The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  He kissed her passionately, trying to prolong the suspense. Her tongue worked against his tongue and her ragged gasping began to become a rapid series of soft pleading moans. He reached down and pushed her long legs apart, gently massaging her in urgent circles. He felt warmth, jelly, moisture. The insides of her thighs were damp. She turned her head from side to side, eyes closed. Her hips pressed toward him as he entered. She breathed in rapid gasps as the first of many orgasms arrived. Seeing her at the edge, wanting to be there with her, he slapped rapidly against her soft skin until they both arrived, moaning in unison, and collapsed together exhausted but happy.

  Later in the night, they stirred in their sleep. David reached out for her. The bed felt cool, the sheets soft. Still mostly asleep, they rubbed their legs and thighs and bellies together, enjoying the friction of smooth skin on smooth skin under warm blankets. He kissed her nipples, alternating from one to the other. She pulled at him gently, cuddling and caressing him. He kissed her below, inhaling sweet, clean dew on pungent flowers, or sea fog with just a tang of roiling, overpowering life secrets. “Hurry,” she whispered. With a cry of hunger, he entered. She turned her head sideways and pulled a pillow over her mouth to muffle the wail that escaped as he rocked in her. They were perfect for each other, he and she, rising toward the sun together, she sobbing, he thrusting hungrily but with a hand gently under her head lest she hurt herself against the headboard--until all the passion was spent. They lay together, afraid to say I love you--just yet.

  David awoke hearing the sound of a trash truck somewhere. He was naked, and stuck to the sheet. As he peeled the sheet back, he saw Tory’s sleeping figure and marveled that she was really as long and beautiful as he had imagined. She stirred, yawning, and touched her fingertips to her eyes. She turned so he was in her peripheral vision, and said “Hi.” She turned fully to regard him, as though this were the moment of truth.

  Maxie was home. She knocked on the door and yelled that she was making breakfast for everyone.

  “Hi,” David said. He lay back and pulled Tory to him. “You are beautiful.” She crawled on top of him and pulled the blankets up over her back to cover them both in a snug twilight warm from their bodies. He felt himself growing erect, straining for her. She received him readily. They lay thus, in that soft gray light, that was timeless and underwater, and rocked unhurriedly in tiny motions.

  After making love, they lay looking into one another’s eyes. David saw the time and groaned as he sat up. “We can’t be late for work.”

  Tory sat beside him and cupped his face in her hands like something precious. Her eyes gazed fearlessly into his and he read passion and sincerity in them.

  “You sweep me away, Tory.”

  “You better not hurt me, David.”

  “Where does that come from? Do I look like I'd hurt you?”

  “I was with Maxie the other night, and watched her get stiffed by that stupid guy she pledged herself to.”

  “You're not Maxie. I know Maxie. Maxie hasn't found Maxie yet.”

  “You are so right, poor thing.” She rubbed fingertips on his chest. “You have long since swept me away, David. I'm just silly over you.” Her voice was low and fragile and defensive. Her thoughts prowled around him like a cornered animal. “After my divorce, and one or two more stupid guys came along, I wondered--what's worth that kinda hell? I’ll never fall in love again. And then I stumble over a guy like you, so here I go again.”

  “I keep telling you.”

  “Keep telling me what.” She kissed him, hovered over him, frowned, listened. He saw the ovals of her cheeks, the seriousness of her lips, the lightning in her eyes, the resolve in her chin, and loved her already. “I’m falling for you, Tory, pretty heavy. It’s a scary ride for me too, but I’ll go it if you want.”

  “I don’t want anything from you except you be good to me. The little things, you know? Open the door for me and you hold the chair for me when I sit down and you don’t ever, ever yell at me or raise a hand to me, do you hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He thought for a moment. Yes, it bothered him he might never have children directly his own, but she probably made the trade worthwhile.

  She shook his head gently between her palms. Her face neared, as if she wanted to kiss him, or peer into his skull. “What do you want?”

  He held her, one hand on each side of her, his fingers feeling her ribs, as though she were a vase or an amphora or an urn containing all that would ever be his in life, free, just there for the taking, as long as he had the courage and the will, as she stared unflinchingly into his eyes. He felt the steady beat of her heart, the pulsing of her blood--or was it his? He felt the generosity in her open palms as she held his cheeks in her palms. She whispered one last time: “What do you want?”

