Tag Archives: Ironsides

2023 Christmas Fiction Encore

25 Monday Dec 2023

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Geopolitika, in a fiction-publishing first (and maybe last??? =O ), ran Dr. Ironsides’s Moscow adventures today!

25.12.2023
Russia

Perrin Lovett
Tom Ironsides Fiction

Vrubel Hall, the Hotel Metropol, Moscow, a late afternoon in December…

Tom glanced around the wide room for a moment as he thought. ‘It is,’ be began again, ‘in a sad and ironic way, an inverted or worsened retelling of part of the original Christmas Story. We have some similar players and oddly reminiscent circumstances. My evil, dying US empire stands in for Rome. He, damn him, the worst leader in their malicious history, is doing a fine job portraying Herod. But instead of just killing the baby boys, he’s murdering all the children. And everybody else. Two thousand years ago, Augustus was rumored to have said, Melior est porcus quam princeps. That is, kind of, it is safer to be a Herodian pig than a son of the tyrant. Of course, our stand-in emperor is a pathetic, half-dead moron who can’t even walk and lick ice cream at the same time. But maybe this explains why the new client king’s own worthless son is hiding out in Miami. Who knows? At the risk of causing an international row, I will say that I would simply love to hack the despot’s head off with a dull axe.’

The gathered fans of multipolarity had quickly grown accustomed to Tom’s blunt and seemingly angered speech that night, punctuated with odd side discussions with and to himself. Most of them chuckled heartily at the notion of bitted justice even as they considered the painful truth behind the historical comparison.

…

Read the Whole Thing (again?).

In a semi-related note, I’m pleased to see my tandem review of two books by Leonid Savin and Clyde Wilson was house translated into Italian:

Perrin Lovett

Recensioni di ORDO PLURIVERSALIS di Leonid Savin e LOOKING FOR MR. JEFFERSON del Dr. Clyde N. Wilson.

Oggi ho il raro onore di presentare due libri eccellenti in un’unica recensione! Si tratta di Ordo Pluriversalis di Leonid Savin e di Looking For Mr. Jefferson di Clyde Wilson. Come anteprima della recensione, “Ordo Pluriversalis” è, ovviamente, il termine latino per “ordine versatile” o “ordine dei molti”, un nome naturale per un tomo sul multipolarismo delle Nazioni Sovrane; e, non cercate oltre, abbiamo trovato Jefferson, in un certo senso salvandolo da quasi due secoli di confusioni. Nella mia mente, queste opere sono in qualche modo collegate tra loro, sebbene i loro argomenti siano separati sia dagli oceani che dal considerevole passare del tempo. Inoltre, entrambe sono giunte alla mia attenzione e in mio possesso nel giro di pochi giorni. Pertanto, nel tentativo di accontentare tutti, li discuto qui di seguito in successione e con un piccolo grado di sovrapposizione. Li raccomando entrambi con il massimo entusiasmo e sincerità.

Savin, Leonid, Ordo Pluriversalis: The End of Pax Americana and the Rise of Multipolarity, Londra: Black House, 2020.

Indipendentemente da latitudine, longitudine e velocità di rotazione…

Merry literary Christmas!

CHRISTMAS FICTION 2023: The Inn Occupied, The Manger Reduced To Rubble, But A Fire Nonetheless Lit

23 Saturday Dec 2023

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The Inn Occupied, The Manger Reduced To Rubble, But A Fire Nonetheless Lit

~A Tom Ironsides tale by Perrin Lovett~

~~Christmas 2023~~

 

Vrubel Hall, the Hotel Metropol, Moscow, a late afternoon in December…

Tom glanced around the wide room for a moment as he thought. ‘It is,’ be began again, ‘in a sad and ironic way, an inverted or worsened retelling of part of the original Christmas Story. We have some similar players and oddly reminiscent circumstances. My evil, dying US empire stands in for Rome. He, damn him, the worst leader in their malicious history, is doing a fine job portraying Herod. But instead of just killing the baby boys, he’s murdering all the children. And everybody else. Two thousand years ago, Augustus was rumored to have said, Melior est porcus quam princeps. That is, kind of, it is safer to be a Herodian pig than a son of the tyrant. Of course, our stand-in emperor is a pathetic, half-dead moron who can’t even walk and lick ice cream at the same time. But maybe this explains why the new client king’s own worthless son is hiding out in Miami. Who knows? At the risk of causing an international row, I will say that I would simply love to hack the despot’s head off with a dull axe.’

The gathered fans of multipolarity had quickly grown accustomed to Tom’s blunt and seemingly angered speech that night, punctuated with odd side discussions with and to himself. Most of them chuckled heartily at the notion of bitted justice even as they considered the painful truth behind the historical comparison.

Tom continued: ‘So that is that. And thank you, Pericles, for asking. Now, before I forget, I was told to tell you, sir, on orders of Dr. LeFleur, who declined to make this trip in person, there is virtually no will to act or interest in your plan or plans. He said, and I almost agree with him if not entirely, that the cause is not dead, but the spirit is, with the people soon to follow, and that you should simply proceed independently here. I take it that the last part would be the concurring advice of the beautiful woman, surely your Aspasia, next to you.’ He tipped an imaginary hat and continued wrapping up his comments.

