I promise this is all off of the record.  None of your statements will appear in any form of print.”

  “Doctor Rengaw, I will answer your questions, to a point, if I can.”

  To the point I went; “Who was the author?”

  “That is confidential.”

  “Oh come on Dan work with me here.”

  “Doctor Rengaw, I am not sure why, but I am going to trust you.  However, if anything I say gets to the press, our lawyers will be contacting you.  Do we have an understanding?” Not sure I liked the threat, but I’d gotten here.

  “Yes Dan we do.”

  As if the water-boarding had worked, his secret knowledge of Jefferson Writes Again was passed on.  Not sure I would have shared with the likes of me, but he did and I’d take it.

  He began his trusting. “The article you are referring to… was… how do I say this? I guess using your own words would be best; a mystery.  It was there and it shouldn’t have been.  It just appeared in print as well as on line.  I know that this sounds like a large helping of crap from an editor, but it’s true and it’s unexplainable.  We have no idea how it got in the paper. Got on line.”  His pause was waiting for my reaction.

  “Go on Mr. Sheridan.”

  He pulled an audible breath and continued; “My technical team is stumped.  We don’t know. As I’m su
re you know all major newspapers are completely digital today. We can’t find a single digital footprint.  Nothing that shows this document was ever input into our system.  We have done a thorough technical troubleshoot and we are baffled.  Our digital layout and all the time stamps associated say it isn’t there.  Yet it is there. Or it was.  We pulled it off our website earlier today.” He again paused. “Doctor Rengaw, as the Managing Editor, I am embarrassed to admit this has happened. I can’t explain any of it.”

  I stated with little sincerity; “I’m sure you are embarrassed. However I don’t think embarrassment is your biggest problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  I answered with what I thought too obvious. “I imagine you will be hearing from Peter Henderson; Chairman of the Foundation.”

  “Already have.” His rebuff was quick. “Earlier this morning.”

  “I imagine he was not very happy.” My assumption. Mr. Sheridan regained guarded protection.

  “I can’t discuss our conversation. But we did work through all issues.”  I wondered how all the issues were worked through.

  My questions on my mental list were all answered. “Mr. Sheridan I appreciate your honesty and your time.  Thank you.”

  Dan closed with; “I hope you are a man of your word.”  His words were coated in a thin layer of executive management speak.

  “Goodbye Mr. Sheridan.”  My goodbye was said intended short. I thought I’d leave him with the slightest doubt of my intentions.

  Diagnosing our conversation, my thoughts went to his sincerity. Had I played him? Had he played me? Probably it was a helping of each.

  A mystery; one that seemed to surround The Document and its adjoined happenings.  Mysteries seem to be accumulating.  The joke that at first seemed to be on Rojer, was now waving levity onto my shore.  The ebb of the tide is pooling.  First The Document trickled in. Then there was The Document soaked with SDW.  Then the waves brought in Patrick Thomas, and his hand written 68 page document adorned with a second SDW.  Now, the waves on top of the high tide, are filling the flood planes with the Frank Batche disappearing phone call. And lastly the ensuing conversation with Mr. Sheridan.  Should I fear a storm surge?  Could this surge come from Richmond Virginia?

  Patrick Thomas’ envelope, I recall was from Virginia. An address unfamiliar to me.  No warning bell tolled from the Old North Church of my mind.

  Still confident in my filing system, I searched for the envelope.  Firing up my Search Engine of memory, it went through: ‘Blogs’; ‘Dates’; ‘January’; ‘Around the 18th’.  My fingertips ran atop folders for the 16th, 17th, 18th, and stopped on the 19th. A large manila envelope. Bingo!  Filing system still functional. Never a doubt.

  Pulling the envelope and reading the return address, I find that I was wrong. It was not from Richmond. Alarmingly it was from Charlottesville Virginia.  How could the bell not have tolled for thee?  Charlottesville Virginia; Monticello; hello?

  ………

  Patrick Thomas

  746, Sunny Dell way

  Charlottesville, Va.

  ………

  Storm surge inbound. A body in motion tends to stay in motion.  Next Greg Tillman will surely call. His words will be; “It is 100 % certain that Thomas Jefferson wrote The Document.”

  It was my turn to come clean; my water-board moment. His tail would head into a spin, but Rojer needed to know all. Whether it was just me wanting to play in the 21st century, or me thinking this information would be best received amongst pixels, I rotary phone tone rang his laptop.

  Nearly camouflaged within a wood plank wall, a Louisiana Purchase map slowly finds my recognition. Cast Iron, black, an eagle flies on its right. Thirteen circled stars, a small colonial flag on the other. Not at his desk is Rojer. I whistle. I don’t know why. Only Mervin twitches his ears. “Rojer.” Louder; “Rojer!” I wait. Not long. I know I won’t. A flash of a shadow scrawls across the wall. “Bonehead!” I call my friend.

  Pushing away from the microphone; “What, umm, what? Danny?” Each word gets clearer and louder as he figures out I’m in his magic box. Rojer’s face slides down into view. A real smile on his face. “Danny!  What’s up? Glad to see you.” Suddenly he remembers. Rojer much more placid; “I’m glad to see that you found some time to get back with me.  I hope I’m not preventing a nap.”

  I counter; “Look Dip-shit I work for a living just like you.”

  “Just like me?” He laughs brief and continues. “You gotta be kidding me. You… you listen to music for a living.”  Rojer follows with a red-neck attempt to further patronize my work. “Even a blind hog can root around in the mud and find an acorn once in a while.”

  “What the hell does that mean?  Look you gorilla your fingers won’t even fit on a keyboard.  You try writing! Write a complete sentence. Write your name. Anything!”  He sits back in his chair in a soft chuckle.

  “Danny I love ya man.”

  I search for the depth of his love. “If you love me why don’t you ever take me dancing?” Rojer’s laughter ends with a deep breath.

  “Danny did you make that phone call?  Is your investigation complete?” Emphasis on ‘investigation’. He indeed knows me.

  Way too softly, and unintentionally slouching back into my chair; “Yes I did.”

  Rojer; “Don’t like that at all.” I guess I paused. “Danny?”

  “Rojer I gotta… I have a story about water for you.”

  He shook his head slight and said; “Water?”

  “Never mind Rojer look I want you to listen to everything I have to say. Hear me out and then you can ask questions. I’m not trying to be an ass you just need to listen to me.”  I was hoping to keep it as abbreviated as possible. I already knew that as soon as I started I’d want out.

  I began my tale. Rambling on for at least fifteen minutes.  The Document; my covert action with the CBI;  Patrick Thomas’ document; SDW, twice; Charlottesville; Frank Batche; Dan Sheridan; I came clean.  Rojer sat patiently listening to every word.  This time I seemed to be the one on a tangent.

  Skirting the valley of mental breakdown, I finished my oral breakdown. Rojer stared at me in pause. He wanted to make sure I was completely finished. His continued pause told me it was more.

  “Damn Danny you sound like Officer Obie.  You know. Alice’s Restaurant. Arlo Guthrie. With the 27, 8 by 10 color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one describing the crime scene-”

  “Rojer!”

  “Sorry. I love that ballad. Listen to it every Thanksgiving.”

  “Rojer I need you to focus.” He was at Alice’s restaurant and was fighting a smile. I was confused. “Don’t you have anything else to say at… at all I just said?”  His continued stair seemed without stress.

  “I don’t really know what to say Danny.”  His calmness was… I was unprepared for it.

  “What do you mean you don’t know what to say. Weren’t you listening?  You really don’t know what to say?”

  “Yeah. I do.” Rojer leaned in. “Danny, when was the last time you got laid?”  Rojer almost fell out of his chair laughing his stupid burly laugh.  Still not with the pace of the conversation I did have to join him in accepting funny. But still fighting unprepared and perfect funny, my laughter also struggled. The tightness in my neck that I had started the conversation with, began to melt away. Rojer had made a funny. It was perfect.

  But his funny did not make my wonder any less active. “Rojer aren’t you gonna freak out about this?  I’m kind of confused. Kind of surprised. Your calmness-”

  Rojer interrupted; “No.  Look… all of this is bizarre for sure. But I’m good. It’s all okay Danny. Peter’s not pissed anymore.  In fact I just got off the phone with him and he somehow seemed pleased with the newspaper article.  You know. The any publicity is good publicity sort of thing.  I don’t know w
hat he’s thinking. All I know is that he’s okay with it.  He told me to answer all inquiries I might get. Journalists, news stations, anyone.  As long as he is okay with it so am I.”

  Slightly accepting his acceptance, I tried for solace. “Good! I’m glad you’re alright.  You sure you’re good?”

  “Yes Danny don’t worry about me.  Although I do want to know when you hear from the CBI.  Do you know when that might be?”

  “I’m thinking in about ten days but I don’t know that.”

  “Keep me posted Danny and I’ll do the same.” Rojer was swirling thought. “Personally Danny, I’m expecting a call from Eisenhower any minute.”  He laughed at himself. Rojer made another funny.

  “Okay Rojer I’ll let you know what happens.  I really am glad you are okay with all this.”

  “Danny have a stiff drink…  Oh that’s right you don’t do that anymore.”   A third funny; unheard of. 

  “See you Rojer.”

  “See ya buddy!”

  Overwhelmed by his levity, I sat staring at a Rojer-less screen. I was pleased, but more I was surprised. The conversation that I feared, did not happen.

  Time for that metaphorical stiff drink. My tonic of choice is immersing into The 5 Kings. This of course meant Classic Rock. This would be my buzz. At least until the CBI called Last Round.

   

    

  ‘The 5 Kings.’ 

  February 1

  7:36 a.m., Pami’s cell phone rings.  “Hello...  Hello Greg...  I’m fine, how are you… Tomorrow would be fine…  Thanks Greg, I appreciate you doing this for me…  Okay…  That sounds great…  Goodbye.”

  Hanging up, she turns to me with a look that did not guide me to her thoughts.  “You have an appointment with Greg tomorrow. One o’clock.”   Understanding but not wanting to, I wasted perfectly good air.

  “I do? He asked for me?”

  With a look that did guide me, she over sarcasm’d; “Yeah… right!  I have work tomorrow so you’ll have to go.”

  Knowing the answer, I still asked; “Is he expecting you?”  Same look.

  “Yes.”

  I know that I had a smirk when I said; “So… I guess I get to disappoint him.”  Disgusted that she had allowed herself a part of this, not wanting to any longer in what was now this, she turns silent and heads to anything but this.

  Coffee, breakfast, and chuckit done, it is time for Re-read day.  After several weeks of logging long computer time, and listening to a lot of music, it’s time to re-read all of the digis that I’ve clicked upon The 5 Kings. Generally I dislike re-read day. My words once read don’t seem nearly as wonderful as when my fingers plucked them from my mind. It’s disappointment that I’ve learned to work through. I tell others that I never get Writer’s Doubt. That telling earns me another day in purgatory.

  Having printed out the first section of the manuscript the night before, I grab my work and assume the position. Rojer’s words tease my emotions. This is what he means. With no music I prove his disproval wrong. A re-read is always done without distraction.

  ………

  January 16, 11:17 a.m.  Local time.

  Dadar East, in the City of Mumbai.

  Sonia YADEV leaves out the front door of her place of employment; a small Dravidian café.  YADEV is an Ethnic Dravidian Hindu living in Dadar east Mumbai.  She slings a small book bag over her shoulder and jumps onto her bicycle.  She pedals down the narrow dirt street; carefully avoiding vendors and live animals.  Pedaling down almost any street in Mumbai is always flirting with collision.  There is no traffic control; traffic control includes pedestrians. Right of way, the informal rule of the law, always goes to the biggest vehicle. It’s not written law, more of a kinetic law.

