“And do we have a problem with that?” the President asked.
“Not really,” the General said. “Officially he’s on R and R. And as far as we’re concerned, if we never see him again, then that means we won’t be required to take an official action. The United States’ military rug is big enough to sweep at least a dozen Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan’s under it. So just one of him, that should not be a problem.”
A male White House server appeared and checked on everyone. Getting assurances that coffees and teas were full and all his guests were happy, the server left the group and they resumed the conversation.
“So where does this leave us with Hail?” President Weston asked.
Pepper said, “Kara indicated that Hail was upset, but to what degree I do not know. Hail mentioned that he wanted to talk to you. He thought that you two should clear the air, as he put it.”
“I think that’s a good idea. Did he say when?” the President inquired.
Pepper said, “He simply said as soon as possible. I believe he has other targets he would like to neutralize.”
The President turned and asked a question to her typically quiet Director of National Intelligence, Eric Spearman.
“Do we fully understand the capabilities of Marshall Hail and his organization?”
Spearman sat up a little straighter in his chair and cleared his throat and said, “I do not think it would be an exaggeration if I were to say that Hail has the ability to kill anyone, anytime, anywhere and leave little to no trace that he was ever there.”
Spearman looked around the table to see if there were any objections to his statement.
No one said a word.
The President looked very concerned. Her face twitched and she rubbed her arms as if a sudden chill had descended upon her.
“Are you alright, Madam President?” Trevor Rogers asked.
“No, not really,” she said.
She appeared to collect her thoughts for a moment, and then she asked, “Do all of you understand why that last statement would concern me?”
All four men looked at her with blank expressions.
She looked at each of them as if they were dense simpletons for not knowing the correct answer.
Frustrated, she told them calmly, “If you gentlemen haven’t noticed.”
Then the President shouted, “I AM ANYONE!”
She then recomposed herself, flipped her bangs out of her eyes and looked her staff over. Drones that dropped drones that released drones that then silently killed people. Warfare had reinvented itself yet again, and the world had again become much more insecure.
The President looked down at the thick binder to her left that had a single word printed on the jacket. MALDIVES. She realized she knew nothing of the little country and even less about the current president. She checked her watch.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to learn about the country of Maldives in the next half hour, before my lunch with its President.”
“What country?” Trevor Rogers asked.
“Maldives,” the President repeated. “It’s maybe the eighth smallest country in the world. It’s south of India in the middle of the Laccadive Sea.”
“Oh, THAT Maldives,” Rogers said sarcastically.
“If we have nothing else then…” the President said and gave the men a big thankless smile and held her hand out toward the garden’s exit.
The men all stood, pushed in their chairs and left the President studying her thick binder.
A rose garden has a natural attraction to insects and even birds. During this time of year, hearing a hummingbird flutter around the garden was a common occurrence. Every once in a while, two hummingbirds could be seen darting in and out of the colorful blooms. But Joanna Weston had never heard a swarm of hummingbirds that appeared to be closing in from behind her. The sound of wind over wings was so loud that she turned to look at the birds.
Instead of a bird, contrasted against the organic shapes of flowers and leaves and stems and bushes, she saw an alien looking contraption. Before she could move or get up or call out, a flying saucer that had a stick hanging under it, flew up onto the table. The President gasped as three appendages that looked like tiny legs popped out from the bottom of the stick. Two glasses got bumped, turned over on their sides and rolled across the table and fell onto the bricks with a crash. The President pushed back in her chair as the craft landed on its thin tripod legs. Then the stick began to separate vertically. One half turned at ninety degrees and made a cross with the other half, like a mast of a ship. The two halves then snapped into place. The President began to get up and was preparing to run, when a familiar voice told her wait. It was a commanding tone coming out of the alien thing-a-ma-bob and for some reason the voice calmed her. Instead of running, she paused for a second and watched a thin sheet of paper unroll from the ship’s mast looking thing. Before it had even reached its full length, she recognized the face of Marshall Hail on the flexible LED screen.
A million thoughts went through her head. Had she pissed off Marshall Hail so badly that he had come to kill her? She thought not, but stranger things have happened in the world.
She recalled the words she had just spoken to the men at the table. I am ANYONE.
It was very clear to her that Marshall Hail could indeed get to anyone, anytime, anywhere, so why run.
Joanna Weston remained in her chair, tense and unmoving.
She must have looked a sight to Marshall Hail, because he smiled a disarming, no harm, no foul smile and spoke.
“I’m sorry Madam President. I didn’t mean to startle you, but we need to talk.”
Other Books by Brett Arquette
Deadly Perversions
Seeing Red
Tweaked
The Pandemic Diary
Soundman for a B-Band