‘See,’ Pericles said quietly to Julia. ‘You’re my Aspasia. Any man with a classical background can see it.’

‘And this classical man,’ she noted, ‘he has, his good looks and obvious wit aside, murder in those cold steel eyes.’

‘To quickly readdress your inquiry, young lady, from, is it Moscow Twenty-Four? While the US is still dangerous as any large mortally-wounded predator can be, its days of genuinely asserting its will to dominate the planet are thankfully coming to an end. Even in my time, there was nothing in the way of coherent operational planning and strategy. Just a never-ending series of ill-defined tactical actions, none of which ever accomplished anything lasting. I’m sure you report daily or weekly their deteriorating stupidity. All they have are jaded word spells long devoid of any power. Forget a strong national military foe. They can’t even, directly or by proxy, compete with Hamas, the Houthis, or Los Zetas. The only people still in fear of the American monster are the gelded, bedrugged, illiterate American people themselves. And so it goes.’

Tom waved politely to the reporter and a few other people, and then the homicidal vision suddenly took over as he locked eyes with a man standing by the doors at the back of the hall. The man was older, gruff-looking, and wearing a cashmere overcoat atop a brown suit. The two men stared at each other for what began to feel like an eternity. As the crowd alternately observed them and a rumor of disquiet started to sweep the room, Tom raised an outstretched finger toward his opponent. ‘Is the music still good?’ he asked unflinchingly.

‘We are all good people,’ the man replied in husky Russian-accented English.

An open-mouthed smile of sheer joy took Tom. ‘Give me one second,’ he said in a cross between a shout and a whisper. Then he directed his final words to the audience. ‘That concludes my bumbling presentation, my friends. Now, as Michael Hudson was unavailable, it is my honor to turn the podium over to my friend, Dr. Todd Vispoli, who will speak of matters monetary and economic. To all, I extend my warmest thanks for the invitation and the most gracious reception imaginable in this most marvelous city. Thank you, Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year, one and all!’

After shaking Todd’s hand and patting his back, Tom merrily hopped off the short platform and veritably bounded towards the man by the door, ignoring a smattering of outstretched hands and well wishes en route. The men looked at each other intently for a moment, then, foregoing a handshake, embraced about the shoulders. There followed a hushed private conversation. The other man, likely twenty years Tom’s senior, a kind of healthy, vibrant elderly to look at, was stocky and a little short in comparison to Tom’s looming presence. Still, as Tom kept his head lowered, the two continued speaking eye-to-eye. Soon, Tom led his apparent friend back to the table, where Larry had just pulled up an extra chair.

‘More wine, please, spasibo,’ Tom said to an attentive waiter as he and the man took their seats. He then pointed around the table, making hasty introductions. ‘This is my Carmyn. And my baby brother, Larry, and his much better-looking better half, Darla.’ As a light chorus of “hellos” and “privets” echoed about, Tom said to the man, ‘and you. I have never known your name!’

‘Leonid Zhirinovsky,’ the man said with a smile. ‘Forever to my family, Papa or Uncle El-Zee. To my friends, Leo.’

‘Leo!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘So many years later, now I know.’

The table looked on expectantly and Tom renewed the introduction. ‘Leo, here, was part of my KGB escort on my very first visit to Moscow so many years ago. When was it? Eighty-eight?’

‘I think Eighty-seven, perhaps,’ Leo said.

‘Eighty-seven, then.’

‘Way back then,’ Leo explained, ‘we knew a contingent from the US State Department had come to the American embassy with a following of military officers. We were unexpectedly tipped off, that fateful afternoon, that one young Marine officer was about to be dispatched on foot into the city. We did not know his purposes or much else about him. Tall and young was about all they told us.’

‘It was the end of the first do-nothing day,’ Tom added. ‘And they just told me to go out on the town and enjoy myself. So, never having been here and wanting to see all I could, I did.’

‘He wore his uniform right out the door, out the gate, and onto our streets!’

‘I didn’t want to waste a second changing, so I just hit the pavement in my service greens!’

‘He cut quite the impressionable swath that way. And made our identification so much easier. Some of our girls and women were intrigued. A few men were dismissive. Most bystanders didn’t know what to think of him, roaming about and looking into every shop and cafe with all that silly, cheerful American banter.’ The two roared with laughter at the memory.

‘I had gone a few blocks when, I think the car—that older black car—kind of alerted me. Like, oh, boy, they’re on you! You and your partner were walking, following me on the other side of the street. And you both hung in there as if to subtly announce that was what you were doing—following with a purpose.’

‘He waved to us and jibbered in happy English.’

‘All I could think of,’ Tom said. ‘I do recall you merely nodded in acknowledgement. Your friend never did or said anything.’

‘He was a partner, not a friend.’

‘Oh.’

‘He died during the dark Nineties.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Stone cold, you guys,’ Tom said with a cough. ‘At least my night didn’t end up like the Mama Anarchy lyrics treatment!’

‘So, you did investigate the songs?!’ Leo asked with a hint of surprise.

‘Of course,’ Tom said. ‘How could I not?’

