by G L Rockey
The gray-haired lady becoming impatient, “Hah, Zack. Hurry up or I’ll bean you good.”
Zack said, “Senator, this is going to sound bizarre. I don’t even believe it myself.” Hoping Armstrong’s goons weren’t somehow monitoring the call, Zack wiped his face. “I must see you as soon as possible…it’s about this national crisis…involves President Armstrong, I must see you.”
Senator Beno chuckled. “Zackary, I can’t do that.”
Zack said, “You don’t understand, I have a recording you must hear. The current situation, the Miami TV station’s video that started all this mayhem…President Armstrong’s involvement…its fake news.”
Hesitating, Beno skeptical, “Why do you have to see me? Why don’t you call your Florida Senator, Senator Fawcett?”
“I can’t be sure of him,”
There was a long pause, then Beno’s voice dismissive, “I could see you next week, a few of us here in Washington are meeting to deal with this present emergency”
“Too late, Senator. There is something terribly wrong. I must see you. I have a recording you must hear, it’s about an imminent threat, involves President Armstrong.”
“Mr. Stearn, have you been drinking?”
Zack said, “No, no, I haven’tplease believe me.” He cupped his hand around the receiver, “We may not be private, you are more than likely under surveillance.”
Beno said, “Zackary, this is beginning to sound very fishy…how do I know this isn’t some scam, you are who you say you are?”
Zack, thought a moment, “Listen, call Jim Roberts at The Boca in Miami. He can confirm that I was going to call you, who I am.”
“Well…”
“Call me back at this number and…please hurry.”
He hung up.
Gray lady said, “You’re done, out of the way.”
Guarding the phone, he looked at her, “I’m expecting a call back.”
Gray lady said, “I’m getting the police,” and left.
Zack, clutching the phone, minutes later, the phone rang. He answered, “Hello.”
“Zackary, I spoke with Mr. Roberts…where are you now?”
“Miami, and you?”
“In the Washington area.”
“Can’t get into D.C. huh?”
Mr. Stern, this is very…”
“I know, screwy, I’ll explain when we meet.”
After a pause, “And how do you propose to do that?”
“I’ll call you when I get to Washington.”
“Tonight!”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’ll call, what is the number you’re calling from?”
After a pause, she gave him the number which he scrawled on the inside of a match book cover, put it in his shirt pocket, said, “When I arrive…I’ll call you.”
“Yesbutnever mind.”
“Thank you, goodbye,” Zack hung up, swiped Jim’s credit card and pressed Mary’s cell phone number.
Thunder clapped and a tropical downpour began. Zack squeezed under the tiny shelter.
After three rings Mary answered. “Hello.”
“Mary, it’s me.”
Gray lady returned and began tapping his head with the edge of her umbrella.
Mary: “Zackary, where are you?”
“I”
Gray lady: “The cops are coming buddy boy, hurry up!”
Mary said, “Who is that yelling?”
“Wants to use the phone.”
Mary: “Where have you been all weekend?”
“Can’t say, have to go out of town, talk to you when I get back.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can’t talk.”
“Zackary…”
“Can’t talk.”
“I want to see you.”
“Not now.”
“Why?”
“Not necessary, sit tight.”
“Where are you going?”
“Can’t say, talk to you when I get back.”
Mary said, “Wait a minutecan’t say. When will you get back?”
“Soon.”
“What is soon? What is going on?”
“Soon. Sit tight.”
“Where are you going?”
“Have to see a guy about a computer.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay.”
He hung up, turned to the gray lady, “All yours, ma’am,” and returned to The Boca. There, using his computer, he booked a United flight to Dulles International, departing Fort Lauderdale at 8:15.
