by Eddie Jones
“But why?”
“Someone, and I’m not at liberty to say who, accidentally uploaded classified Department of Defense information onto his mobile.”
“What sort?”
“Nuclear launch codes.”
“But how? I thought we had layers and layers of security to keep this sort of thing from happening.”
“Someone in our department goofed, OK? No need to point fingers.”
“Don’t we have redundancy for this sort of thing? Aren’t there like two soldiers in a silo with duplicate keys and a Presidential ‘football.’”
“We live in a virtual world now, Fortune. After nine-eleven, the NSA put a program in place to give the President nuclear strike capability from anywhere. Bush Jr. was really hamstrung in the school in Florida. Wanted to blast somebody but couldn’t until he got to a bunker. So we’ve been testing a beta version of piece of software called—get this—Asteroids. The head of the team is a huge video game fan.”
“Some days I can’t believe we’re still a super-power.”
“Just make sure you get his cell before he figures out what he has; then call me back. I’ll walk you through how to delete the files.”
“We’re supposed to meet at the dive shop in the morning.”
“That’ll be too late. We need this right now.”
“Please, sir. Don’t make me do this. If I go to his cabin now he’ll think I’ve changed my mind.”
“Maybe you should. He’s not a bad catch, Fortune. A lot of women would love to be where you are right now.”
I doubt that. “Are you sure this is really necessary? I mean, it’s not like Boggs is going to know what to do with the information. He probably doesn’t even understand the difference between saturated and unsaturated fat.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Well, yeah. Take your average sandwich cookie for example. It has―”
“Just get that phone from him and wait for the rest of your team to arrive. They’ll handle things from there.”
“One last thing, sir. Do you happen to know who’s been leaving me these Hershey’s Kisses?”
“Gotta go. The White House is calling on the other line.”
8
In a soundproof room in the basement of the White House, uniformed men and one woman reclined in dark leather chairs around a long, mahogany table. The section chief for the southeastern sector of Central Security Service stood quietly in the corner, hands clasped behind his back. Ballpoint pens with the Presidential seal embossed on the stem lay on the table in front of Tommy “Two-Pin.” Beneath the pens were white legal pads also with the Presidential seal.
Communication cables snaked through a hole in the center of the table. Not once in all his years with the agency had Tommy been invited to the White House Situation Room. Now he stood listening as members of the National Security Council spoke in low tones. He felt a sense of awe, an aura of power—and career-ending, clean-out-your-desk dread. There could only be one reason he’d been summoned to the White House. The President knew about the launch codes and Boggs.
From the flat screen TV mounted on the far wall came the sound of muted cheers. Tommy looked up. His team had just suffered a nine-yard loss, taking them out of field goal range.
The door opened. A uniformed soldier snapped his heels together. “Atten-hut!”
Tommy watched as a small, leathery man with dimpled cheeks and a dusting of freckles strode into the room. The President of the United States paused at the end of the table and leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the varnished mahogany. “As you were.”
The group sat. All except Tommy, who stood, unsure of his role—or seat—at the table.
“What do we know so far?” asked the President.
The National Security Advisor shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Mr. President, we―”
“Hold on a sec, Connie. We’re missing someone.”
The President’s Chief of Staff spoke up. “CIA Director, sir. He’s prepping for the Sunday morning talk shows.”
“On a Friday night?”
“He’s got an early tee time tomorrow and tickets to the Yankees-Orioles game tomorrow afternoon.”
“Who’s that in the corner?”
Tommy looked down and brushed dog hair from his slacks.
“He’s with Central Security Service,” said the Chief of Staff.
“Didn’t even know there was such a thing.”
“An off-shoot of Homeland Security.”
The National Security Advisor spoke again. “Mr. President, we have reason to believe the Wicked Witch may be the target of a terrorist attack.”
“A Wicked what?”
“Luxury liner, sir. A class-two Soviet mine sweeper converted into a booze-and-cruise ship.”
“Is it one of ours?”
“Not exactly. The vessel is registered out of Panama. Intelligence confirms, and the CIA Director would vouch for this if he were here, that the ship is owned by a syndicate run by some very influential political groups that contributed to your last campaign.”
“Such as?”
“The American Bankers Group, National Beer Wholesalers, The Association of Used Car Salesmen, Democracy First Healthcare Second, and the Center for the Preservation of Lobbyists.”
“So, what you’re telling me is, this ship is a front for PAC money and now it’s under attack?”
“Not yet, but we think a group of Cuban nationals may try to hijack it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Not sure. All we know for certain is that the longer we wait, the greater the chance this thing becomes a political embarrassment for your administration.”
“How so?”
“Congressman Boggs is on that ship.”
“That bozo? Why?”
“Went down to the Bahamas for a fund raising event. He’s giving a speech at the Diana Cole Smyth Spa and Casino ground-breaking ceremony.”
“The things we politicians will do for campaign money. How long?”
“About 214-feet.”
“I meant how long before the Cubans attack?”
“Hard to say. We don’t have good intelligence in that area.”
“What kind of area are we talking about?”
“The Bermuda Triangle.”
