03 Sunday Nov 2019
Posted in News and Notes, Other Columns
Tags
This week’s TPC column will consist of yet another series of education stats and comments, somewhat related to today’s feature here – coming along shortly.
Also, I’m slowly working my way through the Kindle version of The Substitute as well as writing a prequel novella. Those you won’t want to miss. The work would go faster but for my stuffy nose and headache.
02 Saturday Nov 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
I’ve now seen a physical copy of The Substitute, and folks, it looks damned good!
Soon, I’m going to make a new video on the subject. I’ve now heard from several early readers that the thing really works, that it grabs the attention and doesn’t let go. That’s great to hear as the author. It’s a book with many levels and angles, a deep and important matter wrapped in a decent story with great characters. I was aware, pre-publication, that there was already a novel by the same name, featuring a substitute teacher. But, that work (which I suppose is a very good book too) is more of a girl’s romance fantasy(?) No relation beyond the title. And then, this week, someone made me aware of a smart boy on Farcebook who noted that there was a movie in the 90s by the same name. Again, there’s no relation. To my knowledge, there’s nothing else anywhere like my work. And, if you’re a movie or TV watcher, prone to Facebook philosophy, then I’ll go out on a limb and say that, even if you can read the book, you’ll miss the point. Sorry. Every one of the advance readers working on it now and commenting is at least a Mensa level thinker. That wasn’t the target audience, but it might help for a full appreciation. Anyway, I’ll have more in the video.
Some pictures:
See, Farcebookers, it’s 440 pages with no pictures. The cover, however, looks better in real life than on the digital previews. I’d give it an “A” but I could be biased.
31 Thursday Oct 2019
Posted in Other Columns
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The TPC Halloween Spook-tacular: “DUKE MARSHULA”
*Brought to you tonight by LIME CHIP! Soda
The Mor-Doh Pa$$, Newtonvania, a minute till midnight…
It was a cold, dark, dreary, and other foreboding adjective-laden night. An electric current haunted the cold, listless air. Young Ellis Harkersaps stared blankly at the dark, imposing figure, seated astride the imposing, dark horse. The neophyte solicitor’s lips quivered and quaked as a voice spoke words – words, cold, dark, and raspy – to disturb the dreary, electrified, miserable, lonely, et cetera evening vapors,
‘My Toyota is fast and my wives are hungry, my friend! You’re late.’
The stagecoach driver removed a gnawed cigar from his mouth, spat, and replied, ‘Geesh, muh Lard. Blimey, but it was a smidgeon to nab dis Angleshman from tha arms a them haggard gypsy Uber womans.’ He spat again and made exaggerated I-talian-esque hand gestures.
Upon receiving a polite, yet dire invitation from the horseman, Ellis Harkersaps departed the coach and stepped into the hollowed-out shell of a rusty Yaris coupe, rigged strangely behind the menacing, opaque horse. The coachman cracked his whip, cursed when the frayed leather ribbon snapped in half, and slowly plodded away. Ellis thought his captor-driver might have, in parting, called after, “Go Dawgs!”
Along a dark, narrow, winding, worn, untidy, ill-kept, and completely unsafe-looking path, the horseman led poor Ellis. Somewhere beyond sight, deep in the darkness under a sky without moon or stars, a cat mewed mournfully. Upon crossing what felt like a crumbling speed bump, the driver announced,
‘At last, my young friend, we are arrived at the magnificent CASTLE MARSHULA!! It is, you must know, available for rent, some weekends, via Air-B-n-B. Local taxes and moderate cleaning fees apply…’
The demented driver pulled the heap away at a crawl. Ellis surveyed the manor and huffed under his breath, ‘Castle?! Looks like a common, condemned and abandoned Rite-Aid…’
‘I heard that.’ A gravelly voice echoed from somewhere.
Ellis rang the bell. And waited. He rang once again. And waited. Thrice he rang. There was no answer. His fourth attempt was a knock, soft but firm. Finally, a shiver meandering down his back, he began kicking the cheap plywood door and screaming, ‘Goddammit! Let me in! It’s cold out here.’