Leo, his face softened considerably, looked around at the perplexed faces. He sipped cabernet and then said, ‘so your husband and brother, here, he kept snooping for some time. Kept us walking. Roundabout, he lurked into one of our monitored back alley rock clubs. It’s not terribly far from where we sit. A food order delivery service company now, I think. Anyway, we all had the pleasure of seeing the end of a KINO concert thanks to our intrepid Jarhead.’

‘The music did lure me in,’ Tom said. ‘Sounded really good even as I couldn’t understand a word. The doorman sized me up and just waved me into the club. I think you two might have scared him.’

‘Is that when you met Viktor Tsoi?’ Larry asked. 

‘It was,’ Tom said. ‘One of the best endings of a concert I ever heard. He must have seen the uniform and was curious. We exchanged pleasantries. Nice guy. All of them appeared nice. Such a loss a few years later.’

‘At the end, we moved outside and waited,’ Leo said. ‘Young Lieutenant Ironsides came out and I asked him, is the music good?’

‘And for whatever reason, I just nodded and said, and we’re all good people,’ Tom added.

‘So that explains the tense words,’ Carmyn interjected.

‘Yes, lovely Misses Larke-Ironsides,’ Leo said. ‘And I have been meaning to ask you. Around the turn of the century, an American television show about ancient Greek gods and goddesses became popular in Russia. I remember this one lovely goddess, a vicious warrioress, who entered battle with a startling ululating cry…’

Todd was just making his way to the table when Adrestia’s war call shook the room. As more than a few people panicked, he staggered up to find Tom’s gaggle in stitches. Leo was pounding the table. ‘Nice, Carmyn,’ Todd said. ‘We’re all awake now. And thank you, Dr. Tom, for paying such close attention.’

‘Huh?’

‘Yeah, so I used you and this morning’s bank exchange trip as an example. Five times I called out for your opinion, but all I got was some murmurs about a uniform and a band or something. I was like, hell with him, but it does still work thanks to the BOR. I then briefly discussed Anton Siluanov’s recent mission in Beijing and what it might portend for any real Americans who want to survive and thrive and so forth. I tried to think of your father-in-law’s full name but couldn’t remember, and I couldn’t get your attention. Think he’d be interested?’

‘Don’t know. Stanley’s a little pessimistic these days, uncharacteristically so,’ Tom said. ‘To think, for once I’m the pro-Southern nationalist firebrand of the two of us. I’m sure the situation will reverse again. I’m a Cottonmouth! But, now, meet my old pal, Leo!’

‘I think they say, Diamondback,’ Todd said.

‘They say, Copperhead,’ Leo corrected.

Todd was brought up to speed on Tom’s prior semi-licite wanderings about Moscow. Then, as the conference ended, the small group made their exit from the hall. Todd issued a vague promise about dinner and headed for his room while already dialing his family back in Ohio. Carmyn and Darla were intent on shopping and winter wonderlanding, and departed for a quick powdering of noses, grabbing of coats, and assorted girl talk. Larry joined the two cold warriors for a happy parting drink at the Chaliapin bar. Thirty minutes or so later, as he joined the women, receiving his and Tom’s overcoats, he didn’t hear the old friends’ final quiet words.

‘It was sheer luck I remembered your name,’ Leo said. ‘And that I heard it concerning your talk today. I listened, happily, mostly from just outside the door. With all the talk—and I see the matters weigh heavy upon you, old man—I wonder. In fact, I have a hypothesis. Do you plan to use your unique skills in the great battle for the soul of the failing West? Beyond noble classical education, of course, I say. Do you mean to perhaps violently start righting some of the wrongs?’

‘Start?’ Tom asked. ‘No. I mean to continue.’

With a knowing look, a boisterous laugh, and a firm handshake, they parted ways. Tom joined his family in the lobby by the doors adjacent to the snow-covered Fontan Vitali.

‘You have that Tom’s-up-to-something look,’ Darla said. 

‘I’m up to spending quality time with loved ones in Red Square!’ he answered in a voice merrier than it had sounded in a day or three. ‘Anybody up for GUM, the market, and maybe some skating? Maybe some dandy iPhone Christmas tunes?’

As they made their way outside, Larry said,’ I’m ready for it all. Including a preview of this effigy-burning tradition. Is it the good doctor again this year?’

‘Him and a female friend!’ Carmyn said. ‘Tom made a second doll like a witch wearing a South Carolina flag.’

‘The political trash!’ Darla said. ‘Everyone hates that wicked neocon Jezebel.’

‘Howya gonna do it this year, babe?’ Carmyn asked. ‘The fireplace again?’

‘Oh, no,’ Tom said. ‘Too pedestrian. And let’s cross the street now. No, this year, I have a new toy for the job.’

‘What kind of toy?’ Larry asked as they skipped along the snowy street.

‘My ninety-two dollar homemade cardboard kamikaze drone!’ Tom said with more than a little pride. ‘Down at the shooting lane, Mehr-Bear will love flying it into those two straw wretches!’

‘Less than a hundred bucks, Bubba? And you made it?’ Larr asked.

‘Yep. Old boxes. Tape. Little motor and some throwaway phone parts. A delta-wing pusher. That’s the inert price, of course. We’ll be using as a warhead a little bottle of poor man’s napalm for the ceremony this time. Otherwise, for roughly twice the price—no need to pay ten thousand dollars to some two-bit Aussies—they’ll be armed with, say, TAT—’

‘Tom, Tom, Tom,’ Carmyn said with a laugh. ‘Only you. And, we noticed it went from it to they. How many have you built?’