  Safely veering in and out over six blocks, Sonia enters a fruit and grain store.   Leaving her bike outside she quickly walks through the store. With haste she traverses the person packed shop and quickly exits the back door into a more settled and empty alley. Nearly a ritual now as she has done this many times before.

  Looking first left then right, she feels that she is alone.  With a steady gate she moves. But she’s keen to keep her pace natural. After ten minutes she cuts between buildings and comes out into the middle of an open-air-market.  Seemingly against a tide of people, YADEV heads north. A few blocks later she finds a small industrial building. Entering, Sonia takes the stairs to the second floor.  Heading down a narrow hallway she passes several offices.  She stops at a door. The white glass etched sign reads: Deccan Plateau Bauxite mining company.  Upon entering the small dusty and dark room she quickly eyes the room.

  Sonia let out a deep breath. She was safe.  There were two men sitting at separate desks.  She recognized them. They were supposed to be there.  She nods to one. He stands and greets her with a respectful kiss on the cheek.  Without saying a word he and she slip into a small box filled storage room.  The other man locks the front door and turns one of the small lamps off; making the room even darker.  It is noon in Mumbai. As for most towns in India, the noon hour is for reflection and prayer.  Locking the front door was very normal.

  The man looks to Sonia. She takes the book bag from her shoulder and retrieves a book from within.  It was a leather bound book titled Mohandas GANDHI.  The man quickly moves several boxes and removes several planks of wood from the back wall. These reveal an eight-foot by six-foot room.  Inside the room hangs a single low wattage bulb over a small desk.  On the desk there is an electronic device that resembles a combination fax machine, keyboard, and communication device.  There are two small lights; one green and the other red. The green light is blinking.  At the end of a short antenna there is a small silver disk. Attached to the machine is a small NCR printer. Neither is attached electrically to an outlet. Neither have communication cables. All are stand alone.  It did not look state of art, but it worked.

  Sonia opening the book takes from within a small piece of paper. Her accomplice pulls it from her quick and careful. From within the desk’s locked drawer he withdraws two notebooks. They are grade school black and white marbled.  Efficiently slow of pace he begins typing; using one of the notebooks as a reference.   To Sonia, the time it took him was nervously far too long.  He smiled and nodded to her when he was finished.  As smoothly as Sonia entered, she exited the Deccan Plateau Bauxite mining company.

  Not exactly 21st century spy stuff imaginative, the man burnt and dropped Sonia’s paper into a commode. Same careful, same controlled, Sonia retraced her path and found her bike where it had been left.

  Inauguration day; January 20, 2009.

  Washington D.C.

  “I believe that our future will be a mix of global integration and world power.   We should look back on our history and let our successes, as well as our failures, guide our growth.   We as a country and a people need to be the cornerstone of a global economy. A nation of world relationships. An earthly tolerant.  Let us not be afraid of people that wish to do us harm. We will fight fear with being ever strong. Thus we will fight for our way of life. Our way of life as defined by freedom.  You shall I know, never forget that you are gifted amongst the greatest country in the world. We shall do whatever it takes to perpetuate this for generations endless. Thank you. God bless the United States of America.”

  This is how the newly elected 44th President of the United States, Thomas Jackson Samuel, closed his inaugural speech.  Thomas Samuel was swept into office by disenchanted voters that felt their government had lied to them.  The country was looking for guidance from its government. The voters wanted to once again hold sacred their vote. The people wanted the truth from their President. The most truth that any President can.

  Be it rationalizing naiveté, or be it ever hopeful, the nation wanted to believe in him. Thomas Samuel, we were pining to trust. This is how Thomas Samuel became the leader of the most powerful country in the world.


  Thomas Jackson Samuel, 53 years of age, was born in Goldsboro North Carolina. His Father was Lt Colonel Isaac Samuel; militarily nicknamed The Bull. His Mother was Lilly Alicia Samuel; formerly Lilly Linhorn of Savannah Georgia.  At the time of Thomas’ birth, Colonel Samuel was an old B29 pilot. He was currently flying a desk.  A patriot that loved his country and gave all to it.  His assignment at Seymour Johnson Air Force base was the logistic implementation of B52’s; phasing out his beloved B29s.  A job he took seriously and abhorred nostalgically. By his own doings he was creeping towards history. Simply yet another tiny spot on an ever sliding timeline. He’d never thought about, nor was he prepared to be archived into a wall-less warehouse.

  The new president is not a flamboyant man. He does not light up a room upon entering.  However, he does bring a calming ambiance to most gatherings.  At six feet two inches tall, with 205 well placed pounds, he can intimidate men and does enamor women.  His Southern and Midwest upbringing has favored him with a gentlemanly charm. Will Rodgers never met a man he didn’t like. Thomas Samuel never met a man that wasn’t family. This glowing slice of his being endeared him to his constituents.

  In 1974 Thomas Samuel graduated from Kalamazoo Central High School. He’d been living in Michigan since The Bull officially became a spot on that line in 1960. Thomas graduating in the top 10% of his class enabled him to get a partial scholarship to Northwestern University. The rest of his tuition was apparently paid through military grants and other private funding.  Evanston Illinois was the beginning.

  After four years Thomas received an undergraduate degree in Learning and Organizational Change.  He was not a great student but did graduate with a 3.46 GPA.  Oh yes… he also became a loyal Chicago Cub fan.

  Thomas then went on to get a law degree from the University of Michigan.  He worked his way through law school, but much of his tuition was paid for by acquaintances and industrial leaders.  He received a large grant from the Texon Oil Company.  In return for the grant he performed two internships with Texon. Upon graduating he was asked to consider permanent employment with Texon.  Thomas did not accept. However, he’d made some powerful friends.

  While at Michigan Thomas met Cynthia Cooper; whom he would soon marry.  Cynthia was a reserved woman. She never appeared opinionated and always deferred to Thomas.  A perfect politician’s wife.

  Thomas and Cynthia moved to Grand Rapids Michigan and bought a too cute split level home. Their lives together had begun. Thomas took a job with a small law firm. It wasn’t a lucrative position, but to him it was inspiring. He was always surrounded by influential people. But time never seemed to be his own; thus Cynthia was his only close personal friend. Thomas had more mentors than he wanted to. But he wasn’t really sure if he felt that way. It had been that way for most of Thomas’ life.  He wasn’t a socialite, yet he continually was presented as one. Those that helped him to grow up and insured his education were endlessly adding presenting him air to his atmosphere. Thomas, Thomas’ atmosphere, built of openness, honesty, and intellect, made him easy to breathe in. It also made him easy to vote for.

  Soon people were clamoring to get him into politics. In 1981 he was elected Kent County Tax Assessor.  Four years later he ran for a seat in the Kent county Legislation. He narrowly won.  In 1988 he was easily elected to the State Senate. Thomas served two terms there.  Backed by industrial leaders, mainly the oil industry, he ran for one of Michigan’s Senate seats in Washington. Once again he won.  There Thomas has sat until now. His political career has never been rudely slapped by defeat.  He always seemed to have plenty of backing to get him to where he now is.  Now, is the President of the United States of America.

  Friday, January 21.

  Arriving for his second day of work, the first that any official work would be completed, he was greeted by his Senior Administrative Assistant.  “Good morning Mr. President.”  She said with a distinctive eastern European accent.  Though she being only a 2nd generation American, her accent floated upon near perfect English.

  “It’s a perfect morning Mrs. Adamski.”  Continuing to address him as she quickly followed into the Oval Office.

  “Here are your newspapers sir.  Your itinerary is there on your desk. The Chief of Staff would like to know when you have arrived.  Have you arrived sir?” The president smiled subtly.

  “I will be arriving in five minutes. I suspect Ted will be arriving in six.”

  “Very good Mr. President. Five it is then.  Coffee will be in shortly.”

  “Not today Betty I’ve already had my morning dose.  I am sure that the Chief of Staff won’t need any either.” Betty turned to leave. “However-”

  “Yes Mr. President.” She looked back.

  “When I meet with General Gifford this afternoon please make sure we have plenty of coffee.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That big bear likes a good cup of Mud.” The President inner chuckled at the General’s term for coffee.

  Six minutes and thirteen seconds later, there was a knock on the door.  “Chief of Staff Wilson is here sir.”

  “Thanks Mrs. Adamski.” Thomas mumbles; “He must have gotten lost.”  Thomas Samuel did have a good sense of humor. Although not all were comfortable by his ease with humor.

  “Yes Mr. President. Will there be anything else?”

  “Mrs. Adamski… would it be alright with you if I called you Betty? You know… privately. And I’d like you to call me Thomas.”

  “Sir you can call me anything you’d like. But…” She hesitated. “You will always have to be Mr. President or Sir.”

  “I see,” the president said softly. The pause was a little uncomfortable. “Thank you Mrs. Adamski please let Ted in.” Again he mumbled; “He’s probably grinding his teeth.”

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “Nothing nothing thank you Betty.”

  The levee breached; Ted T Wilson pours into the Oval Office.  The President first met Ted when he hired him to run his campaign for the Michigan State Senate.  As the President had predicted, Mr. Wilson did not need coffee. He was very much energized.  A good cup of coffee would only have been wasted on him.

  Ted was always wound very tight. The Energizer Bunny would have been embarrassed.  He was not very tall at five foot nine and half that around.  Yet Ted was a domineering figure. He had the stamina of an athlete.  Ted was a master of conversation and rarely did he not control one. There had been more than several times that the President had needed to reel Ted in.

  Thomas loved Ted’s energy, organizational skills, and knowledge.  The President was known to tell Ted jokingly; “You have more useless information in your head than anyone I know.”  But the truth be told, Ted was brilliant.  The President had infinite confidence in him and trusted him explicitly.

  Ted swiftly moved across the floor and extended his hand.  “Good morning Mr. President.” The President flinched slightly aside from the oncoming Ted. Ted had a fast gate that always looked like he was walking downhill.  You weren’t sure if he was going to stop before reaching you.

  “Ted it’s good to see you.  I want to apologize for not meeting with you over the past several days.   Have a seat and let’s go over today’s Itinerary.”

  Ted began the conversation; “Mr. President we have several must do appointments over the next three days.  You have to meet with CIA director Armstrong tomorrow at 2:00, the NSA on Saturday at 8:00, and the Secretaries of the services on Sunday at 11:00.   All three of these briefings are for you only. ‘Need to knows’. Therefore I won’t be attending.  The rest of the week are meet and greets.  Of course every congressman on the Hill thinks they need to meet with you immediately.” Thomas smirked and said; “Not all I’m sure.” Ted never slowed and added; “We will put them all off until next week.” Then he did slow awkwardly. “Unless there is someone you wish to see sooner Mr. President.” Very unlike Thomas, a chill of the moment overtook
him momentarily.

  “That’s fine. That’s fine Ted.” He went back to what he thought a president should be. “I am looking forward to meeting with General Gifford this afternoon. Please be here for that Ted.”

  “Yes sir.  Also…” Ted seemed to be jokingly adding; “On Monday, the Secret Service will be here with your double.  I guess they want you to meet your long lost twin.”  Both men smiled as the President turned to his large maple desk.  The same desk that President Eisenhower had used. It had been dusted off and was newly arrived from the Smithsonian.  Thomas was a great fan of the 34th President. He begged the Smithsonian to lend it out.

  Picking up a newspaper the President inquired; “Ted have you seen today’s Post?  There is a rather interesting article about the proposed Texon purchase of rights to millions of barrels of oil from a company in the Ukraine.  Have you seen this?”

