"Angus I think we can turn back to the shore now. Looks like the boys were hungry. Also, I didn't bring sunscreen, it's going to be a hot one today." Anne tugged twice on her wide brimmed old-Angolan camouflaged hat slightly, preventing the warming morning sun from blinding her, and turned her head to spot the beach. Proof that the eastern fireball didn't take kindly to its ignored warnings a day before, the terrified man in the back was careful not to dare touch his blistered face or glowing swollen fore arms. Yet, he preferred the state he was in - pain for him meant he was alive. Hovering a few inches above his sun-stroked head was a too see-through baseball cap that he pirated off a presumably lost yacht that was in no apparent hurry on its way down to the curious but blind ocean-basement dwellers that would poke at it, waiting with ready and poisonous probes - to detect the slightest of heat signatures before the 'kitchen would be announced open for business'. Back at the surface, far away from the abyss where death has never learnt of alien things like sound, a petrol powered stainless steel propeller was heeding Anne's every command and purposefully whisking oxygen back into the turquoise haze. The speedboat was already two-hundred meters east from the last few muted swearing and moaning aperitifs that found themselves roughly separated into more manageable pieces by not so sympathetic chefs. The last of the splashing of silver-grey fins had just submarined deeper to investigate how her babies were getting on in the playroom. A platoon of genetically modified and impatient swimmers were convinced that there must have been at least one snack that escaped the bezirk washing machine-like frenzy, when they were summoned to dine.
Unlike her librarian twin sister, Anne always thought of herself as the original Anne. Ironically named Anne-1 and Anne-2 by the Russian couple who ran the orphanage when they eventually discovered a way to tell the bossy twins apart - Anne-1 had a birthmark in the shape of a faint wing to the left of her spine and strangely Anne-2, similar, but to the right of her spine. Anne-1 was the result of too much sun, too much of her life spent on shooting ranges and flying mercenaries in and out of Angola and lastly, of emptying packets of 20 Camel filters - that already at the age of 23 - it was said - if she had to stand-in for a coal fuelled locomotive on a busy platform, no one would notice anything was amiss. Bravely having fought off skin cancer as well as lung cancer on and off for fifteen gruelling years, she was still fitter than men who could be her grandsons, and as tough as nails... old ones that could be hammered into concrete, and they'd blankly refuse bending or even suffer bluntness. In as much pain as the man in the back of the fleeting boat was, he sacrificed absorbing more of the picturesque landscape, as they were fast approaching the beach - to awe Anne's genius sidestepping of still swelling low waves that could be swelling into bigger ones.
"You OK there?"
Forcing his eyes closed as his cramped hand clamping the hovering cap accidentally banged against his burnt forehead - when they crashed through a wave he wasn't expecting - he figured he seemed to have sinned in her cold blue eyes that darted at him as she briefly flashed her head back and instantly faced through the salty ocean spray on the vibrating wind shield again. He overused the F-word in rapid-fire fashion, and she strongly disapproved. Judging from her seeming effortless steering, he was sure this time it was punishment for the second time he must have sinned, as she already burnt a warning stare in his direction the first time.
"Coping, thank you, Anne." But coping was he was not. Between a choice of one-hundred-thousand dollars and not experiencing this level of sunburn, he'd much rather be stuck with a minus sixty-five dollar bank balance. In an attempt to focus on something other than his hellish inconvenience as he shook about in the back, or having just been sentenced to deletion of his whole personal dictionary of favourite words - he was however overjoyed that he was on her side. He offered her a respectful nod and smiled, then allowed his gaze to get lost, counting the foamy low waves back to the waiting white beach sand.
"Don't you think by finishing the hardest work early, it frees up the day, and we end up being more productive Angus. Or is it just me?" Anne said, not for the first time, much in her rhetorical way. Angus nodded in forced agreement and smiled, lifted his sunglasses, so she could see him, then lowered them again.
Had one not known her better, one would be pardoned for stereotyping old spectacled grey haired Anne with her peculiar solid brass walking stick by her side, as someone living out her golden years under blissful nostalgia, playing poker for cookies and page through old photo albums of people who either passed on, or whom still passed the old age home, but were too busy to visit.
Not having missed her taxing hour-long rowing session followed by a brisk 5km early run in forty years, at heart she was still the outdoor-loving farm-girl in love with flying lessons - turned sailor - of decades before. But global politics mimicked commerce and prevailing technology, and forced people like Anne into buried obscurity...
