The Orion Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  Morgan turned down the heat under the pan filled with blackening butter, shook his head, and turned to grip her shoulders. “Slow down little princess. Those eggs will cook up fine if you relax a bit. And if you don’t set yourself on fire.” Felicity tried to reach for an egg but Morgan refused to release her until he had rolled up one sleeve, then the other, past her elbows.

  “Now how else can I help?” Morgan asked.

  “Do you know how to make a hollandaise?”

  “Nope. I don’t care, and neither does Uncle Sean. He’s a simple guy, and so am I. Make us something easy while I go get him up.”

  So it was that the trio enjoyed a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. Then they climbed into Felicity’s Paris car, a Mercedes Benz 450SL convertible, for the three hour drive to the race course. Morgan sat beside Felicity and opened a map. She stared for a moment, memorizing her route, and pulled into the brisk Parisian traffic

  “You know, I’ve never ridden in a Mercedes Benz,” Sean said from the back seat.

  “Actually, it only looks like a normal Mercedes,” Felicity said. “It’s really an AMG Hammer. Car’s so responsive the company makes you go to a special seminar to learn how to handle it.”

  “Things ain’t always what they seem,” Morgan said. “That goes for people just as much as cars. So don’t be surprised if the Belgians turn out to be a surprise. Where they live makes them weird people.”

  “Why’s that?” Sean asked.

  “Oh, no.” Felicity muttered under her breath as she pulled the car up onto the autoroute. “More philosophy.”

  “You might expect Belgians to be kind of like the Irish,” Morgan said, making a point of ignoring Felicity. “After all, Belgium’s temperature norms are about the same as Ireland’s, and both countries do border on the same ocean. The difference in latitude is nominal. But still, there’s this basic difference in climate. I mean, they can’t get that steady hanging mist in this country, like they’ve got over in Ireland. That romantic fog they’ve always got in the U.K.? It can’t survive here. Know why?”

  “All right, lad, I’ll bite,” Sean said. “Tell us why.”

  “It’s because it never goes forty-eight hours in this place without raining. I’m convinced the weather has a real affect on the people here.”

  “I see they’re not shy about driving,” Sean said. “Do they have speed limits here?”

  “It’s a hundred ten kilometers on the autoroutes, Uncle Sean, but drivers here pretty much ignore it. Not to worry. This baby can do almost three times that.”

  “Yeah, and she’s not afraid to push it,” Morgan said.

  The highway segment of the trip was smooth and uneventful. In the province of Liege, they branched off the main road, heading for the twin cities of Spa and Francorchamps. In minutes they were navigating streets as narrow and twisted as a politician’s man. Morgan picked up his narrative as if he had never left the subject.

  “Look around Uncle Sean, and you’ll see what I mean. The Irishman’s full of life, you know. When he’s had too much beer, he’s as likely to burst into song as anything else. Belgians are hard and grim. They drink their beer in gloomy little places. And they get a lot of their emotional release from driving too fast on these twisted, narrow streets. You can see how all the buildings are brick here, and usually painted gray. Not like the colorfully painted homes and thatch cottages you’ve got in Ireland.”

  A family on the street caught his attention. “Look at those guys. People don’t dress colorfully here, or even speak colorfully. They’re not bad people, or rude like the French. Just dull.” Morgan turned to face Sean to finalize his point. “It’s got to be the rain.” He was stunned to see his adopted uncle riding with his eyes clamped shut. His hands were folded in an attitude of prayer. Morgan wondered if he had been that way the whole trip.

  Following Morgan’s directions they arrived at the race course without an accident or a ticket. After showing passes, the three travelers strolled down to the pit area. Morgan caught the familiar smells of grease, engine exhaust and spilled gasoline. He spotted four mechanics in white uniform overalls and another man sitting to the side. He was short and slight but wiry, like a jockey. His hair was jet black, his nose long and upturned. When he saw the visitors, he snapped to his feet and rushed forward, hand outstretched. Morgan took the hand and found the shake firm. Small fingers threatened to cut into Morgan’s hands.

