Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  “Well, Mr. President, I’d like to begin by stating that protocol for this type of event was followed to the letter. We are still in the process of ascertaining what happened,” replies Orison. Admiral Orison is built like a fire hydrant, short, stout and hard. He has a simple face that supports his round, thick wire-rim glasses. He wears a thin mustache. His curly hair is cropped close. He sighs as he leans back in his chair.

  “We fired a nuclear missile at a UFO,” states an angry President. “Nuclear weapons are not protocol for engagement with extraterrestrials. Is that not the vid-clip I just watched? Is that not the fact, Colonel Gliddin?”

  “Yes, sir, that is a fact,” Gliddin replies. “But it was a small nuke, Mr. President. Not big enough to do this type of damage, sir.”

  “It was a nuke. What the hell is the difference between large and small?” counters the President.

  General Bradshaw exhales a thick cloud of smoke then speaks, “Sir, with all due respect, there is a distinct functional application regarding nuclear weaponry and contact with advanced beings. The UFO had penetrated our air space. At that moment it became a prime threat. Nukes are approved for prime threats. The weapons we used in this incident were class double-c missiles, designed for this type of engagement.” General Bradshaw states with raw certainty. He places his cigar in his mouth, rolling it about with his thin, dry lips. Bradshaw is a big and ugly man. I’m guessing he stands a few fists shy of two meters in height and his stocky frame probably weighs in at two hundred kilos. Much of his mass is tight and hard. Clean shaven head and face; his face is pitted and weathered like aged quarry granite. He has a flat, button nose and thick jowls and heavy baggage under the eyes. He takes a long pull from his cigar, then, exhales a long thin stream of smoke.

  “We destroyed something obviously intent on doing us harm. Real Time records show the bogey radically altered its trajectory and made a beeline for North American airspace and soil,” Bradshaw says.

  Defense Secretary Greene speaks right on the heels of Bradshaw. “Sir, a little FYI concerning the blast site at Puget Sound, Bangor, Washington. We had the most advanced nuclear base in the world at that location. The reactors that power our naval and space fleet were built there. We also stored experimental weaponry as well as conventional ordinance at the Sound.”

  Silence. Greene looks at Orison. Orison sighs. They both look at Bradshaw.

  General Bradshaw takes a long pull from his stogie. He seems more concerned with the state of his cigar than the state of emergency that convenes this Security Council.

  Orison picks up his water glass and has a quick sip. He sets the glass back on the table with a nervous thud.

  Hard silence as the President considers the facts.

  “Give me the damage report, Greene,” says President Cresthaven.

  Defense Secretary Ashton Greene is a tall and slender man, and I would say, cut from wood. He sits rigid and straight, at a perfect ninety-degree angle. His entire body is made of acute angles. His ash blonde hair is neat. He fills his water glass with prim control. Greene has a calculated drink of water as he consults his computer. He speaks with a stern and direct voice.

  “Aerial photography indicates a blast site of one hundred and sixty kilometers in circumference. No standing buildings or trees within the blast site. Floodwaters reach approximately twenty-four kilometers inland. Severe earth tremors reported in Alaska, California, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Utah, Nevada and Western Canada.” Greene lights a cigarette. He has a short drag from his smoke then continues his assessment.

  “We’re waiting for the Edge team to evaluate the situation. Once we’re clear, we’ll send in rescue squads and such.” Greene taps the end of his pen on the tabletop as he reads the monitor.

  “But, that won’t be for another three or four days.” Greene steals a short hit from his smoke as he looks at General Bradshaw.

  Greene looks at C.G. Thorosen, perhaps for support or advice. Carroll Gaylord Thorosen is a tall man, built like a reed, perhaps devoid of bones. Thinning silver hair that suggests old age but his skin is tight with a healthy glow. It’s clear he began taking advantage of rejuvenation therapy late in life.

  “Mr. President, I suggest we work on a cover story to sell to the international community, as well as the home front,” says Greene.

  “Well no kidding. I’m not telling the world we fired on a UFO with nuclear missiles. The truth is not an option,” the President states. “Is my Security Council withholding information from me?”