WINTER, the French Security Expo at 8am, and droves of curious, overly talkative crowds were seeking warmth. Like thousands of moths being drawn to the mesmerizing warmth of a single lonely flame, the elated visiting crowds were squashed through the bottleneck at the doorway. Anne thought of the irony of an international Security Expo held, designed with the worst of flaws. Only a single access controlled point had been offering access, followed by a lengthy narrow passage for the masses of excited invitees.
'For a Security Expo, they really didn't think this one through...' Anne thought as she pinched her handbag tighter under her arm.
"Joyeux Anniversair!" A twenty-something mother right next to her, excitedly shouted an apparent friend; whose birthday it had been, closer, and in the exultant kissing and hugging, momentarily let go of her boy's little hand.
"Dammit!" Anne came up from a bent position where she had in a flash, pulled the woman's toddler up by his upper arm. The little guy had tripped over the loose cuffed end of the large rubbery carpet; placed to wipe snow off the visitor's boots, and he had almost been trampled by the fast advancing masses behind them.
"Excusez moi!?" Anne pulled at the father's sleeve, then in a sudden reflex, blocked his blow with her bonier than expected elbow - poking a well directed stingingly sharp pain into his forearm. The humiliated father and husband; who at the time had just about enough of the pushing crowd, swung a blow in Anne's direction, and realised too late that Anne had actually saved their son. The red-faced man was making up his mind still, on whether he should hope to relieve the intense pain with a good few deep rubs of his forearm, or whether his shin; that had an unpleasant taste of Anne's walking stick while he was still pulling his arm back to land his blow, warranted his sympathy more.
"Merci, merci, merci...!" Both parents thanked quick responding Anne while husband was only too relieved to hide his shame in the crowd.
'Apparently there had been a lesson or two that I missed at the boxing club over many years'. He thought, and smiled at the odd occurrence and how his friends would react on hearing of the embarrassing ordeal. He quickly changed his mind, as it wouldn't be one of the things he would brag over a few beers with his rough mates. They drifted part from Anne as the ocean of visitors diverged between the food stalls, exhibition centre stalls and the VIP's queueing up outside the auditorium.
"Merci!" She heard the grateful mother repeat her thankfulness over the loud humming chatter before they were swamped into the warmly dressed crowd.
To the right of Anne, having passed the first of many glamorous lit up stalls, she thought how typical it had been of most exhibitions of this nature - The endless noisy queues, housed the "fans", while the rest were grouped in bundles, occupying the aromatic food stalls. Anne referred to these gun fans jokingly as the tyre-kickers of the arms and surveillance industries. The welcoming warmth inside had many remove their coats which hung annoyingly over their arms as they battled to cram more glossy brochures into their files, while others that had previously visited, paid for lockers to safeguard valuables and excess documentation. She passed the lively but
serious looking small group of fit and tattooed attendees; displaying navy, infantry or other well-earned permanent logos, who she overheard asking about delivery time frames mainly, while openly hinting at discounted prices based on volume.
'The home of the ex-gladiators'. Anne thought while looking at the expert manner an assortment of gadgets were tried, fitted and inspected for familiar factory faults having been adapted and improved.
Some invitees were merely missing the technology and action, while others typically posed as exporters while on the payroll of government-front businesses.
'Modern infantry as well as cyber warfare insured there had been adequate (black) missions where there had been unfinished business.' She quietly thought and swallowed her smile as she saw a well tanned man in a neatly trimmed full beard folding an American Remington- then a Finnish Lapua ammunition dealer's business card lengthwise in half and passed it to his friend to his right. The earlier night vision stall that the man had visited, he had in similar fashion handed a card to the man to his left, but that time, folded it width-wise in half.
'So that's his family. I was quite specific that attachments such as family would not be a plus...' She recognised the man from earlier when his wife and his' gratitude were drowned by the fast propelling current of curious visitors.
"Ah! Désolé..." The man had earlier pointed his finger to a device for sale and turned to his friend to remark on the Austrian assignment of small arms displayed underneath the glass counter, but then noticed Anne behind them. He immediately apologised and pulled his two colleagues back as they were obstructing her view of the overhead TV screen on the wall, announcing the time of the naval presentation in the auditorium.
"Thank you again, Mademoiselle." He had opened his arms wide, waiting for permission to give Anne a thank-you-hug.
"Of course, Pas de problem" (No problem) She winked and smiled at his decency and allowed for his long warm hug.