The door opened. There, in the doorway, just inside the door, on the floor, stood, with a slight slouch, a bearded man in a dark caped-outfit. His terrible appearance almost made Ellis relish the cold out of doors. But, the sinister figure spoke kindly, if roughly,
‘Welcome, young Harkersaps of Porterdon. I am Duke Marshula. Welcome to my squatter’s pa… my little home … sweet home. Enter cheaply and leave a little of the cash you bring.’
Ellis unwisely entered and the Duke escorted him back to where the manager’s office in an old Rite-Aid might have once been located.
‘Weren’t you the guy just driving that junker? Anyway, I have the figures and forms you requested, Duke.’ Ellis spoke with a shudder of intrepid hesitation and through an imperfect countenance.
‘No, no, my young friend. No and no. I pay my, uh … driver uh, very well! And, for you – first, a little Newtonian hospitality. Perrinfield. PERRINFIELD! YOU IDIOT! Bring refreshments! For our victi… for our guest.’
Presently, there appeared a most shabbily dressed, lurching, stumbling figure of a man, bent and untamed to gaze upon. Ellis noted his budget-saving resemblance to the coachman. The troll carried with him a poor attitude and an ax. The toad spoke,
‘Hell. Jus got in… Well, not times like tha pressed net. I’ll quarter him up like a spring goose!’ He laughed a hideous cackle of maniacal insanity, his left eye rolling wildly.
‘Perrinfield, NO! Not yet… The wine?’ The Duke remonstrated, his palm covering his face.
‘Hack him, Perrinfield. Get him drunk, Perrinfield. Pick him up from the bus terminal, Perrinfield. Was I ever born under a bad…’ Perrinfield disappeared into the gloom outside the parlor, muttering and cursing as he went.
The Duke looked up through his gnarled fingers, sighed, and coughed. He was just inquiring as to the rights to, and necessary bribes for, a used hand-cranked printing press, Ellis Harkersaps waiting eagerly with an excuse quickly contrived, when three buxom young women in scandalous attire entered the little manager’s office/formal dining room.
They all three chanted in alarming unison, one voice, bitterly sweet but sweetly bitter: ‘Perrinfield has cracked the crockery! Your guest voted for Obama! But, no attention have you showered upon us. No shower. You, yourself, have never showered! Not even a leaf for a morsel as supper.’
Ellis noticed the spectral women all wore matching tied-up Braves jerseys and Tammy Faye’s makeup. He moved to speak but found that he was rooted to the ground, rooted as if with the roots of a plant. Perhaps a tree. A pine, no less. A stout one. His mouth was parched. It would admit no answer of snarky rebuke. The Duke spoke for him,
‘Young Harkersaps, these are my brides – Besserelda, Kayladith, and Ann’azalea. Three … are my brides. We are old-school LDS… I will accept no bamboozle.’
Ellis swayed as if to swoon. Just then, the ghostly women repeated their demand for a “morsel.” The Duke howled out a laugh that shook the bowed and water-stained tile ceiling. He trailed off into a coughing fit, though he was able – just barely – to lift up an old Tupperware bowl for the inspection of his polyamorous Bravo babes. ‘A taste, my loves.’ He hissed, still hacking malignantly.