‘No enough,’ Tom said. ‘But enough of that. Let’s walk and shop and maybe throw snowballs at each other. Enjoy the good mood. I’ve never seen anyone do decorations like the Ruskies here.’

‘It is lovely,’ Darla said. ‘A shame the whole world can’t look and live like this. I’m fixating on your Christmas Story analogy. Sad.’

‘It is,’ Tom admitted. ‘But there’s always hope. The original version kicked off with a good news message from the Archangel Gabriel. Maybe soon we’ll get a martial follow-up word from Saint Michael.’ He paused a minute while they walked, evidently trying to remember something. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘That thought and something Leo said reminded me of the missing Republican Senator.’

‘He certainly puts the sin in Senator, that homo,’ Larry said. ‘No one misses him, I’ll warrant.’

‘Why did you remember him?’ Carmyn asked cautiously, almost perceptively.

‘The liars at FOX and News Max haven’t told the tards,’ Tom said, ‘but just before he disappeared, the Russians issued an arrest warrant for him for war crimes related to the SMO.’

‘Aaaand—’ Carmyn dared.

‘And I have to turn him over to the GRU or the FSB or someone,’ he answered.

‘You know where he is?!’ Darla asked.

‘Yeah. He’s in the cargo hold. With us the whole trip,’ Tom said. ‘Forgot all about him when we met with customs yesterday. Hope he’s comfortable. No Boy’s Life magazines like he’s used to, uh, reading, but I did leave him an electric blanket and some water. Hope there was enough air in there for the trip at altitude…’ Three voices oscillated between gasps and chuckles, and Tom added, ‘and, if anyone asks, he was in his present condition when I grabb—when I found him. Right? Better yet, we’ll just say nothing and let them sort it all out. Now, for some fun!’

And as the wider world turned in its usual turbulent fashion, the happy foursome ventured to GUM, Red Square, and other central points. A decent amount of snow fell. Night settled. Relatively nearby, an unnoticed lispy voice moaned from within a handsome trijet hangared by the general aviation tarmac. Further away, children and grandchildren prepared for a reception, a ceremonial flying bonfire, and other Ironsides-esque festivities. And with Christ’s Mass, New Year’s, and the Feast of the Nativity approaching, some semblance of peace took to some of the smaller corners of the world. 

 

THE END

 

Postscript: This story wasn’t the most Christmasy I could have thought of, perhaps, but it was the best I could do. Or, it was what I did—and certainly worth the reader’s good money. We came perilously close to a cancellation, things being what they are. But that wouldn’t have been right. A sigh of relief, eh? As always,

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

счастливого Рождества! С Новым Годом!

UPDATE: Also running at Reckonin‘.

A Mass Casualty Event

02 Wednesday Nov 2022

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Watch Iran’s retaliatory strike on Al-Asad imperial AB in 2020:

Ignoring the utter BS about Gen. Soleimani and some important omissions, the officer assessment of the battle and the terrible, permanent after effects is pretty accurate. Now, be mindful that this is what Iran was capable of almost three years ago. Russia could destroy the bunker in Tampa, the White House, and the Pentagram. If one is an insane neo-nut, is it really wise to keep playing wicked, retarded games with such an adversary?

Our man in the know, Dr. Ironsides, “reported” on this attack, as or more accurately than filmed and presented in the above video, mere days after it happened. At the time, certain outlets were uncomfortable with his story. Turns out, the “real” story, the truth has that effect on some people.

Winged Justice From Cuba: A Tom Ironsides Story

10 Friday May 2019

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As originally published at TPC

*******

Winged Justice From Cuba

A Tom Ironsides Story

 

Author’s Note: The following is partly based on true events, a blended, fictional account of several independent and real stories. Names have been changed, omitted, or dramatized so as to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the dead. The resemblance of any character or entity in this tale, to any person or entity, living or dead, is mere semblance only. Please, enjoy.

 

Sometimes the mind wanders. In daydreams, a man can relive what he found harrowing as well as those pleasant times that feel now, as they did then, just like dreams. Sometimes, if one isn’t careful, the two meld together. Tom’s brain turned back the calendar to another stage in his life’s journey.

 

Tom stood in the door of “his” Dassault Falcon 7X, peering into the gloom above a dark, tropical landscape. The absence of the sun (and the moon) rendered the ordinarily green fields of cane a deep shade of midnight blue. It was after midnight. Technically, it was 12:44 AM on a Friday – Tom had just consulted his Submariner. And, technically, he did not like the feel of this particular night.

 

The cane…, Tom muttered in his mind, They cut down every cane in the fields.

 

And, they had, except for two narrow strips, one on each side of the rural roadway. He saw it, even in the dark, as he landed, smoothly, on crumbling, gravelly, barely-there asphalt just South of Sierra Morena, Cuba. The wingtips were literally touching the closest stalks on either side. Now Tom kicked himself for the placement – those cane screens and several stands of trees – out there, just a little, but just a little too close.

 

‘Why do I feel like this is a setup?’ Tom asked aloud to the night air.