The President turned to the Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman. “Fritz, what do we have that’s close by?”
“Sir, I’ve ordered the ‘Rough Riders’ to be put on high alert. They can be in the Old Bahamas Channel in less than two hours.”
“Tell me about their capabilities.”
“The fleet consists of a Los Angeles-class attack submarine, two guided missile destroyers, three battle cruisers, four frigates and the USS Nix aircraft carrier.”
“That’s code for some serious firepower, right?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m just saying if we wanted to blow up something like, say, Brazil, we wouldn’t need anything else, right?”
“Only for mop-up purposes, Mr. President.”
“You there. In the corner. Got any thoughts on this?”
Tommy looked down and answered. “Ah—no, sir. I—we haven’t had a chance to make an appraisal of the situation.”
“Spoken like a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. Could use a few more of those around here,” said the President, glaring at the Assistant to the President for Economic Policy. “Okay, it’s almost eleven. Assuming there’s a legitimate threat of attack on that cruise ship, when do I give the order?”
The Joint Chiefs of Staff cleared his throat. “That’s where it gets complicated, sir. There’s a tropical storm stationed over the Gulf Stream. Bert, they’re calling it.”
“I don’t know much about tropical cyclones, but Bert seems like a pretty lame name for a storm. What’s next, Ernie?”
“Yes, it’s in the rotation, sir. Reports from NOAA say Bert is expected to increase in strength during the next few hours—possi
bly into a category two hurricane. Right now it’s tracking back out into the Atlantic, but a high pressure system dropping down from the Carolinas may push it back south and west.”
“Connie, is there any good news in any of this?”
“Boggs is polling in the low teens, so maybe the public won’t care if he and the ship go off the grid.”
“All right, keep me posted. And I need someone to call the CIA Director and remind him these little chit-chats are mandatory.”
“Anything else, Mr. President?”
“You there. What’s your name?”
“Tommy, sir.”
“Timmy, you need to lighten up. We’re all one big happy family, isn’t that right?” Averted stares. “I said, ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”
“YES, MR PRESIDENT!”
“Class dismissed.”
9
Anna showed her credentials to the portly guard slumped in a beach chair at the base of the boarding ramp. He grunted and pointed up the gang-plank. She hurried aboard the ship, silently praying. “Lead him not into temptation. Lead him not into temptation…”
On the main deck she found a cocktail waitress and asked directions to Boggs’s room. Two flights up, she followed the squeaks of laughter and the Congressman’s baritone guffaws. Knocking on the door, she prayed. “Lord, deliver me from evil because I gotta tell you, I think this one’s about as vile as they come.”
The door flew open revealing a large suite crowded with women wearing short bathrobes knotted at the waist. Boggs’s harem knelt, sat, and lounged about the room, sorting mounds of cash. A small machine on the floor whirred as a buxom blonde gathered the small green bricks into piles. Apparently, the slots on the cruise ship (and Boggs’s political supporters) were paying off big. Through a door leading to an adjacent room, Anna spied a wall safe (door open) and mini-refrigerator (door closed).
Boggs strolled in from the bedroom, sockless and shirttail out, with a drink in his hand.
“Hey, now lookie who changed her mind. Girls, I want ya’ll to meet someone. This here is Anna Fortune. She’s part of my security detail.”
“I need to speak to you,” said Anna. “In private.”
“It’ll have to wait. Got to finish bundling up all this here cash. Been wondering where I was going to get the money for my next ad buy and then…” he made a sweeping motion around the room. “This just showed up. Am I one lucky Texan, or what?” He palmed a brick of bills and thumbed the edges, studying the portrait on the front. “These Bahamians, they sure do like that funny-looking Queen Lady. When I’m elected President and get put in charge of printing money, I might gonna put one of ya’ll on one’em.”
“Which one?” asked a petite brunette.
“Dunno. Maybe the five. That Franklin fellow reminds me of a toad.”
“He’s on the hundred,” said Anna.
“I meant which one of us?” asked the brunette.
The girls stopped counting and began posing as if they were auditioning for a photo shoot.
Boggs, apparently realizing his mistake, slugged back his drink. “What say we just put all this cash in the safe and head to the pool?”
Women shrieked and the room emptied as his staff padded off to their rooms.
Anna strolled to a map tacked to the wall. The political landscape was a mess. Blue pins in the red states. Red pins in the blue states. Across the heartland, purple pins for the states too close to call. There were no states with Boggs’s name on them, though he seemed to be polling strong in North Dakota.
“You change your mind about that swim?” Boggs asked, wrapping his arms around her waist. He ran a lizard tongue across the nape of her neck.
Gritting her teeth, she hissed. “No. There’s just something I need to do.”
“Me too,” he said, sliding a hand across her blouse.
She bent back his thumb. “Stop! Please,” she said, squirming free.
“Ah, come on. Just having a little fun. What say you and me do a little pre-election gerrymandering?” His hand roamed over her hips.
She bucked him off and elbowed him in the ribs. “You need to slow down.”
“What’s the matter? You still think you’re too good for old Wild Bill?”