  “Yes Thomas I have.”  The President jerked down the paper and hard stared Ted. Ted didn’t understand the glaring. He squirmed slight as he’d missed Thomas’ first-name play. Thomas smiled and Ted picked up on the game.

  Both enjoyed the light moment; the President more than Ted. It passed and the President went back to president stuff. “What do you know about this?”  Referring back to the article.

  Ted gave his knowing; “I believe that the COO of Texon, Ben Dirkins, wants to purchase the rights to 14 billion barrels of oil which are still in the ground.  The company, I believe is called Tapanan Oil.  Apparently they are not very solvent and can’t profitably get it out of the ground and to a refinery.  So I believe that Tapanan wants Texon to harvest it and refine it.  In return, Texon can purchase the crude at a lower than market price.  I don’t have more details but I will see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks Ted. I will see you later when the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff gets here.”  Ted Wilson leaves the office a little slower than he’d come in; perhaps a little disappointed that he was being sent away without a single international policy being changed.

  “Mrs. Adamski… can you please get me Ben Dirkins the COO of Texon on the phone please.   Also can you set up an appointment with Commissioner Sam Holden of the National Commission on Energy.  A phone conversation may be best; I’d like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Adamski’s voice returns over what use to be called an intercom; “Mr. President the Vice President called and would like to meet with you soon.”

  “Send him to Mr. Wilson.  The Chief of Staff can take care of him for now.”

  Forty two minutes later. Mrs. Adamski; “Ben Dirkins is holding on line two Sir.”

  “Thank you.” The president is quick to push and pick up.  “Ben my old friend how are you?” The President’s greeting was a glad sincere.

  “A little tired from yesterday’s festivities. I’m afraid time is catching up with me Tom.  Excuse me… Mr. President!  Damn, that sure rolls off my tongue.  What do I owe this pleasure Tom?”

  “Ben, in today’s Post, in fact all across the AP wire, I was surprised to see an article about Texon purchasing oil rights in the Ukraine.” The President paused. After no reply by Dirkins he continued. “Do you think it wise to let this out so soon?”

  “Yes Mr. President we do. Indeed the announcement came sooner than we would have liked. However, it was determined that it needed to be released at this time.”

  “Very well Ben.” Again Thomas paused.

  “Is there anything else Tom.” Mr. Dirkins’ tone was well chosen.

  The President; “Ben let me know if I can help with anything.”

  Ben softer; “I will Tom. And please give my regards to the Vice President.”

  “I will Ben. I’ll speak with you soon Ben.”

  “Goodbye Mr. President.” The line toned dead.

  COO Ben Dirkins and Vice President Howard Cole were old friends.  They’d been roommates at Cambridge University while attending Downing College.

  Howard Cole was chosen by the President to be his running mate for several reasons.  One reason was at the urging of Ben.  Ben referred to Cole as the second coming of Dan Quayle.  Dirkins felt that few would object to Howard Cole.  The Vice President was one of the least mistrusted, least powerful, and least influential men in Washington.  Cole had no extremist ideology, he never wielded power nor did he want to.  Thomas had to talk the four time Congressman from New Mexico into accepting the nomination. Thomas thought him more Truman and less Quayle.

  Howard Cole graduated from Cambridge and then spent three full years traveling Europe before returning to the United States to start his successful political career. His unspectacular political career.

  The president felt that his choice of running mate should be a more flamboyant man; possibly to offset his own personality flaws.  But Dirkins convinced Thomas that Cole would be his running mate.  Like much of Ben’s advice, it was a winner.

  At 1:49 Ted Wilson entered the outer office of the oval office.   He looked around like he was sizing up the room. Ted’s zone of comfort included knowing his surroundings.  After several awkward seconds he addresses a woman whom he does not know.

  “Is Mrs. Adamski in?”

  “She is out of the office at the moment.  Mr. Wilson the President is expecting you.  You may go in Sir.”

  “Thank you Ms.-”

  “It’s Littler. Martha Littler.”

  “Thank you Ms. Littler.”   He assumes that she is a Miss because of her young age and lack of a wedding band.  The chief of Staff thumps a single time and enters the Oval office.

  The president is on the phone. He smiles at Ted and pulls him in with quick waves.  Ted walks to a cupboard and pours himself a cup of coffee.  Ted stares to the south through three large arched windows behind the president’s desk.  He can’t believe where he is and what he is doing where he is.  He looks around the room; trying to get oriented.  At the north end of the room there is a large fireplace.  The oval room hangs four doors. The west door opens to a private study and dining room.  The east door looks out onto the Rose Garden.  The northwest door opens to the main corridor of the west wing.  The northeast door opens to Mrs. Adamski’s office.

  “Thank you for that update Director Armstrong.  I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow.  Yes I will. And thank you for the heads-up.  Yes. Goodbye.” The President hangs up the phone and swivels in his chair.  “I look forward to the spring when we can enjoy that garden fully.  Thanks for being prompt Ted. As you always are.”

  “That was Director Armstrong. He called to confirm tomorrow’s meeting.  Also… he mentioned… well more than mentioned, that there was a new development out of Asia. It seemed that he felt he needed to share it with me sooner than tomorrow.  I would like you to be at that meeting.” The President rose and stepped up to Ted. “Ted I need to make something clear. I want you to understand that there will not be many meetings that you will be excluded from.  I want you to know all that I do.  Unfortunately as far as I am concerned, there will be times that you will be excluded. Neither my wish nor my choice.”  The President wanted to make sure that Ted knew of his confidence in him. As well as how much he was going to rely upon him.

  “Ted the General will be here soon what can you tell me about him? Other than that he can’t ever get enough coffee.”

  Ted not knowing of the General’s coffee addiction chuckles awkwardly and reaches into his coat pocket.  He pulls out a small note pad and starts to read.  “Thomas Alexander Gifford is a West Point graduate; third in the class of 1961.  He served four tours in Vietnam.  In 1969 as a Major, he was sent to the Pentagon and joined the War Planning staff.  He was promoted to General in 1975. He became the Commander of the Army in Europe in 1985.  In 1991 he was promoted to Chief of Staff Army.  Then in 2000 he was promoted to four star and became the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff.  As a whole he seems to be an excellent strategist and a fine politician.”

 
The President quips; “Most four stars are great politicians.  Generals and politicians are one in the same; one uses weapons to achieve their means, the other uses power.”

  Sudden, three quick knocks on the door. Without pause the door swiftly swings open. In strides Four Star General Thomas Alexander Gifford.  Betty peers around the large man with her hands in the air. She is wearing a frustrated and apologetic face.  Two steps in and his heels over-noticeably come together. “Mr. President.”  The General salutes a General’s salute. The sloppy type that all first day boot camp recruits have. With each new star, the salute gets one degree sloppier. Unless of course they are going to be on television. Heading slowly towards the President the General greets his only Commander and Chief; “It is nice to meet you Mr. President”

  Mr. Wilson quickly moves both literally and knowledgably to address the General.  “General. I am Chief of Staff Ted Wilson.”  It instantly becomes a stiff starched White Collar standoff. It ticked quickest towards more than just a few seconds. The President jumps to both literally and powerfully of office save Ted. His Chief of Staff who seems to be slowly crumbling before the powerful man.  A Ted shrinking that the President had rarely seen.

  The President; “General I have been looking forward to meeting you. I loved your book The Invincible.”  The General smiles slight and proud.

  Ted volleys back with a futile effort to lessen the General. “General… I’m sorry… I’ve not heard of that book.”

  The president; “It is a strategic look at the battles of General Patton. The most interesting part of that book was your assertion that Patton’s push up from southern France could have cost the Allies the war in Europe.  You contend, that the Allies supply lines could have been stretched too thin.  If the German forces could have cut the supply lines, two thirds of allied forces on the continent would not have been reinforce-able.  This surely would have been a disaster for the allied forces in France.”

  A bit stiff, a lot protecting, the General; “Do you not agree with that analysis Mr. President?” The President waves an offering of chairs. Both sit.  The President pauses with intent. Intent to show that it could be a hearty debate. The General shuffles replies to either a yes, or a no, from the President.

  The President opens; “I think there was grave danger in what Patton did.  However, it was truly Eisenhower’s decision to move swiftly. Though in fact, Ike did slow Patton’s forces down long enough to insure that Montgomery’s forces in the north did receive the supplies that they needed.  I think that Eisenhower saw this as a great opportunity. An opportunity… a chance opening that needed to be taken.  If Patton’s forces were successful, if our supply lines were not severed, hundreds of thousands of lives and years of war could be averted.  Ike proved to be right.”

  The president, who’d been edged forward in his chair, now settled back. His face did not show it, but his mind beamed in a moment of satisfaction.  The General leaned up onto the arm of his chair but did not reply. His knowledge was asking him to reply, but his political savvy told him not to.

  Mrs. Adamski knocks and enters the room. The General’s lips thin. Thomas looks to Betty who is carrying a pot of fresh Mud. “General would you like a cup of coffee?” she asks.

  The General rises and smiles like a child on Easter morning. “I would love one. Black please.”  Betty pours him a cup and walks it to him. Quickly she exits; leaving the tray for the surely thirsty bear.

  After savoring a sip as if it is snifter of twenty year old Cognac, the General goes to work. “Mr. President I will be brief. I am aware that you have all volumes of National Military Infrastructure, Policies, and Status’.”  Ted’s mind defines: The NMIPS is a library of military policies, information, and statistics, written specifically for the Joint Chief of Staff.   “If you ever have any questions about information in them, please don’t hesitate to call me.” The General did indeed intend to be brier. “Mr. President.” He pauses to the President. “Mr. Wilson.” He stays on the President. He later looks back on this neglect as not politically savvy. “If you have nothing more for me I will take my leave of-”

  Quick Ted interrupts; “General I read the doctrine titled Organization of Terrorist Structure.  Chapter sixteen states: In the summer of 2007 there were 1112 known terrorist training facilities throughout the world.  These camps varied in size and averaged 56 personnel on location.  Then in the fall of 2008, it was believed that there were only 556 such camps.  The camps had become much larger in personnel, standing structures, and equipment.  Also, there had been a shift in geographic locations.  Camps seemed to be moving from jungle, desert, and other remote locations, to coastal areas.  Many of these were in Northern Africa, Central America, and South America.  Alarming don’t you think General?”

  The General was deeply listening to the Chief of Staff. The President waited only briefly for the General’s response. The General’s eyes were locked on Ted’s.

  “General, what is the JCS’s analysis of these logistical changes?” The President questioned.

  The General replies; “Mr. Wilson, I am impressed with your veracious reading of the NMIPS library.” The General’s attention turns. “Mr. President, the Joint Chief of Staff, along with the CIA and NSA, have had several analytical sessions on this very topic. It is indeed alarming.  On one hand there are fewer camps, on the other, it could mean a major shift in terrorist structure and philosophy.  Our intelligence believes that the different sects of terrorist organizations, are organizing together. Sort of strength in numbers thing.  Several of our intelligence organizations have been putting together an organizational tree over the past year.  Mr. President, it appears that terrorist cells and organizations that have never worked together in the past, are now trying to organize and become a global entity.  One giant terrorist structure with no boundaries.”

  The president stares deep in thought at the General.  “General I want all of the documentation that has been compiled on this matter.”

  “Yes Mr. President. You will have it Monday morning.”  The General again attempts an exit. “Mr. President… Mr. Wilson… nice meeting you both.” This time the General is cordial with Ted as well. “I will make sure you get all of our information on this matter.  Good day.”  No salute; which Ted felt odd.  This time Ted allows the General to leave.  The General’s aid has procured a to-go cup of coffee from Ms. Littler.  “Good man!” the General elates.