I recoiled within the shrouded confines of my own mind. A play of life and death unfolded before my frightened eyes, red with tears of fear and hate. The strumpets made for the Tupperware like school girls to a coin-operated cigarette machine. From out it, laughing as they did so – most disquietingly – they raised up a wrapped bundle of swaddling cloth. I knew then, as I know and remember now, what was held neath those ragged coverings. Their fangs bared, their mascara smearing, the lecherous ladies seized upon the helpless rancid baby cabbage. It emitted the most pitiable squeak as it’s putrid leaves sagged and flapped. Belching! Snorting! The fiendish wives descended on the rotten little vegetable. The taste of my lunch, previously consumed but only that very afternoon, filled my dry gullet – particularly back where the taste buds register tones harsh and bitter. I mean it was damned unpleasant. I thought to scream and run away. Instead, I leaned against the wall and yawned, contemplating my forthcoming resignation from the less-than-lustrous firm of Dewey, Cheatam, and Howe. In an instant, the doomed soup-fodder met its grisly fate. I shedded a single tear as somewhere, far away but yet near enough to not be so far, too far, a produce clerk cried out with the angst of demise. “The cat will have that one. And, so much better the so with,” I thought. The women burped and rolled on the floor. Off-putting enough was that. But the Duke! His eyes! Never has any Member of the Congress witnessed upon the innocent world such boredom! Such rank malaise! Perish the very notion that in that Rite-Aid, within that veritable castle prison, that I should endure such such and such … of this and that.
Luckily, at that very moment of sheer exhaustion of trope and poor taste, Perrinfield reappeared, bearing forth a two-liter bottle of plastic, within which resided some generic soda concoction, likely bought on sale, woefully expired, and now utterly flat. He announced dejectedly,
‘My Lard. Mas’ Mark, er … Angleshman. Wenches… I give you the night’s drink – Lime Chip Soda!’
A round of “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” floated lazily about the place. Ellis Harkersaps angstily fingered his pocket revolver. Most horrifically, a cheesy music began, as if from nowhere, though still heard herewhere, starting low and then rising to a headache-inducing screech. Perrinfield started singing – out of tune – being soon joined by the others, plus a multitude of assorted oddities, previously unseen:
♭♭
It’s confounding…
Lime is beating…
Sadness makes it roll…
But, listen, Bitches…
(Nothing is wronger)
My pockets have a hole.
I remember joining the Lime Corps,
Slinking those slouches then.
The wackness would hip me.
(And the Noid would be mauling)
LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!
LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!
It’s zucchini.
Constipation, flee me.
So you can’t knee free; no, not a squall.
In belabored distention,
With liberalistic dissention,
Well deluded; Tom T. Hall.
With a clip of a rip dip,
You’re into the LIME CHIP!
And nothing brings greater shame.
You’re priced out of cremation.
Like it’s a bargain libation!
LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!
LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!
…♭♭
Against his better (maybe worse) judgment and to his eternal regret, Ellis Harkersaps began to toe-tap along, his fingers snapping to the alarmingly catchy if completely moronic tune. All was well until, quite suddenly, all parties noticed the label on the green plastic soda bottle. The music died. Hearts stood still. With one voice of terror, pain, confusion, lust, agitation, fear, sorrow, worry, fear, envy, yadda, yadda, and morose, they all cried out:
“IT’S DIET!!!!!!!”
Ellis Harkersaps crashed through the back door – just punched a hole straight through it – his being one of dozens of hasty exits from the dilapidated, abandoned – now, re-abandoned – squatter’s palace of doom. Alas, just when the story was getting “good,” the party ended. Another condemned wreck of a building left standing amidst the ruin of another Eve of the All Hallowed. But, it was not yet the end, entirely…
For, seeking shelter from the ghastly spectacle of Sanheim, there entered into the Duke’s deserted castle-drugstore, the Vispoli family, recently disembarked from Anytown. While the children, Ruthie, Bryson, and Lizzie, plundered the remains of the pharmacy cabinets in search of dat fix, Todd and Claire examined the wreck of the back room, where once, if I forgot to mention this earlier on, there might have been a manager’s office. Might have been. Standing on a dank cabbage leaf, Todd exclaimed to his sleepy bride, ‘A bottle of Diet Lime Chip! Glory be.’ Under his breath, he added, ‘And, an ax…’
[Commence, here, in your head, either “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon or “Pet Sematary” by the Ramones – or RHPS’s “Time Warp” – that one’s probably stuck, right?].