He slammed into her, pinned her against the map, wrapped his big arms around her middle, and pawed at the waistband of her slacks.
“Please, no.” Oh, God, please make him stop…
“Relax, you just let old Wild Bill work his magic,” he said, panting.
“You’re hurting me!”
“Still saving yourself for marriage?” He whispered, licking her ear.
“Please, Bill, you promised!” She tried to wiggle free, but he pushed harder, suffocating her under his weight.
“Not ‘til you make a little contribution to my campaign.”
With the flat wooden heel of her sandal she stomped his foot and pushed him back toward Kansas. He caught her near Des Moines and pulled her back. With his hands clawing at the front of her blouse, she came up fast with her knee and nailed him just a little south of Mississippi, dropping him into southern Texas. Boggs fell to his knees, moaning as he bent forward.
Anna bolted from the room, exited the hallway, and hurried down the flight of stairs, jogging past the security guard napping at the bottom of the gangplank. She didn’t stop running until she reached her bungalow.
Inside, with the front door bolted and blinds closed, she locked herself in the bathroom and placed the Congressman’s cell phone on the back of the toilet.
“Turn the other cheek and look what it gets me,” she said, turning on the shower. “Touch me again, you pervert, and you’ll be eating your meals through a straw.”
10
A rooster crowed long before the sun peeked through the bars at the end of his hallway. A purple darkness filled his cell. In the next room, a drunk snored.
Sonny sat up, scratching bug bites. It was hard to believe that it had been almost twenty years since he’d crawled onto the bus headed to Fort Jackson and politely told God he could manage affairs just fine, thank you very much. Talk about getting what you ask for. Half a lifetime gone, lovers, friends, and family lost and he was no closer to finding life’s purpose and meaning than he was the day he dropped into the mud and gave his drill instructor his first fifty pushups.
He took a swipe at a cockroach scurrying across his blanket and missed.
Staring at the ceiling, he could barely make out the outline mesh cage covering the light bulb.
“Hey? Anybody up there?”
The drunk in the next cell snorted.
“God, if You’re there, I think it’s about time we had a little talk.”
There was a cough from the adjoining cell.
“I know I got no call to ask You for anything, not after the way I cussed you. Guess I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry. But if You’re not too busy, I could use some help. I’ve managed to get myself into a spot where I can’t lie, cheat, or steal my way out of. It’s just You and me and I’m not even sure there is a You, anymore. But if You are there, then I’m asking. What now? You want I should just give up? Just forget I ever knew her? Do her like You done me?”
He slid off his bunk and dropped to his knees. Clasping his hands together, he bowed his head, inhaling the smell of urine and vomit. “All right, here I am. A sinner, like Mom always said I was. No point acting like everything’s OK ‘cause it’s not, but then You know that, already. Caused it, I suspect. Paying me back for all the wrong I’ve done. Or at least You allowed it. Allowed a lot more too, but I won’t throw that back on You, seeing as how I need a favor.”
Silence. No still, small voice. No Scripture clanging off the walls of his memory. “Don’t act like You don’t know what I’m talking about ‘cause I know You do. Can You help me, just this once? I ain’t asked for much—ever. Figured You were too busy taking care of them go-to-church-on-Sunday Christians to worry much about old Sonny. But I’m asking now. Can you fix this? I don
’t care about the cancer. That’s just the cost of living, I guess. But Anna, I’d like to see her once more. Please?”
Sonny listened. Only the sound of heavy breathing filled his cell. A spring squeaked. In the next cell came the hollow sound of an empty metal pail filling as a cellmate relieved himself.
“Yeah, ‘bout what I figured. I’m pretty disgusted with me, too.”
He stood, stretched, and then lay on his bunk, linking hands behind his head and closing his eyes. He remembered the way she looked that last time.
He hadn’t realized he’d been sleeping until the cell door banged open. The guard stood in the hallway.
“Find my wallet?”
“Waitress did. Tried your credit card. Declined. What else you got?”
“Bed mites,” said Sonny, scratching his scalp. “Can’t I just wire you the money?”
“Like we gonna trust a man who’d steal a golf cart.”
“Borrowed, not stole. And I promise I’m good for it. Maybe I could work off my debt. Got some chores that need doing?”
“Like?”
“I dunno. Mowing grass, picking up trash?”
The guard left and returned a few minutes later jingling a ring of keys and holding Sonny’s sign-in form. “It says here, you sell toilet paper? Is that right?”
“And packaging supplies, shrink wrap, carton sealing tape, shipping labels, Kraft paper, corrugated sheets, corner board, bubble wrap, inflatable packaging, poly foam, steel strapping―”
“But you do sell potty paper, right?”
Sonny nodded.
The guard unlocked the cell door and stepped back. “Come with me.”
Sonny waited outside the police station blinking his eyes against the harsh light of the sun. A compact police cruiser, not much larger than a Hot Wheels car, pulled up to the curb, its tailpipe rattling, the lenses of its blue light cracked. The car was painted lime green with rust side-trim. The officer reached across the seat, and thumbed open the passenger door. Sonny crawled in, the backs of his legs sticking to the hot plastic seat. The car sped off.