  The two settle. The President to his desk; Ted feet from the desk and looking at Thomas. “Ted you seem very concerned about these terrorist camps.”

  Ted, with that concern; “Are you not sir?”

  “I am.” He pauses for affect. “But let’s wait until we have gone over all of their data.  Let’s make sure that the intelligence organizations are not trying to justify their existence and budgets.”

  Ted questioning the President’s words; “Sir?”

  The President clarifies. “Sorry Ted. What I mean is that we need to verify that it is, what it is.”

  “Yes sir, I understand.”

  Ted begins gathering his things. “Hang on Ted please don’t leave quite yet.”  The President hits a button on the Siemens Open Space communication system.

  “Yes Mr. President”

  “Mrs. Adamski have you been able to reach Sam Holden today?”

  “He is available for the next 82 minutes,” she replies with Betty exactness.

  “Good. Could you please try to get him now.”

  “Yes sir”

  “Ted I would like you to be in on this phone call.”  The Siemens clicks.

  “Sir, Sam Holden the Commissioner of the National Commission on Energy is on line six”

  “Thanks”

  Betty jumps back in: “Mr. President… he seems very excited to be speaking with you. Very excited sir.”  The President snickers and engages the Open Space.

  “Mr. Holden?”

 
“Mr. President, it is… I mean it is a great a very great pleasure to speak with you. Sir… you are the president… Sorry. How can I help you sir?”

  The President tries to get him calmed down.  “Mr. Holden-”

  “It’s just that it’s such an honor-”

  “Mr. Holden!”  Thomas interjects again.

  Mr. Holden sounding calmer; “Sir?”

  Ted Jumps in; “Mr. Holden this is Ted Wilson. I am here with the President and we have you on speaker phone. Please, can we please have your attention?”

  “Yes sir. I’m sorry I’m just surprised to be speaking with you so soon.

  “Yes Mr. Holden that is completely understandable. Here now is the President.”  Slight pause while the two look at each other. Thomas smiles. Ted looks disgusted.

  “Mr. Holden.”

  “Yes Mr. President.”

  “I have a question to ask you.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “If an American oil company wanted to purchase a large amount of oil overseas, what procedures would they have to follow? You know… to make this all a legal transaction within the United States Federal Laws?”

  Like a switch on the back of Sam Holden’s head had been suddenly switched on, he replies succinctly. He was in his comfort zone. “Mr. President, per the federal law on oil registry, the only thing the company is required by law to do is go public 21 days prior to contractual obligation.”

  “Could you be clearer Mr. Holden?” the President asks.

  “Yes sir. Per federal law 714E, section 21b, any U.S. based oil company wishing to purchase oil rights of more than 1 million barrels of crude oil from a foreign country, must make public this information at least 21 days prior to closing any contract.”

  To Ted this simple-ness red-flagged bureaucratically impossible. He asks; “Is that it Mr. Holden?”

  “Yes sir.  Purchasing oil from foreign countries is loosely regulated.  It’s really quite easy. However, selling of crude oil to foreign countries is much more regulated. Much more.”  Mr. Holden is now in perfect Secretary speech. His words flow contextually perfect and easily toned.

  The president; “Mr. Holden I thank you for your time. Thanks you for the information.”

  The switch goes off again. “Mr. President, it has been a pleasure I mean for me although I hope you had some fun.  Well I don’t mean fun. When would the president have time for fun?  I mean I hope you have fun but not when meeting with leaders of other countries.  Although you could you know.  Foreign leaders and all…”  The president has turned from the speaker and is trying not to laugh into the open line.

  Ted; “Goodbye Mr. Holden. And indeed it has been fun Mr. Secretary.”  Ted disconnects the call.  The President erupts with laughter. Ted even slips a small smirk.

  Saturday January 22, 2:00 p.m.

  “Director Armstrong thanks for coming in. I don’t believe that we have ever met formally.”

  “No Mr. President I don’t believe we have.”  An obligatory hand-shake takes place. Because it is a first-meeting shake, both men emphasize length, strength, and motion; all that politically testosterone’d shit.

  A third party extends a hand to the President and tries to speak. The director is not ready for him to and slashes in. “Mr. President this is Isaac Tipton.  He is a Deputy Director of the highest security division at Langley Field.” The President picks up on the ‘Field’ historical reference. Field, as it once was called. Thomas understands the Director’s subtle smooze attempt. However, Thomas’s historical side is tickled by the Director’s word feather. The Director continues without pause. “You could say that he is the Mother of all librarians.”  The President looks into the Director’s eyes and lets out a small snicker.  The Director concludes the introduction. “Assistant Director Tipton will be briefing you today.”

  Although Mr. Tipton spoke C.I.A. Eloquent, the two and a half hour briefing seemed brutally long to the President.  The President was sure his time could have been spent better elsewhere.  Most information was already knowledge to him. All the new items such as Roswell, top secret military hardware, national security issues, and who really shot J.R., did not reveal anything startling.  He later would state to Ted that the meeting was two hours forever gone from his life. Apparently there was thirty minutes of worth.

  Time to bring Ted into the briefing. Thomas was sure that Ted was chomping at the bit and driving Betty crazy. “Mrs. Adamski could you please send in Ted.” The Director quietly spoke. The President added; “And the gentleman that came in with the Director as well.”  In came Ted and Special Agent Todd Winthrop.  Agent Tipton excuses himself in an almost military manner and exits the Oval Office.

  Director Armstrong points to the man who entered with Ted. “Mr. President this is agent Todd Winthrop. He is an analysis specialist. One of our best.”  Agent Winthrop reaches into a brown leather brief and pulls out a manila folder. Ink stamped in large red letters it reads: TOP SECRET.  Surprisingly to Ted, this seemed overly dramatic clandestine to Ted. He swallows hard a brief chuckle. The President glances at his Chief of Staff. The specialist hands the folder to the Director.

  “Please, everyone have a seat.”  The President directs them to several couches and over-stuffed chairs. The arrangement rings, thus highlighting a rug with a Presidential Seal embroidered upon it.

  Agent Winthrop does not immediately take his seat as he looks at length to the seal. Finally taking his seat to the left of the Director, he addressee the President. “Mr. President I see that the eagle’s head is pointed towards the arrows.” He briefly pauses. The Director glares at him. The President is intrigued. Winthrop continues; “Not at the olive branches. That is unusual. Rare!”

  The Chief of Staff; “Agent Winthrop do you know the significance of that?”

  The Specialist replies with a tone of knowledge; “War. Traditionally it means that the country is at war.”

  The President adds; “I believe that seal is the only one like it in Washington. It was left here by the previous administration.  I’ve been debating about removing it. I do like the novelty of it. We are after all at war.”

  “Mr. President.” The Director wants to get back to business.  “Four days before the inauguration, on January 16th, we received an encoded document from a middle level operative in Mumbai.”  Ted must have thought that the President wanted a reference.

  He educates; “Mumbai also known as Bombay is located on the Arabian Sea coast.  It is approximately 750 miles south, southwest, of our embassy in New Delhi.  Is that correct Director?” The Director looks at Ted and the obvious.

  The specialist is quick to reply; “Yes it is sir.”  The President smiles at the exuberance of the young analyst. The Director shows nothing at what he hoped was known by all.

  He stands and hands the folder to the President while saying; “Upon decoding it we came up with the following:

  ‘neolith  /   aggressive activity 5k  /   jumbo paper to single location….five location  /  t cells involved  /  Homeland D  /   fback 48  /  same l end”

  The President opened the file. On the left side of folder there was a signature sheet with several names. It included the Director’s, agent Winthrop’s, and several other agents and specialists.  He thought it to be a rather short list.  The President pulls a silver Cross pen from his jacket pocket and adds his name to the list.  He quickly reads the short memoranda and hands the folder to Ted.

  Director Armstrong; “Specialist would you please inform us what the entire document means.”

  Adjusting his posture Agent Winthrop begins. “Neolith is the code name of our operative in Mumbai.  Aggressive activity 5k, means that the group called five Kings, has begun some activity and working it hard.   Jumbo paper to single location, means that five kings are trying to set up a way to get an extremely large amount of money into one location.   Five location, refers to them wanting to move t
he money to five different locations.  Cells involved, means that terrorist cells are involved.  Homeland D, means destruction to U.S. interests.  Fback 48, means give feedback within forty eight hours.  Same, means requesting feedback to the same point of transmission.”

  The Director picks up the informing; “Mr. President. Neolith has infiltrated a quasi-terrorist organization in India called The Five kings. The Five Kings are a strategic, logistic terrorist organization.  Sort of a terrorist Think Tank if you will.  During the 56 years of their known existence, they have been a very passive group.  Although, they have been tied to some very minor criminal activity throughout the world. Our intelligence organizations have always chosen to leave them alone and continue to track them.  We have gotten some very good Intel from them. Therefore we have chosen to let them operate uninterrupted. The five kings, 5K, have never by our Intel been directly involved in any violent terrorist attacks.  Though the possibility does exist that some of their doctrines and philosophies have been adapted by other violent terrorist groups.  But it appears, that possibly 5k has switched from a passive role, to an active and militant stance.”

  After taking a breath and adjusting his sitting position, the Director continues; “Neolith was recruited by 5K for the same reasons that we did.  She is a citizen of India and received her education in the United States.  In 2006 she received an Educational Doctorate in Research and Evaluation Methodology. She received it from the University of Florida.  In 2007 we sent her to Mumbai to try to infiltrate the 5k.  Within six months she was inside. It now appears that something significant may be happening.”

  The President glanced to his Chief of Staff. Ted caught the look and returned to the Director as he continued. “The XL17 transmitting equipment that she has been using is an older low level security system.  It is only used for general transmission.  Within 48 hours of receiving her encrypted transmission, we did reply.  She was to be picked up by one of our operatives and taken to New Delhi. There we can use a more secure communication line and get detailed information.  That was two days ago and we have not heard from her since.  There is some concern. However, the trip alone, in good conditions, takes about 26 hours.  We are not sure when she departed Mumbai; or if she ran into any travel problems.  We felt that she should have come out of the dark twelve hours ago. But we haven’t heard from her.”

  The President, studying the Director’s face acknowledges; “I see. Director Armstrong do you feel that she has detailed information on these activities?”

  “Mr. President we are not sure at this time how much information she has.  We are hoping it is significant, but we just won’t know until we can speak with her.” The Director wondered if he should have had more information.

  The President wondered if maybe he did but wasn’t sharing as he said; “Very well. I’m sure you will keep me informed if this turns into anything plausible.”  The President searches the face of both men. The President; “Is there anything else I should know at this time gentlemen?”  Neither men speak. The President stands. The briefing is over.

  Sunday January 23rd. 4:12 a.m. local time. New Delhi India.

  A Cosmic Blue, 1998 Saab 900 SE, turns left following the sign. The sign reads: South Entrance.  The car drives 80 meters down a one way drive.  The Drive is lined on both sides by a three meter high mortar wall.  The Saab stops at an iron and steel gate. Covered with dust, the Saab appears tired.

  Staff Sergeant Michael Williams, United States Marine Corp, approaches the driver’s window.  The driver, an Indian man in his early thirties, greets the marine; “Good morning.”