  “Ah, you must be Mister Stark. And this would be Miss O’Brien and Mister Sullivan. I am Jacques Marten. You will call me Jacques. We have an excellent crew assembled and I am told by our employer that we are to extend to you every courtesy. I assure you…”

  “Calm down, pal,” Morgan said. “And please, call me Morgan.” He was sure Martens considered him some eccentric friend of the wealthy Mrs. Seagrave. Some bored rich fellow fulfilling a fantasy of riding in a motorcycle grand prix. Or maybe he figured Morgan to be a journalist like that George Plimpton guy who would write about the experience. Well no harm there, but for a pit crew to work well they would need strong communication. That would require an informal atmosphere.

  “My friends and I are new at this,” Morgan said. “We’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve got a lot to learn in a short time. The first thing we need to do is meet everybody. Then I’d like to meet the bike, and maybe take her for a tour of the track. Okay?”

  “We will help all we can, but I am the only one here who speaks English. My team is French and Belgian.”

  “Not a problem, Jacques,” Morgan said, smiling and shaking his shoulder. “I learned a certain amount of pidgin French in Vietnam, and Felicity here is fluent in the language.”

  Introductions were made in short order. Felicity impressed the mechanics with her agility in their language. Sean became intrigued by the power tools and special equipment involved. The team seemed positive and pleasant enough, an easy group to work with. Amid the growing camaraderie, Morgan asked where he could change and walked into the back rest area to suit up.

  Morgan was happy to find a custom made black leather racing outfit waiting for him there. He was anxious to try the bike out. As he stripped, Felicity followed him and closed the door. There was no change in his actions. Their bodies held no secrets for each other.

  “That was an amusing speech you made in the car on our way here,” Felicity said. “How do you know so much about this little country? Been here a lot?”

  “I’ve made a lot of money here,” Morgan replied, wriggling into tight leather pants with peculiar knee pads. “I was a diplomat for a little while.”

  “A diplomat? You?”

  “Yes, Red, a diplomat,” Morgan said, pulling on protective boots. “For more than one third world country, I’ll have you know. It was part of my fee for merc work, sort of a perk for services rendered. It came in mighty handy because, armed with that diplomatic immunity, I was able to sell my signature at the bottom of end user certificates.”

  “That’s got something to do with arms sales, right?”

  “Right the first time,” Morgan said, pulling on and zipping the leather jacket. “If I signed the certificate that would testify that the little country I represented was the actual end user of those weapons. That paper made the manufacturer, the shipper and the dealer all look legit. For my signature and handling the logistics with Fabrique Nationale, the local arms manufacturer, I made big money with little risk.”

  “All for buying in some country’s name? How much can there be in that?”

  “It set me up for life,” he replied, dragging on heavy leather gauntlets. “The last purchase I brokered was for fifteen million dollars worth of FN/FAL’s for one small African country building an army to fight the commies. My commission was twelve and a half percent of that. Expenses involved in the delivery ate up nearly half of it, but I still did okay.”

  Felicity chuckled. “I’m sure. You’ll have to tell me that whole story some day.”

  “Sure, Red. But right now, let’s go
meet my new bike.”

  When Morgan strolled out to the motorcycle, Jacques fell in behind him. They stopped and stared together at the machine, which was painted a deep reflective black with vivid, vibrant orange and blue stripes. The yellow number seven on the sides was echoed by another under the windshield. The name “Seagrave” stretched across the body in big white letters. “Michelin” and “Champion” stood in smaller letters on the rear of the gas tank.

  Morgan raised a thoughtful eyebrow. In his view this thing was neither fish nor foul, that is, neither Yamaha nor Honda. He knew that neither Harley Davidson nor Triumph ever appeared on these tracks. The bike had a longer wheelbase than any five hundred cc grand prix machine he had ever seen. And the front suspension looked more like a car’s MacPherson strut than the usual telescopic forks on motorcycles.