  He wanted to say, yes I’ll do those things and not do the other things you said; don’t go off with another man; maybe cook dinner once in a while or pat the pillows up or tell me to take my feet off the sofa or praise me if I remember to do the dishes. I want a corner to sit in and read and I don’t want you to rearrange my books, or throw out my newspaper, or close the magazine I leave open. What he said was: “I--want you to always be honest with me.”

  “I promise.” She added sadly: “You’ll want children of your own, and then you’ll leave me.”

  He resolved to watch that little doubt carefully; if it grew, he would have to bail out, in fairness to her and to himself. Could she be wrong? Was it doable? His heart raced at the thought. If he wanted her badly enough, it was doable. “We need to give each other some time and see if we are for real, or if we're kidding ourselves. Only time will tell that.”

  “I know you're right.” Her eyes drooped briefly: “I'm just afraid. I can see the little doubt inside you. It’s okay. If it happens, it happens.” She brightened, and kissed him a peck on the lips. “You said what I wanted to hear. C’mon, I’ll race you to the shower.” A minute later, in the warmth and soapy steamy enclosure that was barely big enough for two people, their moment of gloom disappeared and she said: “I like romantic letters and cards. They don’t have to ramble on and on, but I like them.”

  “How about the occasional flowers?” He stepped behind her. “You're so soapy.”

  “Oh, please wash me, all the way.” She placed her palms on the shower wall and offered herself. He took her gently, from behind, and gyrated with her so they came to an echoing climax--a wild song in the shower, atonal, chorus of two voices, raised in ecstasy. They stood for a few minutes, just catching their breath. He whispered raggedly over her shoulder, into her ear: “If that doesn't convince us, nothing else will.”

  As she shut the water off, she said: “David, this is like wartime. You’ve seen those old movies. When you’ve got something, you better reach out, grab it, and hang on. Who knows where this will end.”

  “Those are the old movies,” he agreed. “Do you like to go for long rides in the countryside?”

  “I sure do. All the way out to Tabitha Summers’s place, I kept looking at you while you were driving. You looked so strong and handsome.”

  “Gawrsh, Lottie.”

  She whacked him with the washcloth. “This is serious, David. We're in big trouble here, letting our emotions out of their cages.”

  “My emotions are prowling like escaped tigers.” He examined her bottom. “Hey, you get pink all over when you’re wet, don't you?”

  “Just when it’s very warm. Mmh…” She put her hands back on the wall and closed her eyes. “Take your time. Look all you want.”

  Breakfast was a blur of Maxie moving here and there as she made breakfast--hot oatmeal; milk, sugar, coffee, bacon. David and Tory sat contentedly at barstools around the service counter.

  David almost laughed quietly at the sight of Maxie, wearing her gun as she ate breakfast. He was used to wearing a sidearm while on duty since this CON2 had begun. He thought nothing of seeing Tory armed, since she
was an MP officer. But here was Maxie, 100 pounds soaking wet, casually holding a spoon of oatmeal in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other. Meanwhile, over her white T-shirt hiding just that hint of girlish breasts, she wore a shoulder holster containing what looked like, on her, a huge 9 millimeter cannon. He was going to ask if it didn’t drag her down on one side, but some instinct told him he’d better not poke fun at her. Never poke fun at a person packing a piece, even if it’s Maxie. All three of them ate quietly, enjoying each other's company.

  Chapter 22

  The air stank overpoweringly of rotting meat. Ibrahim Shoob’s body floated in the C&O Canal like a mass of dissolving bread, long drained of any blood. David got there as fast as he could. Tory had called his office from hers, to tell him the news. David felt a pang of remorse, a sense of failure as he stood staring at Ib’s body. Tory stared helplessly.

  The corpse was the color of dirty canvas and bloated from days in the cool water, jammed in the dark under a bridge until a kayaker had dislodged it this morning. Small fish and maybe a turtle or two had nibbled at it. The eyeballs had probably been a delicacy--if the kidnappers hadn’t gotten them first. Tory turned away, retching, and David felt an overwhelming sense of loss in so many ways for the dead NCO. He felt a sense of loss at having lost this important witness, as well as the loss of his wife, his children, his unit, his co-workers, his profession--no limit to what the world had lost in this man.