  The sergeant replies; “Paperwork please.”  Another marine shines a flashlight through the passenger window.  Two dog sniffing teams circle the car in an irregular pattern.  Both dogs sniff the entire car; neither alert. They back away and go away.  The driver hands the marine two sets of paperwork.  Each set presents native identification cards and an Indian passport.  “Thank you,” he says. The sergeant turns and enters a guard shack.  The driver suddenly notices two solders front and rear of the vehicle. Both have side-arms drawn and aimed. The driver turns slow and easy back to the guard shack. The sergeant is peering into a computer monitor. In one minute and six seconds, the soldier returns to the vehicle.  To the passengers it was much longer. Bending down and looking through the driver’s window, the sergeant asks; “Sir, ma’am, do you have any other identification you wish to show me?

  “Yes we do,” replies Neolith. Both passengers perform slight-of-hand and produce a local bank card.  The sergeant gathers the cards and retreats back to the shack.  He types in the 16 digits on Sonia’s card. Her picture and the following information comes up:

  Name:  Sonia Yadev (neolith)     

  Residence:  India/United States

  Amount available:  $37,512

  Security level:  TS

  DOB: 01/14/81

  Sex:  Female

  Description:  Five foot nine 115 pounds, black hair

  The sergeant performs the same task with the other card.  Two minutes and eight seconds later, he returns to the vehicle and hands all information back to the two occupants.

  “Welcome! We have been waiting for you. Good to see you.”   The gate slowly swings open.  “Please pull forward 21 meters and stop under that overhang.”

  Sonia replies; “Thank you sergeant.”  The driver follows the marine’s instructions.

  A Phone rings inside the embassy.  “Sergeant at Arms of the Hour.”

  “Sir, this is Sergeant Williams from One. Your package has arrived seemingly unharmed.”

  “Thank you Sergeant,” replies the Sergeant at Arms.

  The Saab comes to a stop under a brick and cement overhang.  Two steel doors open. Like clowns getting out of a tiny car at a circus, eight young men scurry out through the gate.  They are all dressed in traditional native white cotton shirts and khaki pants.  The performance looks choreographed. Two quickly open the car doors. Two others grab the passengers by their arms and whisk them towards the steel doors. Another opens the entrance doors. Another opens the Saab’s trunk. Still another grabs one small duffel bag and Sonia’s book bag from the trunk. The last jumps in the vehicle and drives it out of sight.  Both passenger and driver are safe within the embassy. All in under eleven seconds.

  Director Armstrong is being driven back to Langley in his special Escalade. His cell phone rings. “Yes.”  He answers.

  A voice; “Sir, at approximately 5:12 p.m., Neolith arrived in New Delhi. She appears in good health.”

  “Thank you.”  The Director hangs up and turns to Agent Winthrop. “Neolith has come in from the dark,” he says in a steady tone. Agent Tipton, sitting behind, did not know what this meant. He also knew that he wasn’t supposed to.

  Sonia is guided down a hallway and in through an antique wooden door. It appears to her that she is in a small library.  Her companion for the last 55 hours is taken to a different location.  She will never see him again.  It all happened so fast that they did not say goodbye. Which with what they had been through, felt sadly wrong.  A man walks in behind her; surprising her. “Agent YADEV please have a seat.”  He nods towards a small couch.  “I’m Sergeant at Arms Smythe. I am sure that your trip has been arduous and I apologize for so rushing you in here. This is a marine run facility and we do have our practices.  First do you need any medical attention?”

  “No I don’t think so but I sure would like some water.”

  “I’m sorry, forgive me for not offering.”  The Sergeant turns and looks to a corner of the room.  A young soldier that she did not know was there walks to a small table and pours her a large glass of gold-worth water.  He brings it to her and places the pitcher of water on the end table next to her.  The sergeant; “Thank you Private.”  Sonia adds a nodded thank you as well. He disappears again into the shadows. “How does he do that?”

  “Ma’am?
” Sonia two quick head shakes a ‘never mind’ expression. She downs the water and pours herself another. With an audible breath she downs that as well.  The Sergeant waits above her with an awkward impatience. However, though not wanting to, he does wait.  Sonia lets an appreciative sigh escape.

  “That is the best water I have ever had.”  Expressionless he looks at her. A normal human thought of emotion tickles him to smile. It is still more awkward.

  “Agent YADEV I am sorry to have to rush you, but we do have a very tight schedule for you.  In a little over five and one half hours you will be debriefed.  Assistant Director Lang is currently on the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln. The Lincoln is currently in the Arabian Sea.  He will be chopper’d here at 0830 and wishes to meet with you at 0900.  So I am sorry, but it will be a short sleep for you.  The private here will take you to your room.” Her face jerks to the Private now feet from her. The Sergeant’s words don’t pause. “Your Quarters has a bathroom and you are welcome to use anything that you wish.  Please try to get as much sleep as you can. But feel free to do what you wish.  Just remember that you need to be ready by 0855.” (“Feel free to do what you wish.”) Sonia thought those words curious.

  The Private; “Ma’am please come with me.”  They walk across the room to a small elevator. The marine calls the elevator. The doors slide open immediately.  Upon exiting the elevator Sonia notices that there are no numbers on its buttons.  She thinks that she has gone up three floors. She is not sure, she does not care, she is sure that sleep is all she cares about.

  The private leads her down a hallway.  She sees another marine seven meters in front of her.  He is dressed in fatigues and wears a sidearm. He as sentry washes away the mental dust of her trip’s trials. The private stops at a door and pulls an electronic key. “Ma’am this is your room.  If you need to leave for any reason please pick up the white phone. An escort will quickly come to get you.  I highly doubt that you will need to leave, but if you do…”  She enters the room and can’t hold back the instilled need to quickly scan. The private slowly pulls the door behind her. “Good night Ma’am.” Too tired, her mind says; ‘Thank you Private.’

  Less instilled, now more curious, Sonia circles through the room. All of the furniture, most of the fixtures, and much of decorations are regional.  A king size four poster bed geometrically balances the center of the room.  A full size refrigerator stands in a corner. It is well stocked with drinks, fruit, and snacks. There are also several containers of prepared food. All of American cuisine, which made her smile if she’d had the energy. In another corner there is a large hutch. Hanging within is an assortment of shirts and dresses.  All are regional-ware and most are new. In the hutch’s drawers are an assortment of native and European undergarments.

  At the other end of the room is the bathroom.  Sonia walks into the room and is pleasantly surprised. She thinks that the bathroom is larger than her whole Mumbai hovel.  Her first thought is of the possibility of a shower. She takes in the multiple shower heads of a walk-in shower. Though not now of desire, there are also duel sink water basins. A mirrored cabinet over the basins hold several bathing products.  She thinks of hot running water and gathers bath towels and opens the cabinet. Selecting a Honeysuckle and Lilac shampoo, and a French body wash, she dreams herself under what will be her gentle waterfall.

  Carefully turning on the hot water as if not wanting to break it, she puts her hand into the warm softened water and sighs.  Stepping into the shower streams it feels as if she is washing away months of Mumbai.

  Sonia lost within in her mind is slow in washing her long hair. The scent of the shampoo places her in another place. She rinses from her body the what she believes must be tinted lather. Now fully immersed in that other place, Sonia lathers again. This time it is only to remove long thoughts. This time it is only for her. She giggles as she now understands the Sergeant’s words.

  Suddenly jolted from a dream Sonia is aware that sleep is now the imperative. Taking no more of her own time, she efficiently prepares for bed. Sliding into bed, slipping into an easy slumber, she thinks of a friend from college.

  Sunday January 23rd, 2:10 a.m., Director Armstrong’s residence.

  The phone on the Director’s night stand rings. On the fourth ring the Director mumbles towards it; “Director… Director Armstrong.”

  “Sir this is assistant Director Lang. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour however we have a level four situation.” Director Lang continues with a pace meant to save time, and a clarity to inform. “I have spent almost five hours debriefing Neolith.  I believe her information is both critical and time sensitive.  I believe that she needs to be brought in immediately. I fear for her life.  She however insists that she must get back to her station within sixteen hours or she will be compromised.  She is pretty adamant about this.  Mr. Director I recommend that I take her back to my point of departure.  I will immediately get the report to you using Excelsior one.” (Excelsior one, is the safest satellite communication system that the government has.) “Mr. Director you can then get an analytical profile of this report. Then you can let me know how you want me to proceed.  Sorry to ruin your sleep sir.”

  The Director now sitting up and swinging his feet towards the floor; “I understand Lang and I agree with you.  Please get that to me immediately. Please send it to access point ‘lndt21winthrop’.”

  “Yes sir. And Mr. Director, I can’t over emphasize the criticalness of time.”

  “I understand Mr. Lang.  Please wait for me to contact you.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  The Director dials.  The phone rings several times. More than the Director things it should. “This is Winthrop.”

  “Agent Winthrop this is the Director.  You need to gather your team and report to Langley at once.  You will have an Excelsior transmission waiting at your address.  Please get into it and let’s get this thing figured out.  I will meet you in two hours.  Agent Winthrop, we need to have a complete profile on this by 0500. I authorize the use of any assets that you need to accomplish this.”

  “Yes sir. On it. See you in a couple of hours.”

  0855 local time.

  A knock on Agent Yadev’s door.  “Agent Yadev, I hope you slept well.”

  “The sleep was brief but I woke refreshed. I don’t think I’ve slept like that since college.” Sonia is taken to Agent Lang.

  “Agent Yadev I am Assistant Director Ryan Lang. I’m the Director of the Asian division.”

  “Yes sir. It is nice to meet you.”

  “This is agent Sutherland. Agent Sutherland will be documenting our conversation.” Sonia knew the word conversation loosely chosen.

  Sonia is sitting in a leather chair. The Director sits across from her. The specialist adjacent to both. Director Lang begins. “First of all Agent I am wondering why it took you fifty five hours to get here after being summoned.  What was the situation?”  He was trying not to sound as if he was scolding. Sonia heard; ‘What! Was the situation.’

  Sonia time-lined the facts. “Sir. I was not able to leave my point of infiltration for almost six hours.  I had to convince Tariq TARIQ that I had a need to leave.  Tariq is my superior with 5K. I had to be convinced that he believed me.  I told him that I had a very sick relative in Ahmadabad and that I needed to visit him.  I told him that I would only be gone for 72 hours.”

  “Because of what I am involved with at 5k, my departure is rather bad timing for us. For them.” Her words broke briefly. “I had to play the part of someone packing and making travel plans.  I am sure that I was being watched. My pick-up had to look like I had hired a driver.  Once we were on our way to Ahmadabad we were stopped and detained at two different check-points.  The first stop was for almost six hours. The second was overnight. They were not Indian Army Regulars. We were never given information as to why we were being held.  I guess, when they were ready to, we wer
e simply released.  So 18 hours after leaving we were only 155 miles into our travel.  We then had to spend several hours in Ahmadabad. You know to make it appear as if we had made our final destination and we weren’t traveling further.  We checked into a hotel and went to get something to eat.  After about three and a half hours we hoped our charade was complete.  We snuck out of town. Apparently we were successful.  I hope we truly did convince them. Otherwise… well… it would be bad for me upon my return.”

  “Agent Yadev I would now like to begin the strategic information briefing.  I want you to be as detailed as you can be.  Please don’t try to determine what is pertinent and which is not.  If it is a thought, please present it.”

  Sonia started her four hour and forty eight minute oral report. She stopped only to drink water and eat small bites of a Banana Nut Muffin.  Agent Lang never spoke; only observed.  The only other sound in the room was Agent Sutherland clicking the keys on her machine.

  Neolith began. “As I am sure you are aware, sixteen months ago I was sent to Mumbai and tasked to infiltrate the organization known as The Five Kings.  Approximately six months later I was brought into their fold.  For the last eleven months I have been compiling different ways to bring large amounts of money into many different countries. Their countries. I needed to do this under several different scenarios. These scenarios were always given to my group by TARIQ.”