 

‘These are the coordinates, boss,’ came an answer from the bottom of the stairs, barely audible over the three idling Pratt & Whitney turbofans. The answer came from “Oak,” a giant of a Team Six NCO, with a beard, biker tattoos, and the Devil’s poker face. He wore his shades despite the near total darkness. ‘Give the boy a few minutes. He knows what he’s doing.’

 

The “boy,” was Clandestine Services’ new wunderkind, some dazzling experiment out of Air Force Special Ops. He was good with computers. He was twenty-six, good-looking, and gregarious. He did something in Afghanistan. And, he spoke Spanish.

 

‘They were supposed to be waiting for us. Damn! This baby makes a lot of noise. Castro, hear us roar,’ Tom grumbled to no-one in particular. Then, he cocked his head and spoke over his shoulder, ‘Birch, how long have we been sitting here wailing like a Banshee?’

 

“Birch” was Tom’s own guy, picked out of Recon support and run into logistics for the Special Activities Division. He was the only man on the team older than Tom; they had to bend some rules to get him the job but it all worked out very well. The least Jarhead-looking and least Company-looking person imaginable, Birch was a lifesaver.

 

‘Six minutes, Tom,’ Birch replied with his usual nonchalance. He then called to the remaining support team in the back, ‘We got FLIR onboard? I think we should scan the hedge and the fields.’

 

As the men began searching for heat-ID equipment, Tom scanned the horizon. He had a pretty good view from the hatchway. He went over the mission in his head, still confounded and, if he admitted it, a little shaken. This is the damndest and sickest waste of resources I’ve ever even imagined, he thought, engines running on an open road, in a hostile country, boxed in by sugar cane … all of our lives on the line for what?

 

The “what” behind this particular overnight excursion into danger bothered Tom to his core. He strongly considered the short time he had left before they could magically blend retirements together and let him walk.

 

The plan, as best he understood it, was a simple prisoner exchange – an exchange organized at the behest of friends of the current administration. The Company, for its part, was in country to return a convicted terrorist, maybe the last of the anti-Carriles gang, based on the personal request of Senor Presidente Castro. He had been convicted in, was serving a life sentence in, the US, for terroristic activities against the people of America. The low-life they were picking up was wanted in both countries. The Cubans currently held him on substantial charges of child sex trafficking and some of the vilest allegations of child sex abuse Tom had ever heard. And, Tom had spent the past 25 years hearing the worst the world had to offer.

 

The pedo-queer, as Tom called him, was wanted in the US in connection with a notorious Florida billionaire’s sex slave island. A few years back, Sugar Daddy Warbucks had been given a light criminal slap on the wrist and sent on his way to the Virgin Islands. It paid to call a former President your buddy and alleged “customer.” Tonight’s loser was wanted for the civil trials, just heating up if the news was to be trusted – a huge if. The thing that kicked Tom hard in the guts was that Mr. Pedo Bear was wanted as a material NON-witness. Someone wanted this degenerate so he would NOT have to testify about the island nor stand trial on his own! Wanted so “they” could keep him out of court and, consequently, out of the reach of true justice.

 

Cuba was getting a hero back, to keep in cigars and rum through his old age, a dangerous hero released from lawful US custody. In exchange, America’s crooked elites, via the Company, were getting a disgusting threat to children hemisphere-wide that the Cubans probably planned to hang. Both men were escaping justice. Bullshit! doesn’t even come close, thought Tom as he white-knuckled the hatch flange.

 

Two men descended the stairs and went to either side of the plane. They had found the FLIR scopes. But, maybe there would be no need… Before they even took up positions in the cane rows, Oak rapped on the side of the stairs. Tom followed the big man’s outstretched fingers and his bellow of ‘ten o’clock.’

 

Just beyond the tip of the port wing, just off the road, came a rustle and some voices through the hedge. Oak leveled a “borrowed” AK-74 in the voices’ direction. Tom fully cocked his H&K .45 and dropped the safety. From behind, Birch flipped the fire selector on an MP-5.

 

Out of the cane walked four men. “The boy” led the way, followed by a disheveled heap of a bearded, Berkeley professor-looking fellow in a worn tweed sportcoat. Professor Tweed was flanked, closely, by two slightly smaller, plain-clothed cookie-cutter copies of Oak.

 

Wunderkind spoke (yelled), a little too loudly even over the whine of the engines, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! We’re the good guys.’

 

‘You’re the loud guys,’ Tom growled, ‘Get that piece of shit on the plane and let’s get the hell out before hell breaks out.’

 

The young Opium War hero stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He called up to Tom, who was just turning towards the cockpit, ‘It was a lovely place. Nice folks too. None of them seemed to work for the regime. Ha! But, they didn’t have your Belicosos finos; I did score you some Soberanos.’

 

‘Great,’ snorted Tom, ‘you did good kid. Now, get everyone onboard. Now!’ He thought just a moment and added, staring hard at Dr. Pedo who was being led up to the door, ‘Make our guest comfortable. We’re forbidden to interrogate him about … what he knows. But, I want to know everything about him. If I ever need to look, I want to know where to find him anytime, anywhere on God’s Earth.’

 

The younger man looked confused and almost defensive. He replied, ‘We … we weren’t supposed to…’

 

‘Oak!’ shouted Tom, ‘Find out for me. And only for me.’

