When Wright was elected he decided to reward his old friend for campaigning for him, and for the very generous contribution Morrison made to his election campaign.
“What do you want, Jim? Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State? Heck, you still have that law degree you only used for a couple of years. How about Attorney General?”
Morrison scratched his head and said, “Which one will give me my own plane?”
“Hell, any of them, I think. If not, we’ll make it happen.”
In the end Morrison chose the Secretary of State position, was duly appointed and blew through the friendly Senate’s confirmation process.
His only qualification for the position seemed to be that he’d jetted all over the world and had vacationed in Europe every spring for the previous seven years.
When news of Pak Chung’s defection arrived via top secret cable he was practicing his putting in his office.
The defection intrigued him.
His secretary asked how he wanted to respond and he said, “Hell, bring him here. Maybe we can have a beer together and he can entertain us for an afternoon.”
When Bryan showed up alone late that afternoon to report that Pak had died on the plane, and that foul play was suspected, Morrison replied nonchalantly, “Oh, well. I didn’t believe that nonsense about an invasion anyway.”
The United States ignored its one and only warning that it might be attacked.
On the up side, though, Secretary of State Morrison’s putting game has been much improved since he started his afternoon practice sessions.
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June 11 1900 Hours Local
Anaheim, California
It’s a right of passage for teenaged girls in the United States to spend their high school years searching for the man of their dreams. Someone mature enough to spend their lives with, to father their children, to make all their dreams come true.
Of course, most of them look back in their later years and wonder how they could have been so foolish.
For they don’t realize until later how ridiculous they were.
It’s only then they know that:
There are no men in high school, perfect or otherwise.
None of the boys are mature, or even close to it, at that age.
High school boys might have the capability of fathering children. That doesn’t mean they should, because they can barely take care of their own needs at that point.
That dream in a high school girl’s mind which tells her the boy she’s in love with will spend his entire life with her is a pipe dream and nothing more.
Okay, granted, one occasionally hears about a couple who were high school sweethearts and are now celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Hats off to them.
But statistics show the odds of such a heavenly match are only one in sixteen hundred.
For the other one thousand five hundred ninety nine, it doesn’t happen.
High school girls in America think they’ll find their life partner there but almost never do. Still, it’s a right of passage for them to try.
It’s also an American tradition, of sorts, for the parents of those girls to disapprove of every single guy their daughters bring home.
Usually for good reason.
Cyndee Mason brought home Darren Spence her freshman year at Anaheim High School.
No, actually that’s not true.
She didn’t actually bring him home. Neither of them could drive.
He rode his bicycle over.
But it still counted.
“Mom, Dad… this is Darren,” she said through her braces with just a tiny hint of a lisp. “We’re gonna get married someday.”
Cyndee’s mom stifled a laugh, and her dad played along.
He shook Darren’s hand and asked him, “What kind of job do you have, young man?”
“Um… ninth grade, sir.”
“I see. Do you plan to go to college?”
“Um… yes sir. But I can’t until I finish high school.”
“Any man who marries my daughter has to graduate from collage first and have a good job.”
“Yes sir. I will. I promise.”
Darren was a sweet kid, rather nerdy, whose black-rimmed glasses were constantly trying to run away from him. Perhaps they just didn’t like him. More likely it was that his almost-nothing of a nose was so oily they kept slipping down.
He was constantly using his index finger to push them back up to the bridge.
Their marriage plans fell apart when she met a guy named Marty later in the school year.
Marty was an upgrade for Cyndee.
He had a skateboard and long hair. Two things absolutely essential in winning a fourteen year old girl’s heart.
Again, she brought home her future husband.
Again, her parents were less than impressed.
Again, she traded in Marty after a few months for another guy.
By the time she met Jared, Cyndee was a high school junior. And she’d gone through seven guys during her high school career to finally find her perfect man.
She was so convinced she finally gave in and gave away something priceless that young women can only give away once.
And she had no regrets.
Jared was better than most of the guys she’d brought home to meet her parents. He had a car he was paying for himself, and worked part time at a burger joint to give him the means to do so.
He was respectful and courteous. He held the door for Cyndee and carried her books. He made sure she put her seatbelt on and talked her into giving up smoking.
All in all he made a respectable impression, at least to Cyndee’s mom.
Of course, she had no idea the couple was skipping school and having sex.
Cyndee’s father was lukewarm.
No one is ever good enough for a father’s baby girl, you see. A Mensa candidate bound for MIT with a multi-million dollar trust fund and a golden ticket to any career he chose could come knocking on the door.
A father would grant him little more than an “Ehhhh, he’s okay I guess.”