  “It almost became a game. We were given a scenario including all assets allowed us, all barriers, and all limitations.  Tariq would furnish us with what the end result needed to be, and we had to make it happen.  Of course for it to be successful the transaction had to appear to be legal. Legal if detected.  But of course the ultimate goal was to make it undetected by any entity.  I would say that during the last eight months we were successful in six of these scenarios.  There were other scenarios that simply posed too many obstacles.”

  “I was aware that there were four other groups like mine. They were all specialized in different areas. But I wasn’t ‘need to know’ exactly what that was.”

  “I was the informal leader of my group; I was never officially given a lead position; somehow it was just understood. Two weeks ago TARIQ took me aside and informed me that my role was changing.  I would take over as Captain of all five groups. I don’t know what brought on the change. Anyways… my role was now to simultaneously coordinate the groups to perform all of their tasks simultaneously for one large operation.  Just as always, he was the one that gave me the task. This time it was multifunctional. I had to make it all come together.  Tariq stated that all functions had to be completed as one action; all within 72 hours of each other.”

  “Tariq in the past had often been very slow in giving me information; dates, times, and other details. He was only providing me with information that I needed on a daily basis.  This has been the standard operating procedure since I joined them.  What I do know is that the five functional groups are: the group I lead, Finance and Banking; Mercenary Recruitment and Implementation; Organized Military Actions; Government Assassination unit; and Leadership Development.  I believe that these groups have been the five functioning organizations since the beginning of Five Kings.  In substance, they are The Five Kings.  For almost sixty years they have been perfecting their craft. Now it seems that it is time to use these skills.”

  “What I can tell you about each group is this.  My former group, Finance and Banking, has been tasked to bring a large amount of money into an account in the Ukraine.  Once it is brought in, it is to be distributed to five other locations. All different amounts; all in different currency.  The money has to be verifiable instantly and available for withdrawal immediately.  I don’t know the locations or amounts yet. No need to know yet.  However, we are at a point in our planning, that I can’t move forward without this information.  I do expect to get that information very soon. He is aware of it. Tariq!”

  “The Mercenary Recruitment and Implementation group is working the final phase of something they have been working on for almost a year.  They are actively interviewing and testing some of the most professional mercenary units in the world.  The mercenaries they are recruiting must have the capability to learn how to operate and launch ballistic missiles from a PLRB. Podrodnay Lodka Raketnaya Ballisticheskay.” Sonia paused wondering if she was insulting Director Lang. She remembered his words and continued; “A Russian diesel ballistic missile submarine.  These are Golf Class submarines. Almost all are now retired.  It would, seem hard to find a resume that has these qualifications.  However, 5k has six units that have finished their training and will soon begin their sea-going operational readiness exercises.  The four organizations that perform the most proficient in operation, navigation, and simulated missile launch, will be offered contracts.  Again I don’t have a lot of the who and when. But I am getting more information daily.”

  “The Organized Military Actions group is planning the logistics. The deployment capabilities, all communication needs, supplies, weapons, and all transportation needs. These logistics are for four large amphibious assault groups.  These groups are the size of several large divisions. Thirty to forty thousand men each.  The planning involves a flotilla to be launched from four different locations. One in Northern Africa. Two from Central America. And the last from South America.  These launches will be timed to strike a target simultaneously.  I have not been told of specific targets. But based on requirements that I have been furnished with, the target can only be the southern United States.”

  Sonia’s words would surely bring a reaction from the Assistant Director. Unaware that her eyes were concentrated on brown carpeting, she lifted and laser’d all attention in him. Her beam found only a slightly tilted head. She began again. “These divisions will be made up of hard core terrorist groups. Fanatics!  These factions… I’m finding out more and more about daily now. The Leadership Development group is the most interesting.  Well… interesting might not be the right word. Changing. Yes changing. This group has been plying its trade for at least sixty years.  Their purpose is the socialization of individuals. They do this two different ways.  One is to identify individuals at birth and choose them to be 5K socialized.  Guided if you will. Brain-wash them to work for their cause. I don’t think Brain-washed is an overused phrase here. It is a true socialization. A 5K process from birth.  They actually take control of their lives. They guide them through life. Mentor them. Financially help them and make their education happen. A good education. The world’s best universities.  All with the ultimate goal of having this chosen person arrive in places of power. In places of power and holding within them the doctrine of the Five Kings.”

  “Their second method is of course recruitment.  They try to identify people that are already on their way to positions of power. Recruit them. And then melt them into the black soup of 5K doctrine. Their recruitment profiling process is the same old crap. You know… they look for people who are weak of character. Life strapped with strain. Financially cornered. All that shit.” Sonia hearing her words understood her level of tired.

  “Through these two different processes they have groomed and pushed people into positions of power. Captains of industry. The top echelon in the military infrastructure. Politicians.  Indeed powerful people; the most powerful people in the government.  Their goal is to get many powerful Americans to join in their ideology.  Then… the individuals that are in a position to help execute the grand scheme will.”

  Sonia took a sip of water and again searched Mr. Lang. “Go on Agent Yadev,” Lang said. She pulled one more sip and continued. “The Government Assassination group has been active during the entire existence of the Five Kings.  It is readily believed that some of its assassination procedures have been used in several famous assassinations. Including  Andre Kozlow, Chairman of Russia’s Central Bank, and several LTTE members attributed to the Sri Lanka government. This group i
s planning a political assassination in the United States.  It will be contracted out to professionals for hire. However, the means, logistics, and opportunity, will be provided by 5K.”

  “So as you can see Director Lang, 5k is about to erupt.  I believe that it will all take place in about three weeks.  All tasks will be completed within 72 hours of each other. These parameters I am sure of.  As I’ve said I am getting more information daily. Information is being presented to me in larger chunks now.  I hope you can see why I desire to get back in place.  I think this is a huge threat to the sovereignty of the United States. I’m not sure if I am, but I may be the only link to accurate information that we have.  But If I am not back within the 72 hours it may be all lost.”

  Assistant Director Lang spent the rest of the debriefing quizzing Sonia.  Not testing, but cultivating. Looking for the tiniest morsel of life saving food. Most questions were answered with repeated information.  Lang did not want to leave anything out.  He knew of the magic of Agent Winthrop. He knew he could take the smallest gluton of flour and build a cake from it. Step into a gentle drizzle and walk out into a monsoon. One that if not stopped would flood the United States.  Sonia, her information, neither was impertinent.

  Director Armstrong walks into Agent Winthrop’s office at 0435. The office is static with energy from organized chaos.  Four women and three men are performing different tasks. All are working with more than just a sense of urgency.  The Director looks to Winthrop and asks; “Agent Winthrop where are we?”  Winthrop exits the busy work area with the Director in tow. Heading to the Director’s office Winthrop hands him a manila envelope.

  “Here is the edited and pertinent revision of the Neolith debrief.  We will, be ready for the Information Profile presentation at 0500 sir.  Can you be in meeting room 12 at 0500 sir?”  Winthrop knew the answer. His question was more a proud verification on his part.

  The Director; “I’ll scan the report and see you at 0500.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good job Winthrop.” Verified. The Agent turns and heads back to the ant farm in his office.

  Agent Todd Winthrop, thirty two years old, with the exuberance of a seven year old.  He is an oxymoron; the analytical mind of a genius, and the zest for life of a child.  Todd would not be happier doing anything else with his life.  He loves being a servant of the greatest country in the world.  He desperately wants to believe that he is making his country a safer place.  He loves his country as Patriots will. His weakness, is that his love of country tends to guide him toward naïveté.  Winthrop believes that the Warren Commission is right. Todd is certain that the eighteen and a half minute gap in the Nixon tape was a technical glitch. Agent Winthrop does believe that Washington slept there.

  The books that are all full of personality type analysis say his type of personality does not a good analyst make. If the word enigma is ever used correctly, I will try to do so now. Agent Todd Winthrop is an enigma. To him facts are reality. To Todd, and to his reality, it should be to all others as well; facts are a subset apart from any other.

  The Director strides steady to the front of the room. His person identification is quick as he is familiar with all. Agent Winthrop and seven others.  Still his looking pause is over prolonged. With intended tone of C.I.A. seriousness, he then begins. “First I need to emphasize that all information that was presented to you is to be kept in the strictest confidence.  What I mean by this is; it should not be shared with any others within this agency.  Until I clear it for further distribution, the only ones that are to have this information are you eight. Is that understood?”  All acknowledge with a low voice or gentle nod.  Director Armstrong continues; “All information is to be compiled and given directly to agent Winthrop.  It will all be classified ‘Above Top Secret’.  All protocol information protection procedures must be checked and double checked.  Agent Winthrop will you please dismiss all that do not have a need to be here at this time.”

  Five of the seven immediately get up and excuse themselves. They do not need to be told.  “Thanks everyone for coming in and getting this done,” says Winthrop.

  The Director adds; “Yes. Thank you.”  The Director’s tongue stumbles through his late addition.

  “Agent Winthrop.” Todd is looking into a stack of papers and lifts his head to the Director’s words. “I glanced the report and I am quite concerned about all of this. But I need more. What is your take?”

  “Sir, we have cross matched this report with other intelligence and we find this to be quite credible. Plausible. We have a confidence of 92% that this information is accurate.  Based on this report by Neolith and other intelligence we have put together the following profile.”

  “The Five Kings are in the final stages of orchestrating an attack on the United States.  We believe the time frame to be within three weeks. Quite possibly the weekend of February 6th.  This time frame, we are only 43% confident in. But it is a starting point.  The timeline of this attack, we believe to be as follows:

  1.  An assassination of a high ranking political figure will take place.

  2.  A large transfer of money to a Ukrainian bank will take place.  This money will then be distributed to five other accounts. In five different countries.   This money will be used to pay for equipment and weapons to be used in the attack.  These weapons will include submarine fired ballistic missiles. Tipped most likely with tactical nuclear warheads.  We are 63% confident in this.

  3.  Ballistic missiles will be fired at major cities and command and control centers.

  4.  Lastly, four flotillas of 2 divisions in size, 120,000-160,000 personnel, will land on the shores of the United States.  They would be armed only with small arms and munitions.  The attacks will not be at major cities.  The Gulf of Mexico is a high probability target.  The attacking force will want to take control of ports and oil refineries.”

  “Excuse me Agent Winthrop.” The Director questions; “Are you telling me that 120-160 thousand men, with small arms, are going to take the ports and oil refineries from the United States military?  All with no air support, no mechanization, no technology. How would this be possible?”

  Todd is quick to reply. “It would be more of an insurgency than an attack against our military.  Look what will already have taken place if they are successful.  First of all, a political assassination of a high ranking political individual.  It would have to be someone that could attempt to stop their plot.  We don’t know yet who it would be. But it is clear that their goal would be the second Coup in the United States in the last 44 years.”

  “Secondly; major cities and command and control centers will already have been attacked by nuclear weapons. Probably tactical in size.  Both will happen within 72 hours of each other. Immediately following the nuclear attacks the flotilla of insurgents will land and infiltrate the towns.  They would want to take control of the towns. But they would try to keep casualties low. Killing only as many people as is necessary to take control.  They don’t want people to flee. The insurgents will want to mix among them.  This will make it almost impossible for our high tech military to quickly find and destroy them without killing thousands of Americans.  We can only philosophies, but their goal would have to be to infiltrate at least one sixth of the continental United States.  They would want to turn it into their own lawless third world country. Sort of a mix of Iraq and Somalia.”