  Police divers searched the area for evidence. They sought a murder weapon, or any clue that would explain his grisly fate. A stainless steel wrist bracelet gave Ib’s name, rank, and blood type. “It’s official,” Tory said. “They’ll declare the case a likely homicide. Although”--she gave the dissolving sea cow-shape a last look--”it may be hard to learn much from that. Poor Ib.” She burst out crying.

  That afternoon, David accompanied her and two Coast Guardsmen to the Shoob home. It was a journey he didn’t want to make, but he went to help Tory. Hala Shoob let out a wail as she saw the four uniformed persons step out of a U.S. Government vehicle--David, Tory, a Captain, and a Master Chief. A cousin, same age as Hala, appeared and chased a crowd of children out of the living room. Hala was more pitiful this time, anger overwhelmed by grief. A heavy person like Ib, clutching a hankie, she collapsed sideways on the couch and cried loudly and heartbrokenly. After a time, she composed herself and made coffee. The cousin helped, distributing sweet pastries at a living room table. It almost turned into a ceremony of welcome rather than a liturgy of bitter farewell. David supposed keeping busy afforded Hala some relief from her pain. As the many pictures of her and Ib around the room attested, they had had a wealth in family togetherness. There were smiling kids, a smiling Ib proud in his dress uniform, a smiling Hala proud of her husband and children. Tory excused herself after a while. Hala thanked her, wringing Tory’s hands and thanking her for having been a good officer. She wrung David’s hands also, gazing up at him with fiery Arab eyes: “My husband,” she said with a sob, “my husband loved the United States more than most Americans do. He was a fine patriot. You find those men who killed him, you find those men and bring them to justice. Do you promise me that?”

  “We’ll help the police in every way.” Tory and David saw themselves out, while the Coast Guardsmen continued their vigil with the family. David and Tory walked to his car. Because they were in uniform, he had to remind himself not to touch her hand or kiss her. “Thank you for coming,” she said. Her eyes spoke kisses.

  “I’d do anything for you,” he said, a flood of emotions boiling between them. She reached out and they shook hands, enjoying the lingering touch of one another. “I hardly know you,” she said in a very quiet voice, “but I sure like you a lot.”

  He wanted to say something clever, but the words stuck in his throat. “Me too,” was all he managed. He took a deep breath and watched her walk away.

  ALLISON MIRANDA: We have this breaking story from the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center. ANN has just learned that a floor vote has taken place. I repeat, a floor vote has taken place, and the ten-amendment limit is no longer in effect. Here is our reporter in the field, Peggy DeMetrio, with the latest developments. Peggy?

  PEGGY: It’s an incredible scene here, as you can see and hear in the background. The main hall is in sheer bedlam as delegates are trying to out-shout and out-shove one another in order to be next to speak. This is a severe defeat for the center moderates as the radicals of the left and right combined to ignore Committee and simply threw out the limit. So far, 26 amendments have been submitted and many, many more are on the way, including: mandatory school prayer; outlaw divorce; death penalty for abortion; life in psychiatric prison for gays and lesbians who do not repent; evolution teaching outlawed; funds cut off to universities that do not establish creationism centers. And here are a few from the left: Civil rights status for gays; death penalty for child abuse; no death penalty but life in prison without parole for capital offenders; civil rights status for mothers of young children so they can get jobs, training, and the like. The list gets longer by the moment. These delegates may eventually say enough and close the Agenda. It’s clear now that many of the delegates who ran for their office under the Congressional Act of Convention simply lied about their agendas. Stealth candidates, you would call them. In the meantime, things are rough on the floor. I have seen several floor fights--I mean literally fisticuffs--in the past hour. Under the same Congressional act, these delegates are immune from civil proceedings, so I don’t know how order can ultimately be restored here. Back to you, Allison.

  Chapter 23

  That afternoon, while he worked in the I.G. office, David’s collar com sounded, and he pressed it. “Yes?”