Come spring of senior year, the couple was still going strong. They were preparing for graduation and had pre-enrolled in Buena Park College, where they planned to follow two different disciplines but take several classes together.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Mom,” Cyndee confided to her mother one morning over breakfast. “What does it mean when your period doesn’t come when it’s supposed to?”
Now, Cyndee knew very well what it meant when her period was late. She was very intelligent for her age, and had taken two classes on sex education.
Teenaged girls know two things about discussing uncomfortable things with their parents.
When they have such conversations with their fathers, they call him “Daddy.” For doing so melts her father’s heart and reminds him how vulnerable she is.
When they talk to their mothers in the same situation, they play dumb. Doing so reminds their mothers that they’re still young and naïve. That such kids still make a lot of mistakes. And that they need encouragement and guidance much more than they need chastisement and punishment.
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After a lot of yelling, a lot of apologies, a lot of tears, the decision was made that Cyndee would put her college plans on hold. She’d continue to live at home after graduation, and Jared would put away eighty percent of each paycheck until such time they could find a small place for themselves and the baby.
Cyndee’s father secretly hoped Jared would be ancient history by then.
Three weeks later Cyndee miscarried.
It was as though her body decided on its own this whole baby thing was a bad idea and neither of them was ready for it.
More tears, more sadness.
When all the dust settled, though, the young couple realized they’d dodged a bullet.
Both made a vow to each other to be more careful.
Mom and Dad had lost any respect they mi
ght have had for Jared and openly disapproved of the alliance.
They openly encouraged Cyndee to shop for another guy. One who respected her enough to stay clear of certain parts of her body.
All of Cyndee’s efforts to remind her parents that it takes two to tango and she was just as guilty as Jared fell on deaf ears; they wanted him out of her life for good.
In that respect, theirs was a typical Romeo and Juliet story; one which takes place hundreds of times each and every day across the United States.
Cyndee had grown up in Anaheim and was quite mature for her age.
By the time she was twelve her folks trusted her to walk to Disneyland, just a few short blocks from their house, and to spend the day with her friends.
Sometimes on Sunday afternoons in the spring and summer she and her friends would walk a few blocks in the other direction. They’d take in an Angels baseball game and still make it home in time for dinner.
Cyndee was what some people call a wanderer. She loved to go to new places, meet new people, try new things.
She never met a person she feared, and she never met a person she didn’t like.
When they were choosing their fields of study at Buena Park College she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do.
“Well,” the guidance counselor said, “What kinds of things do you like to do?”
Her response was short and sweet.
“Travel, animals and the ocean.”
She was still a few months from starting classes. She still hadn’t graduated from high school.
But the field she chose, marine biology, seemed to suit her perfectly.
When she and Jared lay upon a blanket in the grass of her back yard, watching the stars shoot across the night sky, they talked about places they wanted to go.
“How many states have you been to?” he asked her one night.
She wasn’t sure, and counted them on her fingers.
“Let’s see… we drove to Texas for my grandmother’s funeral when I was seven. That’s Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. And California, of course, since I’ve lived here all my life.
“That’s… let’s see… four. And we went to see the Hoover Dam and drove into Utah while we were there. So, six. I’ve been to six states. Why? How about you?”
“I’ve never left the state of California.”
“Really, Jared? Not even once?”
“Really. Not even once. I’ve got relatives in San Diego and some more in Sacramento. I’ve been to both places lots of times. But I’ve never left the state.”
“Wow. We’re both gonna have to start traveling more.”
“That’s one of my goals. To travel to every single state in the union before I die.
“And several countries too.”
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”
“No, what?”
“I’ve always wanted to hop on a freight train as it pulls out of the Los Angeles rail yard. Those things go all the way to the east coast, I hear. And then eventually they come back. If you can climb onto one of their cars you can see the whole country for absolutely nothing.
“What an adventure that would be.”
“Can I ask you a question, Cyndee?”
“Of course, baby. What is it?”
“How come your parents don’t like me anymore? Is it because I made you pregnant?”
She paused for a moment, chewing on her words.
“Partly. They blame you more than me, and they shouldn’t, because I wanted it too. It wasn’t like you forced yourself on me, but I think they have this mental block that their sweet little girl certainly couldn’t have been okay with it.
“I don’t think they don’t like you anymore. I think it’s more that they don’t trust you. They think we’re going to let it happen again.”
‘They give me the cold shoulder now every time I come over. They used to call me their ‘future son-in-law’ and your mom used to hug me. Your dad used to take me fishing and to ball games. Now he barely says hello when I come over.
“Do you think they’re trying to send me a message that I should break up with you?”
“I don’t know, babe. Maybe. But if you love me…”
“I do. I honestly do.”