  “It’s an Elf,” Jacques said, interrupting Morgan’s thoughts.

  “A what?”

  “We bought it from the Elf petroleum company,” Jacques said. “Honda is working with the design also.”

  “I see,” Morgan said, pulling on his helmet and climbing aboard the beast. “Anything I should know before I take a couple of laps?”

  “Just remember you’re holding a hundred and fifty horsepower with no fork up front. You can’t steer through corners. You’ll have to use the lean angle. Lean deep.”

  Morgan shook his head, saluted, and fired the bike up. For the first time he considered the course he was about to tackle. This track was almost seven kilometers of gradients wandering up and down. That meant a little more than four miles of very fast course ending with the long straightaway coming out of Les Combes down into Eau Rouge, considered by many to be the sharpest bend in motor racing. It was a beautiful course, slipping through the forests of the Ardennes. At that moment, it looked like an amusement park laid out just for him.

  Morgan roared out onto the track with a smooth burst of power, cruising to warm up the tires and attune himself to the bike. Carburetion seemed clean and he liked the cycle’s acceleration. The vibrations soon smoothed to nothing as Morgan tuned out everything except the track. As always on a racing bike, sound became a steady state for Morgan, soon imitating silence very well. The air was crisp to the taste. He settled in, got comfortable and started to become one with the machine.

  On the third lap, Morgan decided to test the motorcycle’s limits on the long straightaway. Opening up the throttle all the way, he wound the long Elf up to just under one hundred eighty miles per hour. She gave a triumphant roar. Machine and rider felt good. It was coming back to him faster than he had dared hope. Despite the wind blast tearing at him, Morgan decided he could hold one hundred ten going into the next turn. He heaved the bike over hard and extended his right knee, prepared for it to brush the ground.

  At the apex of the turn the steering jerked in a violent reaction and for a moment Morgan imagined himself rolling with his cycle across the center grass. Had he overdone it, he wondered? He managed to right the bike in time, looping far out on the track. In a race, that would cost him a place or two. He cursed himself for steering too much, and not leaning enough. He knew he had to listen to the man who had been riding that bike, and to remember it was not like anything he had ever been on before.

  At the end of the third lap, Morgan pulled into the pit. The entire ten man crew greeted him, but only Jacques and Felicity walked right up to the motorcycle.

  “How’s it feel?” Felicity asked when Morgan pulled his helmet off.

  “You mean how does the bike feel or how does it feel to nearly wipe out the first time on it?”

  “I want to know how you feel on the bike,” Jacques said. “Can you adjust to the handling?”

  “Jacques we’ve got a lot of work to do to get me up to speed. I’m having a little trouble changing directions. The steering’s set real heavy.”

  “It is good that you can feel the motorcycle’s quirks,” Jacques said, with a smile. “I do run the steering heavy. That’s so I can set the steering damper very light. I want to feel what the tires are doing without any, er…distortion. Is that the right word?”

  “Sure,” Morgan said, dismounting. “We’d better find all the little things about this monster that can kill me, and find them quick. And we’ll need to set up a training schedule for me. I’ll need my edges honed if I’m to stop O’Ryan from winning this race.”

  After a long silence, Jacques said “I suggest you stay away from Ian O’Ryan on the track. I’ve raced against him. Accidents happen around that man. That’s why he’s sometimes called `the widow maker’ by other racers.”

  - 23 -

  During the next three weeks, Morgan became a part of his race team and his motorcycle. The team took rooms in a modest nearby boarding house. Morgan altered his diet, stressing seafood and vegetables but refusing alcohol, even the famous Belgian beer. Every morning started as they had in Ireland, with push-ups, sit-ups and a run. He spent his days riding, or working on the bike, making small but crucial adjustments. He spent his evenings talking about the bike, the race, and his opponents, trying to absorb all he could about the upcoming event.

  At first Felicity observed this routine from a distance, knowing that Morgan had pretty much tuned her and her uncle out. After a couple of days she decided to drive to Brussels. She returned late in the afternoon with several books and an idea. At the end of day three she waited in Morgan’s room for him to return from a hot bath. She was sure she was a pleasant surprise, but his expression asked why she was there.

