CON2 The Generals of October a Political Thriller crisis during Second Constitutional Convention

Page 28.

A little while later, David, Tory, and Jet rode toward Falls Church, Virginia. David drove, threading his way through the first hints of rush hour traffic leaving the nation’s capital. It was windy and clear. Flags snapped on their poles.

Tory and Jet spoke a mix of shop talk and concern over Shoob. At the last moment, Tabitha Summers had agreed to see them—only because of Jet’s pleading. Tabitha lived in a picturesque farmhouse near Falls Church, inside the Beltway. Leaves were just beginning to turn. A magnificent Fall was in the air, like a joyous hymn in a cathedral. Trees surrounded Tabitha’s ranch style home on all sides. Tabitha met them on the front porch as they trod crunching on gravel across her driveway. She was a tallish, trim blonde in her late 40’s, wrapped in a purple woolen shawl as if freezing. There was fear or anger or both in her blue eyes. She nodded as Jet waved. Jet rushed up the stairs and hugged her friend. The hardness melted in Tabitha’s face and she said: “It’s good to see you. I just wish Ib were with you.”

Tory stepped up and shook Tabitha’s hand. David rested a foot on the wood stairs and looked around, trying to be disarming. “Beautiful place you have out here.”

“I like it well enough. I don’t see many people from the city, so let’s get this over with.”

Tabitha led them into a gloomy parlor filled with old furniture. Leaded cabinet windows gleamed between ornate scrolls and little corner pillars. Wood cherubs sang silent, eerie songs. What was written on their scrolls in this half-light? David wondered.

“I made tea,” Tabitha said.

Tory rubbed her hands as if starting a fire. “Sounds great.”

After a brief exchange about the relative merits of Darjeeling and Green Tea, after they were all seated, Tory drew Tabitha out. “We’re very worried about Ib. I was wondering if he said anything to you—?”

“He didn’t tell me much that could help you,” Tabitha said.

“You were his best friend at work, Tabitha. If you will just tell us everything you can, maybe something will set off a spark.”

Tabitha looked into the past. “He always had that paranoid streak, so I never really knew when to take him seriously. At one point he said that, when they took CloudMaster from us, it was like stealing the atomic bomb. All the civilians in our branch at NSSO were partitioned off the system about two months ago when CloudMaster was moved from Navy control to the Composite.”

Jet said: “We were all pretty bummed when Tabitha left.”

Tabitha picked up: “That’s when I decided to retire. I had turned down top billets in either California or Arizona because they promised me a two year contract here using CloudMaster. Then they threw me off CloudMaster, and that did it.” She half reminisced, half explained: “My resigning didn’t have anything to do with Ib. He was always grumbling around like an old walrus. CloudMaster is a wonderful machine. Very powerful. A beautiful thing to work with. My job was to provide network security. Imagine if someone could hack their way in and make you think it was too hazardous to fly, even though it wasn’t—long enough to suspend flight operations so enemy strategies could be carried out against us without air defense by us. It was the most fun and challenging assignment I ever had.”

“Did Ib ever mention a file he found? Something to do with national security?”

“What kind of file?”

“I can’t go into detail.” He felt somewhat foolish. If she didn’t know, he couldn’t tell her. What if she knew, and wasn’t talking? If so, why?

“This country is falling apart,” Tabitha said ironically. “The Constitution is being trashed by morons who think they are great intellects, my career is washed up, and you can’t tell me about some piece of paranoia of Ib Shoob’s.”

David asked, “Do you think Ib’s disappearance has anything to do with CON2?”

Tabitha glowered at him some more. Then she rose and said: “I have nothing more to tell you. If I hear from Ib, I’ll tell him to call you. I’d appreciate that you never come here again. Jet, call me anytime, long as it has nothing to do with this. Tell Ib to give me a call when he gets back. I’ll ring you next time I’m in town. Let’s have coffee.”

On the way back through the gorgeous countryside, Jet said: “That wasn’t Tabitha. I mean, it was her, but I’ve never seen her like this. She was like a total stranger. I don’t think she’ll ever call me.”

David called Colonel Jankowsky to report on his afternoon. Jankowsky said: “Nothing more, David. We’re having a hell of a time with General Montclair’s headquarters, trying to extricate the medical file on the suicide in Texas, as well as their MP file on him, just to close our own paperwork.” He added: “You’d almost think they’re running their own army over there.” As if realizing he had breached etiquette by being critical of a general officer, he changed tone again. “By the way, Colonel Bellamy called.—Rick Bellamy, the Provost Marshal for the military people at the hotel? He wants you to call him. Says it’s important.”

David immediately called, but Bellamy’s com button was only taking messages, so he left a message. “Sir, it’s David Gordon. Got your message. Let’s touch base in the morning, or call me this evening if you wish.”

David took Tory to a small restaurant that evening. There was something sweet and smooth and agreeable about being with her. As they sat under the yellow light of a booth in a family restaurant, he knew she might be feeling something for him too. But she was very cool, and didn’t show it.

They sat in a cozy corner and ordered matching baskets of chicken stix and fries, and milk shakes. In the middle of dinner, on impulse, he raised a chicken stick toward her mouth. She looked up, crinkled a smile at him, and accepted it in her mouth with a wink of indulgence. “That’s wonderful,” she said with a luxuriant, sensual groan. She raised a chicken stick to his mouth, and he imitated her.

“David, I’m feeling this overwhelming urge to take you home with me.”

“Oh no.”

“I’m not joking. David—”

“Yes?”

“It’s just—I’m not ready for anything, you know, complicated.”

“I’m not either.” He wasn’t. Yet, he heard a distant chord from his heart strings.

“You make me feel rather odd inside,” she said holding his hand.

“Like how?”

“I’m not telling.” For a moment, with her lush, pensive lips, she evoked stored secrets and heartbreaks.

Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).

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