 

‘You. Got. It. Boss.’ Oak both said to Tom and sneered to the Tweed Dweeb. When Oak had first read the mission dossier, he had left a basketball-sized dent in a steel file cabinet. Tom half hoped for a repeat performance with a living object.

 

Just then, hell did break out.

 

‘We’ve got company!’ screamed the FLIR man off the left wing, on the side the boarding party had just come from. Over the JP-fueled noise of whirling aluminum and steel, he had caught multiple voices, maybe a vehicle engine revving. Here and there, lights shone out in the field.

 

Yep, a trap. They’ve double-crossed us, Tom thought, can’t blame them one bit.

 

‘Move your asses! We’re going, now!’ Tom thundered as he raced to the cockpit. Birch was right behind, slamming himself into the right seat. Tom didn’t even wait for the door to close. As soon as he heard “all in,” he pushed the throttle forward, flipping switched deftly but madly.

 

Lurching, then rolling steadily forward, they were departing in a hurry for Tampa. Maybe it wasn’t hurrying enough.

 

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

 

It seemed that “customs” didn’t approve of something in their departure plan, or, maybe, their cargo. Tom was painfully aware that his aircraft was taking small-arms fire. The hiss to his immediate left told him the bird’s skin was compromised. The burning in his left arm, just above the elbow, told him his was as well.

 

‘GAH! Hang on!’ He looked down. Blood on his arm. Blood on his shirt. His lap. Some on the controls too. He didn’t feel pain, just a hot, numb sensation spreading from his shoulder to this fingers. Despite whatever was the damage, he gripped the yoke, firm but steady, with his left hand. His right rammed the throttle ahead all the way – actual balls to the bloodied wall.

 

They were off the ground before the door was fully shut. A few more ominous CRACKS reverberated through the cabin but it appeared they had escaped. But, at what cost?

 

‘Everybody okay? Anyone hit? Is anyone hit?’ Tom yelled back through the cabin, his voice drowning the automated alarms that broke out at almost the same moment.

 

Birch quickly scanned the cabin. ‘We’re good. It’s just you, Tom,’ he said, leaning over to take a better look at the latest addition to Tom’s work-related injuries. ‘That doesn’t look good,’ he said, the nonchalance easing just a tad. He turned back and shouted, ‘Bleeding kit up here now!’

 

‘I’ll live. Gotta bigger bird to fry at the moment,’ Tom said with a slight wince, his eyes alternating between the dark horizon and the instrument panel.

 

The Falcon leveled off as it crossed the beach. Florida in a flash but alive too, thought Tom as he adjusted the trim and eased back on the throttle. He had climbed to almost five-hundred feet over land. Within a few seconds, now that the Straits of Florida streamed darkly below his windshield, he dropped. Two-hundred feet. One-fifty. One-hundred. Accompanied by further electronic cries of impending disaster, he stopped the descent at what he reckoned was about seventy-five feet. Low altitude came with increased danger but it cut radar visibility. Now, he had to address all the alarms…

 

Triage, normally a welcomed rite on the battlefield, was a severe inconvenience at the moment. The team medic visually assessed the wound. He leaned around, forcing himself between Tom and the seatback, a fit tight and awkward. ‘I need to get a tourniquet on,’ he said matter of factly.

 

‘I need to keep us in the air,’ Tom replied as he worked through a list of automated warnings, he added to himself (maybe to Birch), ‘this thing isn’t as pitch trim friendly as you’d expect.’

 

A few grumbling protestations from the pilot and his blood stopped squirting out. ‘I’m gonna hit it and then give you a shot, sir,’ said the medic.

 

‘Fine. Make it quick,’ Tom replied without looking, ‘Birch, we got a problem. Left nacelle’s been hit. Hard. Think I’ve got a fire. No power. … Number two doesn’t seem happy either. … Right is … right, fine. Get out the emergency procedures manual. Somewhere over by you. Book.’

 

‘Got it,’ Birch said after a short search. He turned on a custom red map light and started thumbing – for what he wasn’t sure.

 

‘Gotta cut out number three. I can’t risk dragging a flare behind us,’ Tom half said to himself. Without glancing over he started a series of orders to Birch, ‘Engage the A-P-U. Start with the overhead and then operate off the fire control panel,’ he said, pointing up and then forward for the benefit of his confused co-pilot. ‘Just read through it and listen to me.’

 

In a remarkably short time, the medic still hovering over his shoulders, Tom stopped fuel to his dead port engine. Satisfied it was off, he managed to bleed out and restart the central fan – something was jamming the intake or the s-duct. Without any ability to properly diagnose it, he decided to get it running and open it full blast. ‘I’ll make her happy. Use her for full thrust and steer with number one if I have too,’ Tom informed Birch. Without understanding much beyond the severity of the situation, Birch concurred. He relied less on Tom’s limited aviation experience and more on his confidence. Knowing Tom wouldn’t break radio silence – for anything – until they were on approach (to somewhere), it was in their hands and God’s.

 

After a minute or three, they thought they had salvaged the flight. Tom shouted to the rear, ‘I need eyes left and behind! I’m gonna zig-zag. Gotta tell me if we’re burning.’ He knew, even in the absence of radar, open flames make for excellent air-to-air, SAM, or gun targeting. A few herky-jerky turns later he was informed (and satisfied) that they might be trailing sparks and smoke but no open flame.