***Please note that in the telling of this tale, no literal limes, baby cabbages, cranky English majors, or upon-a-time residents of the SGI Plantation were harmed in any way. A show tune might have conceivable been plagiarized, but that’s about the worst of it. Oh! And, Bram’s gothic – looted that too. But, hey, he’s dead and the copyright’s run so heck with it, eh? That’s the worst. Well, that and the concept, execution, etc.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!
28 Monday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Yes, the same write-up that appeared here, this morning, is over at Freedom Prepper. Hopefully, gaining tons of traction – I’ll know tomorrow or the next day.
More to come…
28 Monday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
I really should have posted this last week, but you know, busy. The same will (should) run at TPC and FP this week.
The Substitute, the First Novel by Perrin Lovett
At long last, she’s here – my first serious foray into fiction and a comprehensive story featuring everyone’s favorite spook turned teacher, Tom Ironsides.
© Perrin Lovett
© Perrin Lovett
Tom, of course, is a retired CIA Paramilitary Officer. Now, he faces what may be an insurmountable challenge – confronting America’s failed or failing “public” schools – an extreme man for an extreme mission. Follow his adventure through an academic year as he deeply investigates the happenings in one particular fictional system. Being who he is, he also stumbles across a continuing series of cases and events that relate back to his previous employment. Several flashbacks keep the action moving, like the following a preview of the beginning of Chapter One, At Home Far Away:
******
Belgrade, Serbia, April 1, 2001, the wee hours…
Five men stood or sat in and around a used Mercedes T1 Transporter van. The early morning air was cool, a little wet, but bearable, not that comfort had anything to do with their line of work. The team leader sat between the rear doors, which were wide open to provide a view downhill to the compound. He raised his satellite phone as he gazed down at the house through a night vision scope. Continuing his observation, he spoke, ‘Some of his drunks are staggering out of the veranda. The cops are kind of humoring … pushing them aside. They’re about to bring him out. Now. You want us to take the shot?’
A muffled, warbling voice instructed from the other end. He cut it short,
‘Been here for over forty hours. He’s coming out in a second. Do you, or do you not … want him dead?’
The electronic voice from Virginia warbled away.
‘Got a twenty mike-mike ready to roll, here,’ the leader said without breaking his stare, even as he reached around and patted the barrel of an older Soviet ShVAK-20 autocannon, ‘If it’s dead, then I need to move over kind of quick like.’
More warbling.
‘Okay, shit! It’s not like they have any evidence or cause for this arrest. Not here, certainly not at the Hague, not even our guys. Yeah! Who the hell wants to bother with a trial?’
Warb…
‘Save it. He’s coming out. Between four officers right now.’
The hardened paramilitary operations officer watched as heavily armed police escorted a handcuffed Slobodan Milosevic, first and now former President of the Serbian Republic to a waiting car (one of five, as he counted them). ‘Last chance. I can still light it up…’ He was cut off in turn.
A stern voice spoke through the receiver, a little clearer to his hearing than to that of his men, ‘Negative! Watch them drive off and then get out of there. Green Ops will make sure he arrives at Central. We’ll have him in Tuzla tomorrow. Stand down and prepare for evac. Go ahead to the rendezvous point. You’re done.’
‘Roger that. Black Delivery, out.’ He folded the phone closed and watched as Milosevic was tucked into the back of a car that sped away immediately. He spoke to his team, ‘Okay, boys and girls, field trip’s over. Load it up and let’s get clear.’
As he stood up, he patted the barrel again, ‘Birch, does this thing even work?’
Before Birch could answer, five small-arms shots rang out in the distance. The team wheeled around and rescanned the general area of Kuca Milosevic. Silence followed. There were a lot of guns out and about. It was probable that someone at the house had vented a little frustration. If it was something else, then Green Ops and the locals could deal with it. Either way, the men counted their work as finished.
‘Yeah. There’s a party over there… The twenty? Kinda glad we don’t have to find out, Tom,’ Birch replied with a smirk. ‘You heard the man. Let’s move out.’