  “No sir, we don’t know what happened – but we’re damn sure going to find out,” says Bradshaw firmly. He stares at Thorosen.

  “We’re forgetting a very important event that coincides with this disaster.” Thorosen says with a flat voice.

  “Which is?” Bradshaw asks for the group. And I have a feeling he knows what Thorosen is about to say.

  “The maiden voyage of Mkeyinc’s commercial space flight. The Apricot Wind is a nuclear powered vessel, carrying forty-five passengers and eleven crewmembers. I just checked NAAD’s log and its signature has gone.”

  Silence.

  “Jesus.” The president hisses. “Dale was on that flight! Ah hell!” Then, confused and angry, “Is that what you thought was a UFO?” he asks.

  “No sir,” replies Greene. “We were just so caught up with the ground disaster that we forgot about the space flight.”

  “Satellites do in fact confirm three flight signatures in the strike zone. Other countries also have this data as well. If they don’t know already, everyone will soon realize that we sent an interceptor to investigate an errant signature in the atmosphere. What we call a UFO,” Colonel Glidden says.

  “Most believable scenario for us to present at this time is that a meteor struck the Apricot Wind, and our interceptor, then struck the sensitive military installation on the ground,” Greene offers.

  The President speaks with concentrated anger. “I’m not going to say anything that half-ass. A cosmic eight ball shot into the corner pocket. C’mon Ashton – we can do better than that.”

  Greene shrinks into his leather chair after the harsh chafing from Cresthaven.

  Thorosen, the silver-haired sage, speaks with solid resolution. “Terrorists hijacked the Apricot Wind and aimed the commercial spacecraft directly at the base at Puget Sound. We sent Jump One to intercept the spacecraft with the intent to shoot down the Apricot Wind but that was unsuccessful. God called a few more heroes home today. You can sell that Mr. President.” Thorosen lights a cigarette then exhales a wisp of smoke.

  “How are you going to account for the third signature in the atmosphere?” Greene asks.

  “Give my staff time to gather information and we’ll provide the truth,” Thorosen replies with a curt clip.

  “Make it a simple story.” Cresthaven instructs Thorosen. “Don’t make it too involved. Brief and informative. We can amend it in time with new information. The press conference is in ten minutes. I need copy in five minutes so I can prepare. Goddamn, my vice-president is dead.”

  The President glances down and away from the vid-com. Perhaps he is studying at his notes. Perhaps he’s just staring at the wood grain of his table.

  Then he looks directly into the vid-com and says, “I’ll also need the latest damage reports including projected death count and economic loss. Detail the environmental destruction with special care to future restoration. Cresthaven out.”

  The presidential monitor goes black. Even though Cresthaven had not physically been in the room, his presence had not been diminished by distance; his exit creates a cold emptiness in the chamber. The four live men (and Gliddin on a monitor) sit in silence and do not look at one another.

  “After a respectful moment, Gliddin looks straight ahead and says, “Thanks C.G. I told Claire to send Allison all the details.”

  “Yeah, Allison just pinged me. Well, all said and done, that went better than expected,” says Thorosen with a loose smirk. He opens his laptop and begins
to type…

  Nikki’s monitor blinks. The screen goes black and the laptop spits out the disc. Nikki grabs the disc the immediately secures the disc in her bag.

  “Of course at the time, fourteen years ago, Gliddin had been the Principal Share Owner of NAAD,” she says.

  “He still is PSO of NAAD,” I remind her.

  “Yeah I know. And now he’s the President and his entire Security Council is made up of his defense contractor cronies and a few banker buddies.”

  Silence. Nikki and I study the floor, the walls, each other, as we try to make the tiny marbles fit into the tiny holes. The thought jumps upon me like a hungry animal. I try to evade but it’s faster than I can counter.