  “Captain Gordon.” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “You know me.” He shook his head, exchanging puzzled looks with Jankowsky. “You were just at my house in the country.”

  Tabitha Summers! “Yes, I remember,” David said sharply, giving Jankowsky a thumbs up, and switching to the privacy of an earphone. “Speak to me, Miss Summers.”

  “I heard about Ib.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Breen and I went to visit his wife earlier. Hala is--”

  “I’m there now.”

  “I see.”

  “Hala and I spoke. She’s getting out of town with the kids. But I want to see you. I have something.”

  “Stay put. Don’t say any more.”

  “Yes. Line’s probably tapped. I ought to know, with my years in the business.”

  David rose. “Sir, it’s Summers. I think she has the list, or something.”

  Jankowsky whistled. “Good work.”

  “Where do I take her? She needs to get safe quick, seeing what happened to Ib.”

  “Bring her around back. It’s the only thing I can think of just now.”

  David drove as fast as he legally could, arriving at the Shoob house in less than 30 minutes. Tabitha Summers stepped off the curb to meet him. He saw her--grim, wearing an off-mauve raincoat, tattered white sneakers, a scarf, and God knew how many sweaters to cover her thin frame. “Get us out of here,” she said slamming the door. She buckled up. David saw no obvious sign of surveillance, but what did that mean? Nothing. “What have you got?”

  “The list you’re after. Ib snatched it from the carousel. He was afraid the wrong people would get it. Like a fool, I let him talk me into keeping a copy. I kept it stored off-line.”

  “Did you bring a hard copy with you?”

  “Are you serious? I e-mailed the file to your boss inside an easter egg.” She meant a hidden computer file that, if its secret key was triggered, opened to play out some visual surprise, usually something goofy and fun; in this case, not.

  “Are you going back home or do you feel you need protection?”

  “I’d rather go home than anything, but I’m afraid to. Besides, I have work to do.”

  “You’re retired.”

  “No more.”

  David ushered her i
nto the I.G.’s office. After a five minute conversation, Jankowsky forwarded her easter egg program to Tony Tomasik and led them around the back to the Task Force. After they stepped through the security measures, Tomasik welcomed her. “Miss Summers, thanks for coming.”

  “I can’t shake this nagging feeling that Uncle Sam needs me. Again.”

  “What do you propose to do for us?” Tomasik asked.

  At that moment, Jankowsky showed the printout to David. On it were several prominent names, including General Robert Montclair at the Atlantic and the motor mouth of off-the-chart right-wing causes, retired General Felix Mason. Tomasik exclaimed as he read the list. “Two dozen names,” he counted. “Prominent generals, admirals, senators, businessmen, wow.” David noticed tears in Tomasik’s eyes.

  “The President needs to get this,” Jankowsky said. He waved it angrily at Tabitha. “Why have you held on to this?”

  “Nobody would have believed me if I’d said anything,” she said calmly. “Look what happened to Ib.”

  Jankowsky nodded grimly. “I’ll walk this up through channels right to Norcross.”

  Tabitha rubbed her hands. “You need more than just the list. Ib had some really hot documents stashed somewhere. You guys got a computer here?”

  “Do we ever!” Tomasik said.

  “Let’s find those documents!” Tabitha enthused.

  Tory slept over at David’s place.

  After dinner, they shared a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and fell asleep on the living room floor. Toward midnight, they woke up and made love. They went to the bedroom around 2 a.m. and lay quietly together, listening to each other’s breathing.

  David pondered that it was scary to fall in love with a woman who’d had such a tragedy. But did it really have to be a tragedy? He could understand how some guys would not know how to relate to her, maybe seeing her as an empty vessel or something, some stupid carnivore mating standard. Her tragedy made her all the more unique to David. Yes, he must wait and be sure he would not regret having children. Then again, might they not fall out of love in two or three months? Might she move on or he move on? He stroked her cheek lovingly, grateful that she was not Kristy. Maybe the fact that she was so different, and yet so wonderful, would make her extra special for him. He’d wait and see. He could feel her puzzlement in her sleep as he touched her. She responded surprisingly by planting a tiny, loving kiss on the palm of the hand that was stroking her cheek. How funny this was, to be able to communicate in a language of kisses! He really did not want to lose her.