"I'm Emile... Ma'am, I'm curious, please forgive me, but are you here with your husband? I'd like to have the pleasure of both your company, maybe buy you something warm to drink or breakfast?" He politely enquired in a French accent and introduced his crew as his old school friends.
"Yes, actually I am, I'm afraid I lost him at the door, he's an ammunition collector." Anne lied the same lie that she used for a very long time. It wasn't any business of the man who she was, but apparently that didn't prevent her humour to surface.
"Tell me, I've seen these plastic looking ones, may I ask you something?" Her curious attempt to get information from him after what She him doing with the business cards.
"Of course, I think I owe you more than that. Please." He nodded.
"Can they be taken apart? My Tommy never let's me touch his guns. He says these look like Tupperware... because they're made from plastic, but that they're very dangerous. Are these the ones with no safety catch?" Her second lie in less than a minute, and she had almost given the game away.
"Pardon?" Emile, waved one of the Glock factory's staff over and asked that the man hand him the largest looking one, a 9mm Glock 17L.
"Of course he'd ask for the biggest one.' And Anne fought hard not to smile.
"It's really not all plastic, only the receiver, or frame..., it's called Polymer and it has hardened metal grooves inserted where the slide runs back on..." Emile pointed with his finger where the slide would run back after a shot had been discharged and pushed forward again by the recoil rod's inherent insistence to snap back to its original form - an subsequent inserting the following round into the chamber from the magazine. He moved the slide back to commence disassembling the weapon.
"So, its really durable Polymer with hardened steel inserts only where needed..." He patiently continued pointing to the various parts including the all-in-one recoil rod and spring, and allowed for pauses in between his expert demonstration, had she any questions. His detailed information sharing ended by explaining the differences between both single-action and double action fire arms, and that the Austrian Glock had in fact a safe-action. Emile allowed Anne to hold and inspect the various parts while he continued a brief discussion with his colleagues and the salesman from the Glock factory. The discussion pivoted around semi-automatic and full-automatic military style arms.
"Ouch." Anne uttered quietly under her breath as pushed the trigger housing pin out by utilising the end of the magazine spring, then forced into place her personal slightly modified trigger housing that hung unassumingly on her key chain.
'At a few degrees less, the adapted trigger housing made all the difference'. Anne made sure it went by unnoticed and pocketed the other one. Within a mere few seconds the Glock 17L was fully assembled, and she placed it neatly back in its case, then search on her phone for something.
"Sorry?" Anne pulled at Emile's sleeve and jokingly stood back half a step as if to miss a blow, in case he was about to swipe his arm indiscriminately again.
Emile let out a deep laugh "You're a fast learner." And decided to pocket his ego and relay his meeting with her to his friends - met by a combination of frowns and smiles and finally a firm handshake by both.
'Fast learner? You have no idea...' Anne thought, advertising her smile.
"Merde!" Emile's colleague pointed out to the firearm in front of her and exclaimed as he noticed she had in the shortest time possible, fully assembled it. In awe the men stared at her and alternated their looks between the assembled Glock 17L, and each other. Unseen by the men, the salesman winked at her. His old friend was back apparently.
"Oh, I was just wondering if I'd be allowed to try it on the shooting-range? You know, to see how it handles?" It was a mere improvised act to suss out more about the men.
The men loudly slapped their legs in utter non-stop laughter, taking their time to compose themselves, while repeating her comment (how it handles) a few times.
"Thank you for making our day, but are you serious?" The man from the factory played along, frowning his best convincing frown and staring at the older woman.
"The Glocks are the best point-and-shoot "off the shelf" ones around Ma'am, its a fact." Was the sales pitch which came from behind the counter, as the man had extended his arm and demonstrated the angle of a naturally free pointing hand and the angle via the wrist towards one's forearm and target ahead.
"Ammunition for each of you, it's on us." And the man behind the counter placed thirteen rounds for each down in a small square transparent box that he slid across the glass counter top. A curious colleague of the factory technician heard his manager, stood closer after being waved over, and removed four targets with attacker silhouettes printed on them.
" the Worst marksman-... or lady, buys the breakfast, yes...?" The younger man behind the counter remarked with a mischievous smile, while rubbing his hands. Again, the men all burst out in a fit of laughter.
"Ladies first." Emile suggested and ushered with his hand that she continued first, around the back of the sales counter towards the closed doors that separated the busy stall from the glassed off shooting-range.
A Motley Crew Page 9