With all parties and equipment secure, the van slowed crept forward towards the road. A SEAL support newbie, a huge man that Tom and Birch thought sort of looked like a tree, was at the wheel. Tom spoke to Birch quietly on the makeshift back seat, ‘Somebody’s really confident about this nab and extradition. I don’t think they ever intended to assassinate him.’
Birch answered softly, ‘They did, or at least it was plan B. But, yeah, money buys confidence. G-team’s spent a small fortune convincing Dindic. He’s our guy now. We’ve spent even more with the ICTY. The banks don’t aim to lose. Ever.’
‘You can say that again,’ Tom said with a shrug and a little louder. ‘Was this another grand waste? Rather than play collection agent for Basel and the IMF, I’d prefer to track down some of the al-Qaeda chatter. Something’s moving. Wonder what the money men know about tha…’
The shotgun rider, a veteran SEAL, interrupted: ‘Roadblock! Roadblock! Twelve o’clock!’
Tom raised his night vision scope for a moment, peering through the windshield. ‘Guns. Up and leveled! Through it or around it! Go, man, go!’
The big newbie floored the gas and headed for an opening between two blocking vehicles on the right. They were welcomed with a hail of bullets. The van rolled over two shooters and clipped a truck as it blasted through. The primary support agent in the rear opened up with an H&K 416, firing a deluge of three-round bursts. After a split second, he cried to the front, ‘Company! Van and two cars following us!’
‘Secure this shit in, Birch!’ Tom ordered as he hopped over the seat to the waiting ShVAC. ‘And, hey, we’re about to find out!’
The rear agent leaped behind Tom, picking up the night scope so as to act as his boss’s spotter. Birch was scrabbling to get in touch with Force Recon. Bullets cracked here and there on the skin and frame of the now very used van. The spotter tapped Tom’s shoulder and pointed back and right.
‘Ears!’ Tom screamed.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
In a deafening second, they both found out that the old gun worked just fine and they lost one pursuing car. In another second:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Another car burst into flames and crashed down a hillside. One more, baby! Tom had a clear, distinctive view of the van through the comically oversized iron sight. He checked the belt and prepared to squeeze the trigger again. The Mercedes lurched and turned hard. He lost his view for a fraction of a second. When the van was visible again, he instantly saw its hood, grille, and front passenger quarter-panel erupt in a shower of sparks. Up in the front, his veteran SEAL was damned good with an AK, even hanging out the window of a speeding van, shooting in the dark. Tom watched the van sputter and grind to a halt in a ditch.
‘Good shooting!’ Tom yelled, a yell which even he had trouble hearing. ‘Guess I don’t get all the fun! Anybody else deaf?! And, WAS ANYONE HIT?!!’
Fortune favored the bold; no-one was damaged aside from ringing in the ears which even decent ear protection couldn’t prevent. Something about not shooting an anti-aircraft gun in an enclosed vehicle… Birch informed that a Marine helo would meet them in about three minutes, maybe one minute after they arrived at the field. The van slogged to a stop, resting on mostly flattened tires, in a patch of mud.
‘E’rbody off!’ Tom yelled. ‘Let’s give the bird something to steer by. Light this heap up!’
The five stood by, wary – watching the sky and scanning the horizon as the Mercedes began to burn behind them. The distinctive sound of an approaching rotar-craft thump-thump-thumped towards them. Tom’s signal flare did its job well. Just then, the younger agent barked, ‘The van! The van’s out there on the road!’ And, given away by headlights and its silhouette, a van was meandering down the street adjacent to their position. Tom stared at it hard.
Birch put in, ‘I mentioned that to the Jarheads during our getaway. They gotta see it now.’
Tom kept staring. Suddenly, he turned to Birch, ‘No! That one’s a different shape and a little bigger. More of a small bus. Tell them to hold their…’
As the Blackhawk prepared to set down near the flaming wreck, its door gun spoke, loud, clear, and mercilessly. **Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrurrt!** The small bus was cut to burning pieces.