  The Director asks; “How would our military allow a nuclear attack to take place?  We are after all talking about four antiquated diesel powered submarines; are we not?  Any ten year old with the internet could probably track these submarines.  I am sure that we have eyes on them as we speak.”

  “Yes sir you are correct. However, we have had a coup d’état. The person that is now in control of the government is a Treason and is controlling the military.  Also Mr. Director we are quite certain that there will also be a very high ranking military lea
der that is a Treason as well.  Two such powerful people could cause the break-down of national security. Thus helping the 5k in this operation. Maybe not help, but they could force no defensive action. No action that would prevent a nuclear attack.  This military leader would have to be at the highest level. At the very least, a chairman of one of the services. But probably higher. We just don’t know yet.”

  Agent Winthrop pauses and stares into the mulling eyes of the Director. He continues; “Of course all of this costs money. Lots of money. This is it. We need to find out where it is coming from.”  The Director stands up and walks half way around the table. He pauses and looks at one of the two team members still in the room.

  “Specialist Niles, you are a personnel profile expert, is that not right?”

  “Yes Mr. Director I have extensive training in that field.”

  Winthrop looking at Specialist Niles interjects; “Don’t be so modest Mrs. Niles.” He swings his face back to the Director. “She is one of the best in the world Sir.”

  Specialist Niles is a fifty two year old mother of three and grandmother of one.  She has been with the company for twenty seven years.

  Armstrong engages the Specialist; “Good!  Specialist Niles, in forty eight hours I need profiles on all the members of the Joint Chief of Staff. Including the Chairman.  I want to know who in your opinion is most likely to commit treason.  I want you to do the same with the President and down through the Pro temp of the Senate.”

  “The President Sir?”

  “Yes ma’am that is correct.”

  “I will have it for you first thing Tuesday morning Mr. Director.”

  “Thank you both.” The Director nods at the Specialists. “You are both dismissed.” The Director pauses just long enough for the two to stand. “Agent Winthrop will you please stay a moment.”

  The two agents leave the room.  “Todd we need to find out where this money is coming from.  It could be key to stopping this thing.  It shouldn’t be that hard to find. It has to be between six and eight hundred million dollars.  Find it Todd.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Director returns to his office. He sits down at his workstation and pulls up the file on Assistant Deputy Lang.  He finds the code to contact him via his Lennox SI phone.  Lennox SI is a level 2 security, satellite phone. All Assistant Directors have one.  The Director enters the code and presses a button.  After forty seconds the phone tones. Deputy Lang answers. “This is El dorado.”

  “El dorado this is Mayflower.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Are you back home?”

  “Yes sir I am. What are your orders?”

  “I want Neolith back on station immediately.  Please make it happen with the man in charge.  If there are any problems he can contact Bird Dog. (Secretary of the Navy) I have cleared it with him.  It needs to be a low profile insertion. It needs to happen soonest.  Also, I want you to give her your SI. Make sure she knows how to use it. All of it. All of the features. Especially the GPS feature.  You can get another one when you get back to station.  Tell her we will contact her using the SI.  Tell her that she needs to contact me if there is in an emergency.  Her instructions are to get back to 5k and gather more information.  I am sure that she knows the kind of data we need.  Are there any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  The Director; “Please tell her to be careful.  As soon as you get your new SI, please transmit your code to her. We need to keep her in the palm of our hands.  Understood?”

  “Yes sir it is.”

  Armstrong closes; “I will speak with you soon.”

  “Goodbye sir.”  The Director disconnects, per transmission protocols.

  Sunday, January 23rd, 5:15 p.m.

  USS Abraham Lincoln, Arabian Sea.

  Flight Operations, briefing room 3.

  “Ma’am, my name is Lieutenant Allen. I am the flight specialist.  I will be guiding you through your insertion back into Mumbai.  Forty two minutes from now we will be departing the aircraft carrier aboard a CH-53 helicopter.  Flight time to Mumbai will be approximately twenty eight minutes.  There is an abandoned airport in Juhu. It is just off of the beach.  We will be flying very low. Our approach will not take us over any heavily populated areas.  We will be in and out. We shouldn’t attract any attention.  I have been told that it should be easy for you to get transportation back to your home.  Is that correct?”

  “Yes I should be fine,” says Sonia.

  He finishes; “I will be back in five minutes to take you to get suited up for flight.”

  Deputy Lang speaks up; “Sonia I am going to give you a SI communicator. It works very much like a cell phone.  You have two regions’ addresses. Region 1 is the Director and several others.  You also have region 21. It includes me and others that you are familiar with. Including the man that took you to New Delhi.  To operate, you select an address and it will prompt for your code.  Your code is the first, second, fifth, sixth, ninth, tenth, thirteenth, and fourteenth digit on your ID.  Do you need me to repeat that?”

  “No Sir.”

  “Please repeat it back to me.”

  “First, second, fifth, sixth, ninth, tenth, thirteenth, and fourteenth.”

  “Perfect. Obviously you know how important that is.” Sonia nods and Lang continues. “Once you have typed in your code, double check it and hit Enter. Be warned, if you enter any code other than the correct one, the phone will shut down permanently.  This is only a level 2 security system; therefore its use should only be for non-sensitive information.  However in an emergency it could be your life-line.”  He points to the GP button. “Agent Yadev this button gives you your exact global position.  This communicator has no ring tone but it will silently vibrate when called. It does have a voice messaging system. You use the same code to retrieve messages.   Obviously you need to secure this like any other security item.  Some agents in the field tape them to their ankle or side. You do what’s most comfortable.”

  “Your orders are to get back in and gather as much information as you can.  We need details. The when, who how etc. Detailed! Definitive information. Obviously time is a factor.  And be careful. For your sake and ours. I hope all goes well for you.  I’ll speak with you soon.”

  At 6:40 they were indeed flying low and quickly approaching the shoreline.  The CH-53’s engines changed hum to a slower pitch. The copter turned forty five degrees, hovered momentarily and gently bumped to touch-down.  Two crew members quickly removed all safety gear from her and irreverently helped her out the door.  Crouching to the ground, book-bag slung over shoulder, she ran from the whirlwind.  The hum again changed with acceleration. Sonia turned to see her ride abandoning her back to sea. Alone again. Instant insecurity grasped her. She loosened from the feeling and headed out. She now sensed all was good. There was only hushed commotion around her. Her arrival seemingly unnoticed.

  Shoreline to her left, she walked quick paced to the south. She thought it about thirty minutes that she came to a residential area.  There were wandering people. Where there were people, there were Trikes. These whining motorcycles with attached side-cars would be her new ride. Although these Tykes were usually only used for local transportation, enough Rupees would get her the eight kilometers to her residence. She was back home in less than seventy hours. This rid her of any lingering abandonment. Her sense of security was back to normal. That being what it was.

  The answering voice was clear and precise. “This is the Attorney General’s department. May I help you?”

  “Can I please get the Attorney General’s office.”

  “One moment please.”  Answering voice two; “Attorney General’s office. This is Keith. May I help you?”

  “This is Director Armstrong. Is Cynthia Meyers in?”

  “No sir she is not. We can certainly contact her. Do you need to speak with her Director?” The Director thought the
question stupid but did not pause.

  “Yes sir I do. And it is a matter of some urgency.  Also Keith this is a classified matter. My calling is on a need to know basis.  Is that clear Keith?”

  “It is,” Keith said matter-of-factly.

  “Keith I do need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

  “I will have her contact you as soon as possible Director. How would you like to be reached sir?”

  “On my cell please.” Perhaps because of the stupid question, he added; “I assume you have that number?”

  Keith paused slightly and said; “Yes sir we do.”  The Director hangs up. He dials anew.

  The Director of the National Security Agency, Lieutenant General Ralph John Frost’s phone responds to the dialing. “This is General Frost.”

  “Ralph, this is Ron.”

  “Ron how are you?”

  “General there is a matter of great importance which I need to speak with you about.  Sorry to interrupt your Sunday. Can we possibly get together in the next few hours?”

  “Ronald you seem upset. Care to elaborate?”

  “No sir I don’t, I can’t.”  The General offers a meeting.

  “Mr. Director can we meet at my home? How about at 1115 hours?”  The General’s offer was made with a sudden feeling to be more formal. He certainly was aware that Big Brother was listening.

  “I can be there General. Also I am trying to get the Attorney General to meet with us as well.  Is that okay with you General?”

  “Absolutely.  Ron… you worry me. Sure you are alright?”

  “I am. I will see you at 11:15 General.” The General’s phone goes still. Breaking transmission protocol.

  9:10 p.m., Dadar East

  Sonia approaches her residence with caution. She slows as she approaches the entrance to her building.  She looks up to her third floor window. A light in her room glows yellow-white.  She tries to remember if she left it that way.  She thought that she would not leave a light on. She is not sure.  Now more apprehensive she climbs the stairs to the third floor.  Turning the corner she quickly glances down the hallway. All appears to be normal.  She walks to her door and grabs the door knob. It is locked.  With as much calm speed as she can she unlocks her door and steps inside.  She scans, takes stock, wonders.  Trying to fight paranoia she thinks something doesn’t look right. She can’t define what.  Walking first to her bedroom, then to her bathroom. She gives harsh words to the bathroom that she now disgusts.  Sonia forces her nerves to calm, washes her face, and resigns to bed.

  Forty four minutes later there is a loud knock on her door and in her at ease ears.  Sleeping deeply she wakes but does not recognize the cause of her wake.  Another loud thump. Sonia jerks to a sitting position.  A spike in heart rate pushes scary adrenaline and bounds her steps from the door. “Who the hell is it?” She bellows with more fear than intended.

  “Azir. Open the door.”  Azir is one of Tariq’s lieutenants. A personal assistant; more of a body guard.  Fear triggers a shot of self-protection.

  “One moment.”  She takes two steps backwards and looks quick left and right without seeing anything. She fears the worst.

  “Sonia we need to speak now!” He says this louder than intended. Sonia realizes that if she chose to flee she couldn’t. Through the door and past Azir is the only way out. No fire escape, jumping would certainly injure. Something she’d thought about countless times. A shaking hand unlocks the door. Stiff muscled she steps back.

  At 7:56 a.m., Chief of Staff Wilson takes the elevator to the second floor. He walks past the west bedroom on his right and the east bedroom on his left.  Turning right he heads down the center hall, through the west sitting room, and into the President’s dining room.

  “Good morning Mr. President. I trust you slept well.”

  The President mumbles; “Trust?”

  Ted pauses and asks; “Sir?” The President is staring up at Ted.

  “Nothing… nothing. Good morning Ted.  Something to eat?”

  “I’ll just grab a cup of coffee.”  Pouring himself a cup Ted asks; “How was your meeting yesterday with the NSA?”

  “Fine did you know that he has a son in the Chicago Cubs organization? Double A.”  Ted stares at the President.

  “Mr. President I know less about baseball than I do about deep ocean animals.”

  “Yes Ted, but now you know one more thing about baseball than you did.”

  “This is true.”  A bit out of sorts he takes a seat across the small table from the President.

  “So Ted let’s get started.”

  Ted asks; “anything I need to know about his visit?’

  The President is quick to reply. “He gave me several reports.” Handing Ted three folders he continues; “Here are copies. Please read them in the next twenty four hours and let me know if there is anything we need to discuss tomorrow at the cabinet meeting.”

  The President and Ted go through what will become a daily ritual of world affairs, security issues, domestic affairs, fiscal issues, next day agendas, and too many more items.  Ted turns from information distribution toward questioning. “Have you heard anything more from Director Armstrong about the issue in India?”