“… then you should ignore them. Whatever they may try to do to break us apart, we need to be stronger.”
“What do I do if they tell me to stop coming over?”
“Tell them you love me, and I love you. And if they won’t let you come over I’ll just sneak out to see you. And that it’s safer for everybody to let us visit at our house instead of God knows where.”
“I suppose.”
“You know what I’d really like to do? If it gets too rough, I mean?”
“What?”
“I’d like for you to take all that money you’ve been saving for our apartment. And I’d like to hop on that freight train you want to ride, and to see the whole country with you.
“I think that would be the coolest thing.”
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July 12, 1045 hours local
In heavy woods 73 kilometers north of
Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan
Every nation in the world has cities and towns with colorful names.
But Canada does it best.
Texas has its Muleshoe, and Arkansas has its Toad Suck.
But the winner of the coolest name in the world definitely goes to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada.
Vladimir Ketchov’s friends called him Vlad. Not Vlad the Impaler; that’s a different story altogether. If they really wanted to saddle him with a longer nickname, they could have chosen Vlad the Snorer.
For when he snored he could drown out a freight train passing by at full power.
Vlad had been married and divorced twice in his life, by women who enjoyed their rest at night and finally had enough with his snoring.
But here’s the thing, though.
He snored incredibly loud. And it did indeed create havoc in his life.
But he didn’t snore all the time.
That’s not unusual, by the way. Actually it’s quite common.
Vlad only snored when there were certain pollens or types of dust in the air. He was allergic to maple pollen and pine dust, but they typically made him cough and sneeze.
He wasn’t allergic to, but was sensitive to, several other pollens and dusts. For those, he didn’t cough and sneeze. But he did tend to snore.
Very loudly, in fact.
Vladimir was gung-ho to go when he learned of the secret mission.
He told his mother and father he didn’t know where he was going, and that he couldn’t tell them if he did know.
“But,” he said with a wink, “Don’t be surprised if I send you a letter with a postal stamp that says “Occupied New York City.”
Then he realized he may have crossed a line and he begged his parents, “Please. Tell no one I said that to you.”
Vlad had always been the underachiever of his family. He was the smallest and most frail of the four brothers. He was the only one of the sons who didn’t excel in sports. He got the worst grades of any of the children in school. Even his sister Lutia, who he considered dumb as a rock, graduated higher in her class than he did in his.
Now twenty seven, Vlad hadn’t accomplished anything of note in his lifetime.
He was desperate to make his mark.
He’d always been an above average soldier. As a company clerk he was around many Red Army officers, some of flag grade. He worked hard to impress them, thinking a medal or citation signed by a high ranking general would hold a place of distinction on his parents’ living room wall.
It would outshine those university degrees that three of his siblings had already hung there.
When he overheard two high-ranking colonels talking about a top secret mission the Red Army was planning, Vlad started reading classified papers he had no business reading.
Then he talked a major into submitting his name as a volunteer
.
He was lucky he wasn’t court-martialed and shot, for he was playing with fire.
Somehow, though, he got away with it.
Investigators came to the house and questioned his mother and father. They questioned his neighbors, his teachers, the local police.
They could find no dirt on Vladimir.
He passed the first round of vetting.
In the second round he received a thorough medical exam.
His lungs and his sinuses were clear, his septum wasn’t inflamed or swollen. He went through the process when allergens were very low, and doctors saw nothing to indicate he might suffer snoring or breathing problems.
He seemed to have enough strength to carry a forty pound ruck through heavy woods for long distances, as long as he wasn’t rushed.
There was a seventeen page questionnaire pertaining to his medical history. But for the question: “Do you or have you ever snored or had night terrors?” he answered no.
It wasn’t that he was intentionally trying to game the system, necessarily.
It was instead that he thought the question stupid.
All his life he’d suffered from occasional snoring. It was part of being Vlad. He’d learned to live with it, as had everyone he’d ever slept in close proximity with. Including the soldiers in his barracks.
It had never been an issue before; why make it one now?
If he’d asked one of the physicians about it he’d have been told why it was an issue.
“It’s our understanding that you’ll be in a foreign land somewhere, hiding from locals who will be hunting for you.
“It would not be good for your health if they were able to find your hiding place because your snoring led them to it.”
The doctors administering the exam never explained that to him.
Because he lied on the survey form.
Because he thought the question was stupid.
Vlad the Snorer passed the physical and was placed in the hold of a fake fishing vessel at the Bering Sea port of Zaliv Kresta.
Two weeks later he was dropped on the Canadian shore with two hundred comrades. They were told to break into small groups and to proceed through heavy woods to their first checkpoint a hundred kilometers east.
Without Warning Page 7