‘Oh, hell.’ Tom started. ‘Don’t tell me that was…’
As the others were pulled into the chopper, Tom stood rooted in the mud. He watched as a screaming child crawled from the remains of the bus. ‘GODDAMMIT! NO!’
He too was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the helo by a sturdy Corporal. The DOD never billed him for the damage he did to the chopper bay. The whole squad, once they understood what had happened, took Tom’s sorrowful view of the matter. It was much worse for him, understanding all the details. The master crooks used the “law” to snatch a smaller crook. Tom and his men were merely pawns. Other pawns had tried to kill them. All of it went with the territory. But, why was it that every single time, some innocents had to die? Every damned time!
Derry, New Hampshire, April 10, 2018, 05:00…
Tom woke up with a start, sweating profusely. He counted that particular adventure as one of his “favorite” nightmares. It was certainly one of the most recurrent. Serbia… In the end, he’d been right about Milosevic. After a baseless capture, an illegal transfer, and a five-year sham of a trial, the man “committed suicide.” Then, and only then was he posthumously declared acquitted, with a lack of evidence of any chargeable war crimes. Tom had seen it, known it, way back then. And, he’d been right about the chatter as well.
An already exciting life kicked into overdrive following the morning of 9/11. If! There were more “ifs” than anything else and he still harbored many suspicions. Back at the time, had anyone near Washington had half a brain, they might have inquired as to who, exactly, Slobodan was allegedly committing those fake war crimes against. Some of the same characters were linked, here and there, to cells in Germany, the UK, Michigan, and Florida.
…
******
Click that link, above, and start reading! Note: you do not have to limit yourself to just a single copy. The book makes a great Christmas gift. Order as many as you can afford. And, a Kindle e-version is (very slowly) coming together. And! I’m already four or five chapters into an all-action, political-thriller prequel, a first-person novella set a year before the 2018 beginning of Part One. I also have about twenty separate Ironsides shorts which could (will) morph into a series of future novels and novellas.
Early readers report ease of reading from the layout, font, etc. – a quality book. The style is already being compared to that of Stuart Woods. Join the party and see what you think!
440 pages. $19.95, paperback.
24 Thursday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
books, fiction, Kindle, novel, The Substitute, Tom Ironsides
The good news: The Substitute is up, running, and … selling! BUY YOURS HERE.
The odd news: This time around, many people are asking for an e-version ASAP. (Really, more good news).
The better news: This evening, I started formatting that e-book for Kindle. More on that as it progresses and when it’s also available. Slightly time-consuming – could be a week or two, maybe more.
The whole paperback cover.
More soon! P
PS: Announcement: For fans of Tom Ironsides, a prequel novella is underway! More on that later.
PPS: Got a really nifty TPC Halloween edition coming next week. That, here, then.
PPPS: These nascent sales numbers aren’t the worst (for a day or two out), but need help. So … help, please!
22 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
At least the Amazon link is up.
I update the “Books” page and I spruced up the sidebar link, left.
Not bad, at all, for a first novel. Order yours now. Buy two. Or ten. (No limit).
I’ll have more of a promo shortly.
22 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted in Legal/Political Columns
Tags
Well, the book is working its way through the printer, and already I discover people remarking about “the Substitute.” Here are a few of the comments I found out there:
“Yo! Dude can read, add, and tell time. He like a wizard!” – QaMarqus, Eighth Grader
“The man is dangerous. Not just to our enemies. Period.” – Dep. Director, CIA, NCS
“A walking right-wing violation of the narrative. No idea how he got past the dissertation committee. And, why can’t anyone find Dr. Ludahwitz?’ – Marie, Ph.D., Harvard
“Best operator I’ve ever known. Glad he’s my friend. More glad he’s not my enemy.” – Ronald “Oak” Moreland, US Navy SEAL (Ret.)