  Thomas replies without deep concern; “No… not yet. I really don’t expect to until tomorrow. That is if it is indeed an issue at all.  I cancelled today’s appointment with the Joint Chief of Staff. It’s rescheduled for Tuesday.  I want time to look over the report from the Director and the data that General Gifford is sending over tomorrow.  Will you please get a copy of the General’s report and be prepared for that meeting.  I believe it is at 4:00 p.m.”

  “Yes sir. Anything else?”

  “Ted please contact Vice President Cole and set up an appointment with him on Wednesday.  Mrs. Adamski can surely help you but I would like you to make the call.”  Ted pushes himself from the table, pauses, and then pulls himself back snug.

  “I almost forget Mr. President. I have some information about Tapanan Oil.  According to Platts, which is an on line oil industry site, in May of 2008 Tapanan Oil reported having less than 3 million barrels of crude in the ground. Nothing really.   Then in November of the same year, they reported over 25 million barrels.  Platts reported that Tapanan claimed the May report was inaccurate. This was also supported by the Energy Information Administration in their December 2008 MER.” Ted timidly added; “Monthly Energy Review.” Ted looked to the President who showed no expression. Ted began again; “I am not an expert on the Oil Industry, but this seems like a huge mistake.  Very curious.”

  11:12 a.m., Clarendon Virginia

  The Director’s vehicle turns right off of Hartford Street onto Key Blvd.  The Escalade pulls into a driveway. 3190 Key Boulevard. The residence of General Ralph Frost.  The Director is greeted at the door by an elderly woman in a white housekeeper uniform.

  “Good morning Mr. Director. The General is in the study. Please…”  She turns and leads him to the study.  Simultaneously knocking and opening the door, she steps aside, smiles, and lets the Director into the study.  She pulls the door shut and falls back to other duties.

  The General is seated at a large oak desk with a workstation on it.  He appears to be reading from the monitor.

  “Ron! It is good to see you.”  The General quick from behind greets his friend with a handshake of the bound. Much more than meaningless mandatory. The General moves to the fireplace and sits in an overstuffed chair.  The Director holding two large envelopes hands one to the General and takes his seat.

  “Ralph, this is a profile of intelligence out of India.”  The two men spend the next forty eight minutes going over the report. The report that was put together by Winthrop’s team.

  “Ron…” The General looking serious asks of the Director’s face. He slaps the folder with the back of his hand. “This information seems too incredible. I mean… how confident are you? Is th
is accurate?  Is this really possible? Ron?” The General shifts uncomfortably in his chair and then continues. “We wouldn’t possibly let all this happen.”

  “General what we do know is that this is in the works.  It’s happening. We have an agent that is actually working in 5K to make all of this happen. All our Intel from her is first hand.”

  The closed door pops of three light taps. The Housekeeper does not enter.  The door does not open. Walking to the door with an interrupted huff, the General pulls it within. “General the Attorney General is here.”

  “Please make her comfortable and let her know we will be with her shortly.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Afterthought through the closing door; “Thanks Gloria.” He does not see but she smiles slight.

  Turning back without looking to his friend the General asks; “Well Mr. Director what in the hell are we going to do with this mess?” No immediate reply from the Director. The General lifts his eyes over to the Director. “Come on Ron… what the hell are your thoughts?” The pause was not long but apparently too long. “I know you wouldn’t have come here run without a plan.”

  “Ralph my initial thought is to gather more information. With just a few more links of information we could easily shut this down.  But what if they truly do have traitors in the highest places. I mean in the very highest. Who can we trust? Who can we get involved?”

  “Damn it Ron give me the real shit.” The two stare at each other. Steady toned, the General; “Ron… what are you suggesting? Who are you proposing?”

  “Ralph what if it is the President? What if it is a member of the Joint Chief of Staff? Maybe even the Chairman.  Maybe even more than one member of the JCS.  These people control our military and our security. The right people could make this attack go unchallenged. They could… I mean I think they could make this happen.”

  “Ron this seems like… like some sort of bullshit spy novel.” The General turns and slowly walks toward his desk. With his back to the Director he reconsiders. “However… if all of the dominos were to fall perfectly it could happen.” He quickly turns to the Director. “Do you agree Ron?” The Director considers his chosen words.

  “Ralph I have known you over thirty years. I trust you with my life.  You may be the only one I trust. That is why I came to you.” Those words did not answer the General’s question. The General wanted to bombard words upon Ron. Better, he thought; in stare he held silent.

  Wanting to prevent a mortal wounding the Director fought forward with his answer. “I have asked a member of my analysis team to put together a Probability Profile for all the members of the JCS and the Chairman.  I’ve asked for the same on the presidential succession all the way down through the Senate Pro Temp.  This profile is geared towards who is most likely to be a part of this thing. I will have those profiles on Tuesday morning.”

  Calmer, and wanting the Director to believe he always was, the General agrees. “Ron I recommend we do nothing until we have looked at that profile.  Do you have anything that suggests our security will be challenged in the next seventy two hours?”

  “No sir. I’m confident nothing is imminent.”

  “Okay then. Ron let’s take a deep breath. Step back from this and take another look at this when we get those profiles.” The General, as Generals will, stern lectures. “But damn it Ron keep all of everybody’s eyes on this. Shit we can’t let this get away from us.” The Director takes his friend’s lecture in stride.

  “Yes General.” The General must have caught wind of what he had done; he briefly chuckles and understandably smiles.

  The Director addresses the Attorney General’s presence. “I have asked Cynthia Meyers to join us for some advice.  She has no need to know the logistics of this.  I simply want to ask questions about legalities. The legalities of any actions we may have to take.”

  The General wants the Director on Point. “You have the floor my friend.” The General walks to his desk and presses a button.  A brief moment.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Gloria could you please bring in the Attorney General.”   Both men move towards the door. Cynthia Meyers is let in.  The General greets her with a generic hand shake. “I apologize for your wait.”

  The Director adds to the General’s words; “I appreciate you sharing your Sunday with us.”

  The AG snickers and then replies; “I am sure that it must be important Director.”  The General guides them to the fireplace.

  “Please have a seat,” he says. All three settle in to their chairs.

  The Director breaches the moment.  “Ms. Myers-”

  “Cynthia, please.”

  “Cynthia then. I have asked you here to get some legal questions answered.  The scenario… well it would be the removal from office of a very high ranking elected official.”

  She is quick in reply; “The normal process would be impeachment. Which I am sure you know is the legal statement of charges. Very much like an indictment.  The impeachment would be followed by a legislative vote. This vote determines conviction or failure to convict.” She pauses and examines their faces. “Somehow though I don’t think this is what you are inquiring of.”

  The Director clarifies; “No ma’am it is not.  What about someone suspected of High Treason?”  The General rises and walks to the fireplace.  He picks up a poker and adjusts the burning logs.  His obvious uncomfortable-ness sparks up the room’s tension.  Cynthia’s eyes slash from the awkward General to the staring Director. She settles back into her chair.

  She briefly considers and then; “High Treason of course is a crime and would legally be dealt with as such.” Her demeanor jumps from professional to emotional. “Exactly how high of an elected official are we talking about?”

  The Director smothers the question; “So Cynthia we are talking about an indictment, an arrest, trial, and so on.”

  “Well it might not work quite that simple.”

  Suddenly wanting back into the battle the General asks; “Why not!”

  Cynthia turns and answers. “I am sure that we are not here talking about some tax assessor.” Her eyes back to the Director. “You must be… you must be asking with hidden words about a powerful person.  So obviously… well it would surely cause quite a stir.”

  The General; “A stir?”

  The Director; “But legally there would be no issue.”

  “Gentlemen…” An obvious pause for affect. “Elected officials are under the same scrutiny and all the same laws as any other person.” Finishing she slides her head back to the General.

  The Director continues his inquiry. “Next question. Would an arrest be considered a Vacancy of Office?  Would the Rules of Succession apply?”  Slowly, with widened eyes, she finds a Director waiting an answer.

  Precisely at first, emotionally eventually, she answers; “Vacancy of office? Rules of Succession? What the hell-”

  “If the President was arrested would this constitute a vacancy and would the rules of succession apply?” The Director interrupts in a burst. In hand and dropping hard, the tip of the poker chips brick.

  A miffed General; “Ron!”

  She leaps to her feet. “Holy shit are you talking about the President of the United States.?”  No one speaks. The men’s eyes meet. The General glares. Her head down and seeing nothing, the Attorney General slowly circles the chairs. Her mind a tempest she tries to calm the thoughts that are being tossed about.

  Director Armstrong; “Cynthia. I need to know if the President was arrested, and incarcerated, would this constitute a vacancy of office. And then would the rules of succession according to the Twenty Fifth Amendment apply?”  Cynthia drops back into a chair and scans the eyes of the two. The Director sits across from her. In no hurry the General joins them.  Twice a clinching jaw pops her cheek bones as she looks into the Director’s eyes.

  The word ‘history’ fronts her
thoughts. Wanting her words to flow of a confident teacher, they ramble of a nervous student. “Mr. Director we could arrest and incarcerate the President the Vice President and the first nine people that are in line of succession and make the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development the president, but you can’t just arrest people and throw them in the Gulag. They have rights! They had to have broken a law. Oh… and we sure as hell better be able to prove it.”

  Cynthia takes a thought replenishing breath. She continues; “If the President was incarcerated, the Vice President and the cabinet would have to declare the President unable to discharge his duties. The Vice President would then become the acting President.  If the President was tried and acquitted, it would be possible for him to reclaim the Presidency. Unless two thirds of both Houses vote to sustain the findings of the Vice President and Cabinet.  Unless of course if the complete impeachment and conviction process has taken place.”

  The Attorney General sits back and takes a long pause. Both men’s lips could be white tight. “Gentlemen… what in the hell is going on?  Would you please tell me? No no screw that I’m done! Right now, I want to know right now.” The General is out of the conversation and the Director only stares at her. She is done! She slowly stands. “Mr. Director if I walk out of here without-”

  “We’re not sure.” His words stop her exit for the moment. He respectfully stands and elaborates. “We really are not clear on what we are dealing with.  We are moving forward with an investigation and we need to know our boundaries.  That is why we need these questions answered.  With all due respect, we cannot give you more information.  I promise that we will keep you informed and give you more information. As soon as we can. As soon as we have it.”

  The Director wants to give her an Olive Branch that may shade her and keep her temporarily cool. “I assume that if an arrest like this was going to take place, it would certainly start with you.  Yes?” She seemed to be pondering; his words, his motive.

  “Yes! That is correct Mr. Director.”

  He continues; “Let me ask you about Exigent Circumstance.”  Cynthia tilts her head slightly with his question.

  The Attorney General; “Exigent Circumstance is a law of criminal procedure.  It allows for law enforcement to enter a structure without a warrant.  It must be a situation where people are in imminent danger, or evidence faces imminent destruction, or a suspect will escape.” 

  “Cynthia once again I would like to thank you for coming here.” The Director’s parting words and hand is squarely presented. Cynthia is caught unprepared for the meeting’s epilogue being suddenly at hand. She weakly places her hand in his.

  Her verbal is weak as well. “Oh…” She firmly grabs and holds onto his hand. Her verbal is firm is well. “Let me just leave you two gentlemen with this.  I demand on being kept informed, updated. Any actions that you may want to take, no surprises. Please… no, don’t walk into my office one day and tell me you want the President arrested. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I can guarantee you that.”  The General jumps back in.

  “Secondly gentlemen, if you are looking at pulling off some kind of storming of the White House… I strongly recommend you think it through. You better have all your facts straight.”

  The General confirms; “Ma’am you will be on Point if there is any storming of the White House.” The General’s guarantees hardly settled warm within her.

  ………