  “Dollars and cents,” I say to Nikki. “NAAD is a defense contractor, a subsidiary of Mkeyinc. The truth is a PR nightmare for the parent company. So retool the truth with fear and logic and we get terrorists hijacking a Twilight Jet, a spacecraft utilizing nuclear thermal propulsion, and using that vehicle as a weapon. This story clears the government and NAAD of fault and makes Mkeyinc a business martyr. The story is so tight that to question it is unthinkable. The government then offers a form of disaster relief to Mkeyinc, granting exclusive no bid contracts to rebuild, reforest, to re-construct the devastated property.”

  Nikki looks at me, waiting. Stress lines scratch her brow.

  “Mkeyinc holds charters of incorporation for hundreds of cities,” I say. “They provide security for the whole of the Pacific Northwest especially the Glass Shore. The company sets and regulates the standards for the industries of removal and storage of radioactive debris, soil decontamination, water cleansing and reforestation. It’s been going great for Mkeyinc.”

  Nikki finds her cigarettes. She lights one real quick and takes a short pull. “Are you thinking Mkeyinc created the UFO? The company created the situation?” she asks.

  I nod. “You know as well as I that aliens are BS. Most space stations operate as research and training centers, as well as commercial construction facilities. Build separate units of the UFO at separate facilities. Join those parts at another facility and launch.”

  She looks at me. Speechless. That lasts for a moment. “This is fucked up,” she mutters.

  “What the hell are you going to do with this information?”.

  “I have no clue,” she responds to the wall. Her voice is tiny.

  “Blackmail Gliddin? What would you ask for?”

  She ignores my question then asks, “Who the hell is Thorosen? I want to find out about this guy. He’s the one that creates the terrorists.”

  “Like you said at Anton’s, terrorists were comforting. Something you could understand. I think that had to be the cover story from the start. Mkeyinc owned the Apricot Wind and NADD also belongs to them. Yet it feels that the situation got out of control. Gliddin shouldn’t have used the nukes.”

  Nikki smokes her cigarette. At length, she says, “That disc will open the door to a massive investigation. Yet everyone will concentrate on the UFO. That will blind the conversation. The flightlog is evidence that Jump One acted on orders. The disc proves that NADD acted in the best interest of the country,” she looks at me. “We have to prove that Mkeyinc constructed and launched the UFO.”

  I knew she was going to say that.

  “I feel like a shower,” she says with a devious smile. Nikki heads for the bathroom.

  “Yeah, I’m feelin’ dirty too.”

  I grab the champagne bottle.

  We laugh and giggle and tickle our way to the bedroom. The grandeur of the bedroom causes our play to pause. The bed is huge, rectangular and from the looks of it, comfortable as hell. The floor is covered in a plush, white carpet. We kick off our shoes and wiggle our toes in the luxurious shagpile carpet. I walk over to the mirrored (Twinkle) wall and push the down arrow on the control panel to decrease the window tint until the Hudson River and New Jersey cliffs beyond come into the view. River traffic is heavy, as usual. I finish my drink. As I refill my glass, I stare at our reflections in the mirrored closet door. In the reflection, I see Nikki waving her free hand at me as she downs her champagne. She then raises her empty glass. I walk over and fill it up.

  #

  I slip my socks off. Shed my pants and shorts and shirt with urgency.

  I step into the bathroom and find Nikki pin-up-posing by the shower, wearing a black lace bra and black panties.

  She turns the shower on. I float over and beg for a kiss. And being a good doggie, I get a tiny peck on the lips. It’s a touch of a fluffy cloud, a nectar tease.

  Nikki slips off her bra. I kiss her nipple, and then she shimmies out of her panties. We step into the deep tub and stand beneath real falling water. I grab her thighs and lift her off the floor, her back pressed against the wall. Our breathing is shallow, speeding hearts with a perfect sense of harmony. A soft kiss turns into a hard kiss and then she bites my lower lip. That deserves payback so I enter hard and drive into her. Nikki grunts and squeezes and I continue to pound her flesh as the water rains over us, warm and clear and blessed like the rivers of Babylon.

  “C’mon boy,” she says in a hushed voice.

  And that voice almost sets me off. I fight not to enjoy this moment and it’s like a razor slashing the psyche. Denial is unbearable, vicious, and I drink in the resistance. I steal a kiss. Then say, “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  We hold tight and kiss light.

