“Lloyd, wait a minute. I almost got myself killed yesterday. I need a couple of days to recover.”
“Oh come on, son. Don’t wimp out on me now. You’re the only one in town that has the exclusive inside story. All you need is a good thick cup of coffee.”
“Now listen, Lloyd…”
“Tell you what, Matt, take some extra time for yourself this morning.” he interrupts.
“Take a good long hot shower and get some coffee. Don’t worry about coming in here till say, nine this morning.”
“Lloyd!” I yell into the phone.
“Look Matt, I need the story by deadline today. You understand that, don’t you? I’ll see you when you get in.” The phone clicks to silence, followed by the irritating sound of the dial tone; the unrelenting dial tone, a thorny reminder that I did not stand up to Lloyd Hatch one more time.
I slam the phone down as hard as I can. It feels very good to me for the moment, but supplies me with little reimbursement for my damaged pride and exhausted soul.
With puttylike legs and a sledge-hammer headache, I stagger into the office of The Portland Herald, trying to walk directly towards my desk without any fanfare or notoriety.
I almost make it to my desk, when suddenly Betty’s inflectionally uncommon voice is heard over the loudspeaker.
“Hey everybody, Mr. Brooks is back,” she announces, the way only a girl from Brooklyn that is chewing at least a pound of bubble gum, wearing copious amounts of fruit-colored makeup, three-inch long press-on nails, and a pair of two story high heels could be expected to speak.
A workmate crowd gathers to welcome me back, wish me well, and all ask me the same three questions. What was it like? Were you afraid? Why did you come back to work so soon?
Then Kelly enters the room. She walks over to my desk with her arms outstretched, as if she hasn’t seen me for a long, long time. Opening my arms reciprocally, we immure into a prolonged close embrace.
The entire office becomes audience to our embrace, then they soon become awkwardly embarrassed, and one by one shrink off to where ever they had come from.
“You look exhausted Matt. Why aren’t you home in bed where you should be?” She finally says, holding on firmly to my hand.
“Believe me, that is exactly where my heart is.”
“But Lloyd called me just about the time my head was hitting the pillow, and gave me one of his ultimatum speeches. So today I am going to be living on black coffee and ibuprofen.”
“Why do you let him push you around like that?” she asks.
“Well, basically because I need to pay my rent and buy a six-pack of beer once in awhile.”
“Well, if I were you, I would march right in there and tell Lloyd that since I just about got killed doing my job for him yesterday, I am going to take the rest of the day off.” She spits out, pointing over towards Lloyd’s office.
“Don’t worry your pretty head…”
“Matt!” Lloyd’s voice abruptly shouts over my desk intercom.
“You and Kelly get in here right away,” he orders.
We stand there for a moment looking back and forth at each other, and then I pick up my coffee cup and follow Kelly to his office.
“Good morning Lloyd. How are…”
“Sit down Matt,” he interrupts. “And shut the door.”
“What’s up?” I whimsically ask.
Lloyd fidgets for a moment at his desk. He rubs his face with his hands over and over again, his face finally ending up inside his open hands for another moment before he speaks.
Kelly and I look at each other dumbfounded.
“What is it Lloyd? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” he looks down at his desk and then shakes his head. Then he looks over at me more solemnly than I have remembered seeing him.
“Air Force One has gone down, somewhere in an Iowa cornfield.”
“What?” Kelly quickly stands up, her mouth wide open.
“The President was on his way home from a goodwill visit to France. He just wanted to make a couple of campaign stops in Iowa before he came back to the White House. He never made it.”
“Is the President…? I mean is the President dead?”
“We don’t know.”
“What happened?” Kelly asks.
“I mean, did they fly into bad weather? Or, or… was it a bomb? Was it a terrorist bomb, Mr. Hatch?” she asks the question that we are all thinking.
“We don’t know anything right now. They say Air Force One went down somewhere just outside of Danville, Iowa. That’s why I want you and Matt on the next plane to Danville, Iowa, wherever in the world that is.”
“We’re on it, Lloyd. Kelly and I are on our way to the airport right now,” I tell him, as I begin to walk out of Lloyd’s office door. Kelly, with her stunned and serious face immediately follows.
“Oh, Matt,” he calls me back. I stop and poke my head back inside his door.
“Something else, Lloyd?” I ask.
“Hang the expense. Do whatever it takes to get the story, OK?”
“OK,” I’m a little stunned at his words.
“Sure Lloyd; whatever it takes,” I assure him.
“And Matt…” he adds. “You realize that I’d only send my very best on a story like this one, so don’t let me down.”
“Don’t worry, Lloyd. Kelly and I won’t let you down,” I promise him.
“I’m counting on that. Just remember: If you do let me down, there will be hell to pay,” he warns, wearing an aloof grin.
Only Lloyd could give a backdoor compliment of being the best in one breath, and then threaten you with the loss of your job with the next. I smile at the irony of it, as I step into the elevator.
As Kelly and I rush to the airport, we both are silently entangled in our own deep thoughts; another plane crash. This time it is Air Force One. Was the President actually on board? Were there any survivors or were all killed on impact?
Ordinarily in such a situation as this, I would usually be wondering if the crash of Air Force One was due to pilot error, machine malfunction, or terrorist attack. But now, because I know what I know, I have suspicion that the crash of Air Force One has been caused by a more ominous and sinister culprit.
It has all of the telltale signs. A prominent public figure being killed in some grotesque, sensational, and spectacular way that makes the whole world stand up and take notice.
I wonder how much panic, frenzy, and trouble this day in history will bring to the future of mankind. Yes, the whole world will be talking about this for years to come. What really happened, who or what really caused the crash? Was it an assassination, a terrorist attack, a conspiracy, or just a freak accident?
This was no assassination, or terrorist attack, nor was it due to any accident by human error. This was accomplished by a conspiracy of intrigue, not by fellow humans, but by creatures no one even knows exist.
I suspect that from somewhere behind the scenes, some infamously sinister evildoer has stealthily planned and plotted this underhanded scheme, distracting the world into a cataclysmic pandemonium. What a horrible and ingeniously morbid way to distract people of their attention!
How much of what has happened in our world’s history has been blamed upon acts of God, human error, terrorism, hatred and greed; when all this time it has been the masterminding scheme of the Fathers of Myth.
The Author
Richard Wyatt
Richard Wyatt was born and raised on a small dairy farm in the small rural town of Lebanon, Oregon. After school, he married his childhood sweetheart Charlotte. They raised four children of their own and now live in Lanai, Hawaii and have been married for thirty-four years. His wife, Charlotte, is a successful impressionistic and silk artist, while Richard loves to write, build wildwood furniture, and has adventured throughout Africa, The Middle East, Asia, and Central America as research for future story ideas.
Fathers of Myth, Wyatt, Richard
Wyatt, Richard Page 33