 

The pilot almost cracked a smile. Then, he turned and yelled to Oak, ‘Start getting me some information out of that hobo.’ Oak commenced in expert fashion. A few thumps and screams later and Tom heard their passenger begin to excitedly speak.

 

The kid called up to the cockpit, ‘He says he wants a lawyer. Says he wants to see the Israeli ambassador.’

 

‘Check the overheads! See if we have some of those,’ Tom said sarcastically, ‘Oak! Tell that child-molesting faggot if he doesn’t start talking, he’s going to take a high dive at five-hundred miles per hour!’ Oak said more than that. Whatever it was, it got some results – discreetly recorded for Tom’s use only.

 

‘We’re not going five-hundred,’ Birch informed, over the still screeching warning alarms, ‘Maybe holding two-seventy … two-eighty.’

 

‘And, that’s all we’re gonna get, man,’ said Tom, just as his eyes settled on a new warning message. He scanned the gauges several times. ‘Well, hell,’ he almost chuckled, ‘Losing fuel. Our gate crew did some fine shooting. Okay, MacDill is out of the question. Homestead might… Hey, everybody, we’re going to Key West!’

 

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(Picture: PBS/Twitter)

 

At their present speed – if the gas (and their luck) held – Naval Air Station Key West was a little under one-hundred miles away. The Fates relented and both fuel and luck held. When he was confident he was approaching American waters and airspace, Tom climbed a little. Then, he gave Birch the go-ahead to radio for an emergency landing.

 

Maybe a newbie, the airman in the tower didn’t quite understand Birch’s classified code speak. But, he did gather there was a serious problem with the aircraft that had just magically appeared on his radar. They got a few warnings, some confusion, and then permission to land.

 

A minute or two later they could see runway lights ahead; Tom swung out a little right so as to approach North by Northeast. Key West, famed Southerly end of America, shown brightly to their left. A distant glow to the right told them the juice was still on in Miami.

 

Tom prepped for landing and addressed one final alarm – something was wrong with part (or all) of his landing gear. ‘El revolucionarios are pretty damned good,’ Tom sneered through a grimace, ‘Brace for a crash! Now!’

 

As the whole team did their best to brace, Tom counted down the altimeter, synching it with the rapidly growing ground outside. Final adjustments. Power back. Nose up. Three. Two. One… With a thud and a grinding, whining sound they were back on Earth. The Falcon jerked and jolted. It wanted to drift left. With Birch’s assistance, Tom held her straight and tried his best to brake. Those boys shot the shit out of us, he thought, saaalute, commies.

 

In the end, they rolled almost the length of the runway before coming to a shuttering stop. Outside, a small armada of firetrucks and military police vehicles converged on the wreck.

 

The stairs opened and settled on the ground with a clang. They were listing considerably to the left, one rear landing gear assembly was destroyed and the corresponding wingtip was almost touching the composite surface of runway 14-32. Birch was the first off and immediately talking to MPs and then an officer. It was now understood they were to be unhindered. Exactly who they were and what they were doing was speculated over but not asked about. The fire crew ordered all parties out. An ambulance came for a reluctant team leader.

 

Tom was the last off. He walked slowly towards Birch, the kid, Oak, and the paramedics. As he closed in on Professor Pedo he couldn’t help himself. He drove his right foot forcefully into the back of the man’s left knee and rode him down. In a flash, he delivered a powerful forearm strike to the shrieking non-witness’s head, the head which literally bounced on the tarmac. As the friend of a friend of a former president spit blood and teeth and whimpered, Tom casually spoke as he passed, ‘I’ll see you again one night, my friend.’  

 

As he climbed into the back of a waiting ambulance, the kid leaned in with words to lionize, ‘That was excellent flying, sir. How long have you had your pilot’s license?’

 

‘What license?’ Tom answered just as the doors closed.

 

Late that afternoon an exhausted paramilitary operations officer walked into the reception area outside a briefing room in the CENTCOM bunker at MacDill Air Force Base. His jacket loosely draped over his shoulder, hid a brand new blue sling. He stopped at a little concierge table. After adding two fingers of Scotch to his styrofoam coffee cup he fumbled with his flask.

 

‘Can I help you with that contraband, sir,’ came a semi-sultry voice from behind. Tom glanced over at a very attractive, very young woman in uniform.

 

‘Well, hey there, darling,’ he started as he scanned for insignia and what might lie beneath, ‘…Lieutenant. Can you help me get this back in my coat pocket? This sling makes it difficult … I was playing polo and… It’s Bowmore, the best your PX had. Don’t want to lose it. I’ve got the rest in my car if you’re free in an hour.’

 

With a polite word (maybe a sarcastic threat) the woman with short blonde hair eased the flask back where it belonged. She gave Tom a pat on his chest and then a knowing, sadistic tap on the left arm. As she walked away, he noticed that she looked back. She looked but she didn’t catch the kiss he blew.

 

A no-nonsense-looking Air Force one-star hailed Tom from an adjoining room, ‘Commander Bond, if you’re done harassing my officer, we’re ready to get started in here. Langley’s on screen.’