  She tastes of fruit. It’s like having a perfect red apple melt in your mouth. I press for more.

  “Your personal consignor is at the door,” VOD states.

  We both laugh and Nikki says, “Take a message.”

  “Security override. Personal consignor entering,” VOD, says.

  “What?” I stammer. Start to think and that just screws up the entire game.

  Nikki looks at me … inelegance turns to irritation, which twists into anger. We disengage.

  I turn off the shower and slide the glass door aside to find our personal consignor standing there.

  “Hello Dave,” I say and note the worry on his face. “What’s up?”

  “Yeah… sorry…”

  “Get on with it,” I command.

  “Right. I was advised, indirectly from management, that there’s some interest from law enforcement regarding this room. I suggest you use the stairs when you leave. Just go down one level. Then take elevator four. That will take you to the garage. I also took the liberty of securing your mot key.” Dave sets the key on the countertop.

  “Why are you helping us?” Nikki speaks at Dave through a thin sheet of opaque glass. Dave does his best to address me but his eyes keep wandering to her silhouette.

  “It is the policy of management that the customer comes first. I suggest you get going. Peace.”

  He leaves.

  “How do you think they tracked us here?” Nikki asks. “Are you sure you found all the bugs?”

  “Yeah, the mot is clean,” I reply and step out of the shower. I grab the towels and hand one to Nikki.

  Dry as we’ll ever be, we rush into the bedroom. We speed dress.

  “What if Anton gave us up before I scrambled her brain?”

  “Possible. Of course, that means they know what we’re driving. The mot is useless to us now.”

  Nikki gathers up the files. She secures her bag.

  We hit the hallway hot and ready to mess up someone’s day. I like sex. Nikki likes sex. We both want to meet some opposition right about now so we can express our dissatisfaction.

  We reach the stairwell without incident. There are cameras in the stairwell. I see the red light wink out.

  “Nikki, they turned off the cameras.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw the red light turn off.”

  “The damn place is worth every penny. But I was really looking forward to that Pamper Me deal.”

  “I promise I’ll pet and pamper you later.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  The
security door opens on the lower level. We enter and head fast for the elevators.

  We enter car four. Remain silent for the duration of the short ride.

  We reach the garage floor. The door slides open and we enter a quiet, bright and expansive parking lot.

  “Let’s take our chances with the mot,” I say.

  Nikki doesn’t argue with me. Nor does she have a hard time keeping pace with me as we run for the mot.

  I pull the key from my pocket and point it at the mot. The doors open as the engine hums to life.

  Nikki rounds the rear of the mot, heading for the passenger door. I hook a fast left and nearly step into the driver’s seat when I feel something akin to a red-hot sledgehammer slam into my back. I pitch forward; my head bounces off the roof of the mot. It’s a mighty blow but not crippling. It would have been more severe to a normal man. I spin around and thus catch my assailant by surprise. He stops in his tracks, jaw slack, fear racing in his wide black eyes. He studies his weapon, a Strummer V, and resets it for another strike. He looks up, raising his weapon.

  I plant my fist into his nose, crushing cartilage, bone and tooth. He hits the clean concrete deck cold and bloody. I look around and see the only person watching me is Nikki with gun in hand.

  “Put that away,” I say.

  She puts her gun away and gets into the mot.

  I grab the motionless assailant by the hair and drag him to the rear of the mot. I open the trunk then think, do I want to question him?

  I check his pockets. Find his ID in the left pocket on his suit vest.

  Barry Clouts. Licensed Recovery Agent for Commons Territory. No, don’t need to talk to this asshole. I drop his skinny ass.

  I walk over and pick up the Strummer V. I disengage the trigger then kick aside the spent three-ounce pellet. Going back to my mot. I toss the Strummer V on Nikki’s lap. I get into the mot stiff and mad.

  We hover out of the parking space. I see Nikki looking out of the window, probably at Barry the recovery agent. I study the monitors, expecting another hit at any moment.

  “Is he dead?” she asks.

  “No… at least I don’t think so.”