“I couldn’t walk for a few days. But MY GAWD it was good!” – Leah, Supermodel
“We miss his style and finesse in the field. That violent, raging finesse…” – [REDACTED], SIS Agent
“Please! I’ll give you any… NOOO!!! *GAHHH*.” – R.K., Int’l Child Sex Predator (Deceased)
“He seems unorthodox but highly effective. And, damn girl, he could substitute for my husband!” – Carla, High School Math Teacher
“He knows too much!” – JP Roth, Basel, CH
“Yeah. My best customer!” – Rico, Rico’s Beer and Cigar Stand
Learn more soon.
Tom Ironsides is The Substitute
21 Monday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
She’s locked and loaded into Amazon’s (and other systems). Could be 72 hours – more or less. You’ll know ASAP.
Formatted, it’s 440-ish pages in a high-quality paperback format.
$19.95
Kindle to follow – doing this one the right way.
Super excited. I’ll have all the info you need just as soon as the finished thing is ready.
-P
Pardon those broken line things – Pub Preview – not in book.
04 Friday Oct 2019
Posted in Books For Sale
Tags
**Who killed Geoffrey Steinberg?!?!?!**
… ‘That was Steinberg Island.’ Langley reported. ‘Emphasis on the was part. Until we ran radiological scans we had assumed it was a small nuke. It wasn’t. What you just watched was a thermobaric in action.’
‘Damn big one too.’ Tom added.
‘Yeah. Too big. From what we’re gathering, that was the largest non-nuclear bomb in the world. Bigger than anything we have. Or the Russians or anyone else. Whole island is gone. Crushed and incinerated.’ The voice continued, ‘The press doesn’t know it. Bureau either. But… Steinberg was on his island at the time. He’s dead.’
‘Good! Thank God!’ Tom yelled. ‘Case closed, huh? Well, thanks for the good news. I’ll SLEEP well now.’
‘Hang on, Tom, there’s more.’ The voice conferred with someone in the background and continued. ‘Anything strike you as funny about the blast?’
‘I find the whole thing hilarious,’ Tom said while laughing, ‘But, yeah, it was an aerial delivery. Not a rocket, unless there’s a Saturn Five gone missing. Any leads on a plane? Would have had to be a larger transport.’
‘That’s the other thing – one of them actually.’ A woman’s voice interjected.
‘Good morning, Madam Director. They got you up early too?’
‘Good morning. Dr. Ironsides. Yes. In here at oh-three-hundred.’ She spoke with someone else and continued, ‘Get back with the Bode, ASAP! … Sorry, Tom. Right. It had to be a plane. Obviously not a missile. But… we can’t track anything from the time. Someone … we don’t know who … anything, really … someone blocked out the sat system, in that sector, and at that time. It was a rolling obscurement, to hide all logistics.’
‘Nation-state, then. But, which one?’ Tom mused.
‘We can’t think of any nation that would be interested in such action, Tom.’ The replacement added.
‘Well, maybe our nation should have done it, given the circumstances…’ Tom rejoined with a little force. ‘There’s us. The Russians, England, France, and China would be the other usual suspects. It’s possible that Germany, Italy, India, Israel, maybe a few others could have done it – with great effort. But, I don’t see why.
‘And, just how do we know all of this anyway?’ Tom was dubious.
‘SAS was preparing to move against the targets just before the bombing.’
‘Move against them with hugs and welfare checks, or move against them the right way – with slightly smaller explosives?’
‘Several strike teams were assembled before… This was a major interruption to the plan… Don’t know. We’re thinking that maybe it wasn’t a state actor.’ Said the Director.
‘Terrorists? Or, are you going to send that FBI kid here again a little later to congratulate me on another job well done?’ Tom was still laughing. ‘I have plenty of time away from school to build the world’s largest bomb, you know. And deliver it while blacking out Big Bird and Snow White.’ He chuckled to the point that it was hard to get the words out.
The Director attempted to reign him in: ‘This isn’t a laughing matter.’
‘It really is!’ Laughed Tom. …
So much more when The Substitute starts class…