  “I’ve been searching for a way to help you win this race,” she told him. “The only thing I could think of was to reduce the tension and relax you. Get naked and lie down.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Morgan clutched at the towel which was his only garment.

  “Relax. I got some manuals and I’ve been studying up on massage. I plan to give you a good rub down every night.”

  They both chuckled and Morgan stretched out face down to let her get to work. She started high and worked her way slowly downward. After just a couple of minutes Morgan gave a surprised “Humph.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing bad,” Morgan said, moving his mouth as little as possible. “You had a good touch on my neck, light but firm. The really nice surprise was that you’ve got the strength to work my back muscles. You didn’t get all this from just reading some books, Red. You’re obviously a natural. And it’s just what I need after a day on that bike.”

  Felicity grunted and continued. She focused on the big latissimus dorsi that supported his spine and had held him erect for several hours on his motorcycle that day. In a few minutes she worked up a sweat herself, but she could feel the muscles loosening at last. She wondered if it was enough. Then the thought popped into her head that Morgan did indeed have a strong back, and she new somebody who no doubt appreciated that.

  “You know I was kidding around when you came in,” she said. “But I was wondering. Do you want me to try to find Claudette tomorrow? I mean, I’m sure she’d be happy to help you to relax in the more traditional way.”

  Morgan looked too calm to laugh, but he did manage a smile. “No thanks. I know it’s outmoded thinking, but when I’m really training up for something I avoid sex. I think I can convert that energy and the thin line of tension into something useful on the track. Claudette knows it too. That’s why she didn’t stick around.”

  On the morning of day four Felicity awoke a little late and a little sore. She took a longer than usual shower, easing her weary shoulder and back muscles. When she stepped out into another gray morning she began to wonder if the weather was affecting her the way Morgan thought it affected the local residents. When she reached the track she found her uncle already there. He was sitting alone in the bleacher seats, watching Morgan circle the track. She climbed up behind him and stood with her hands on his shoulders.

  “I hate to say it, but I’m getting bored,” she said without preamble. “You?”

  “Mos
tly, I feel kind of guilty,” Sean said.

  “Goes with being Catholic.”

  Sean shot a damning look over his shoulder. “Don’t start, girl. What I mean is, I feel this is all for me, and I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in the first place. But, aside from that, you’re right. There’s nothing here for an old man like me.”

  “I believe I have the solution to our mutual problem.” She dropped a map over his shoulders into his lap. “I’ve scheduled a little day trip for us. That ought to keep us busy.” She didn’t mention her other agenda. She thought it was also a perfect opportunity for her to get closer to her only living relative.

  They began with a short but pleasant drive to the ancient abbey of Stavelot, just a few miles south of Spa-Francorchamps. Sean knew well the castles and ancient churches of Ireland and England, but this was something new and different to him.

  In this unique setting, they also toured the “museum of the circuit.” It showed the history of the track at Spa-Francorchamps with eighty race cars, motorbikes and other vehicles.

  That success behind them, Felicity and Sean were soon following the winding roads with ease, exploring the lovely Ardennes Mountains. They became real tourists, learning a new country with plenty of time to spare.

  Felicity gravitated to stores, but shopping was not a pleasant experience for Sean. She found some factory outlets in Liege which offered beautiful crystal and lace, but her uncle made such a scene, she had to leave empty handed. He was still grumbling when they sat down at a corner tavern for a snack.

  “I don’t understand how that man could believe any of that bottle glass he sold could compare to fine Irish crystal.”

  “Is that what all this is about?” Felicity could not contain her laughter. “Uncle Sean, those pieces right in front of you were Waterford.”

  A waiter brought menus, saving Sean the embarrassment of answering her, but he could not hide the color creeping up his cheeks. This time Felicity stifled her laughter. She could feel herself slipping into her childhood habit of teasing her uncle as he struggled with the menu.