 

Tom entered and rattled off his report, expressing plenty of not-so-subtle disdain for the mission and for those who had requested it. He especially wanted to know why their “guest,” after a visit to the emergency room, was turned over to the private security firm of the Federal Reserve. He received no answers. He was upbraided for wrecking the plane (‘What plane?’ defied Tom) and for brutalizing an important NON-witness (‘I’m not responsible for anything the Cubans did,’ was all that got them). Then, at last, the conversation turned pleasant. As he expected, the bean-counters were cobbling together about 28 years worth of retirement (of one kind and another) for services rendered to a grateful, if uninformed, nation. His coming trip to Headquarters would likely be his last.

 

On his way out of the office, as he scanned for the Blonde Sadist, his new one-star friend walked up to him and spoke, ‘Colonel, my boy mentioned something about a cigar mix up in between what “the Cubans did” and the here and now.’ He offered Tom three Belicosos finos from his pocket. America still had some decent brass.

 

Way too late that evening, Tom slumped over the bar at Steak O’Brien’s, Palma Ceia’s finest watering hole. Michelle, the twenty-something Barbie doll bartender in the low-cut white t-shirt, leaned towards him as she had the past two hours. Thirty minutes later, as they left together, she cooed, ‘So, again … what’d you do to your arm?’

 

‘Like I told you, I’m a drug dealer. Had a shootout with the police,’ Tom said flatly as he tightened his grip on her waist.

 

‘Bullshit! You are the police.’

 

‘Well, I do have some handcuffs.’

 

Despite his not sleeping for the past forty-eight hours, 12:44 Saturday morning was considerably more enjoyable than the same time the previous day.

 

***Seven-plus years later…

 

Tom stared ahead at nothing. Michelle had been fun. Now, which breakup was she? Did she ever still text? Call? He pondered hard; it was difficult to keep count. Maybe, maybe it was best to finally leave the college girls back in college. Was thirty the new floor? Young Ms. Tomlinson, here, she was probably just about right… Then, he saw the glimmer on her left hand. Ah, well, it wouldn’t work anyway.

 

MRS. Lucie Tomlinson sat at the other end of the lunchroom table. He had just returned to her nineteen Kindergarteners after a rousing music class. He was graciously invited to dine with the young academics and their lovely leader. This being December, the wonderful lunch ladies at L.D. Jever Elementary, a South Carolina blue ribbon award winner for increasing STEM diversity or something, had prepared turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Following confusion about how to make change for a Ten, Tom’s turkey was free. And, it was pretty good.

 

To Tom’s right, a girl with long, curly brown hair approved of the mashed potatoes. In fact, she was wearing them on her shirt sleeve. After the claymation video of “Peter and the Wolf” concluded – Tom’s third screening of the day – little Ms. Macey Somebody had crayoned a picture of Santa for her parents. Tom received a half-finished, nearly all green drawing of Rudolf.

 

She recounted the various adventures of her cat. She did not like red peppers. Mr. “Eyesnides” looked like a giant Christmas elf. Then, she exclaimed about the mashed potatoes on her sleeve.

 

Tom acknowledged, ‘Hey, little lady, you’ve got mashed potatoes on your sleeve.’

 

He also, silently, acknowledged the good he had done two Decembers before on his Mediterranean “vacation.” What were the odds of finding Professor Pedo in Sicily, at that hotel, at that time of the night? Tom remembered it, heard it again with lucid clarity – that sweet, soft sound of success – of justice: Pfwoot! Pfwoot! Pfwoot! He had almost left an apologetic note for room service; he had left a drop knife and some photographs for the inspectors.

 

He smiled. What he had done, he had done for this little girl and so many others just like her. It was a darn good day.

UPDATE: Some thoughts I had about this work in progress line and character:

Upon further reflection, another reading, and talking to a few folks, I think I have a few items to address with the above narrative. To save MB any editing trouble, just consider this note the fix.

1. Please consider “12:44 AM,” both references, to mean “00:44.” My bad.

2. Yes, there is such a thing as an AK “74.” Newer models than that too.

3. I seriously goofed with the approach to runway 14-32 (real runway at a real NAS). Coming from the South, Tom would have swung out right to line up with it on a heading of North by NORTHWEST (mainly Northwest). Not Northeast – that makes no sense. In my defense, I would say that I had just written, in the preceding paragraph, about Miami, which would have been to the Northeast of the plane (and KW). But, this is the second time in a month that I confused East and West (the first time being a reference to Wales as it corresponds to London). Mayve me biran not so gud? It’s North by Northwest.

4. Perhaps, given that MacDill is an Air Force BASE, Tom should have told Lt. Blondie he shopped at the “BX.” I’ll leave this one open for interpretation. He’s the kind of guy that might just call a Base Exchange a Post Exchange just to fluster people or because he’s aloof to pedantic detail. The kind of guy who calls a uniformed female officer “darling” as he openly flirts with her about his illegal use of alcohol ON POST (get it?). She, in turn, knew how to handle him – complying, with a little love tap where she suspected there was an injury. Women…

I’m sure there’s more. For instance, I have no idea how many dBs 3 PW306s make at idle or if it’s possible to converse over them. I do know why I went with them and not the FX5 configuration (my secret). It’s fiction. Have fun with it. I did.

P