Chapter Fifty
3:45 p.m. EST
The thundershower over, the sun bright, Zack drove to Pompano Marina. Certain the more any goons listening think him off-his-rocker-insane, he boarded Veracity and began scolding his boat:
“All right, where were you?I smell it, you were outdon’t lie to me, I smell it, booze and men’s cologne.” He upset a bar stool, paused then apologized. “I’m sorry. I know how lonely you get, but I have to be gone tonight, to visit Mother in Orlando. She’s not feeling wellgallbladder problemsbut I hope to be back tomorrow and we’re going out on the water, for surenow, don’t start thatyou did? Tell me more.”
He stripped, threw his clothes on a chair and started a pot of seven-cup-coffee brewing. “Really? You caught how many?I don’t believe thatlet’s eat.”
He drank a glass of orange juice, sucked two raw eggs from their shells and retrieved a cup of coffee from the coffee maker.
Continuing the conversation with Veracity, he took a shower.
“I heard you, dear. Like I said, Mother has gallbladder problems, but I hope to be back tomorrow and we’ll go out, I promise.”
Shaved, he dressed in his one formal outfit–white long sleeve clerical shirt sans the white collar, blue sports jacket, tan slacks and, sans socks, slipped on brown tassel loafers.
Dressed, he inserting the Joe Case audio stick in his player, checked the batteries, placed the player in his briefcase then spoke to Veracity.
“You be careful now, honey, and no going out by yourselfno, no, no, remember that last time? You got lostthe sharkslove ya, I’m going to Orlando now, to see Mother.”
Briefcase in hand, he exited the cabin, stepped to the dock, walked down the jetty, past the newspaper dispensers to his car. Squeezing behind the blistering steering wheel, before he could close the door, he heard tires crackling over breaking sea shells and looked to the sound.
Mary’s familiar yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled beside him. She lowered the right window and said, “Going somewhere?”
“What in the namewhat are you doing?”
“Selling Girl Scout cookies. Wanta buy some?”
“Mary”
“I talked to Jim.”
“Oh.”
“Get in, I’ll take you to the airport.”
Zack grabbed his briefcase and slid in beside her. “I”
“I really don’t feel like talking right now, about nothing. Close the door.”
“I”
“Nothing.”
He closed the door, “Stay off the freeways, Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood International”
“What time is your flight?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Thanks.” She backed away, turned and drove off at a pretty good clip.
“Mary, I”
“I’d rather not talk.”
They drove in silence until the airport’s curbside drop-off was in sight.
Mary said, “Which one?”
“United.”
She drove a little then stopped at United. “Just want you to know, Boca” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”
“I”
“And another thing…”
“I…”
She touched his lips. “I don’t want you to say anything–rationalize, analyze, preach, lecture–nothing, okaywhen I’m finished saying what I
’m going to sayjust get out and go do what you have to do. Okay?”
“Finished?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“When you get back, we’re going for a boat ride. I’m finished. Bye.”
Chapter Fifty One
9:15 p.m. EST
United Flight 1161
An hour into a two hour flight, his briefcase wedged under the seat in front of him, his audio player and the Joe Case recording secure inside, Mary’s departing boat ride comment wracking his brain; Zack again recalled Jim’s comments about Mary, “Twenty guys waiting in line.”
He shook that off and, just to be sure of reality, touched his briefcase with his left foot and, the center and aisle seats empty, he stretched and tasted the black coffee he had been served.
“This stuff is venial sin,” he said under his breath. The familiar phrase “venial sin” passing his lips surprised him. He hadn’t been in a confessional for umpteen years. No matter. He found himself pondering under what type of sin the events of the past few days might be classified. Forget about that, doesn’t matter who did what, why, when or how. Bottom line, it’s all about sticking it up somebody’s greed.
That thought distilling, he recalled the many conversations he had had with Joe Case and the firebrand’s rambling sentiments: greed and hypocrisysupporting monarchies around the world, toppling governments the U.S. doesn’t like…CIA dissidents stir up the pot to create quote “free democratic societies” to further the interests of capitalists…how many steaks can you eat a week…buy a bigger housemake them ChristianCapitalism is an innocent driven by obscene greed masters, an ideal gutted by more, driven by cruel me-me masters with sharp teeth and a peculiar smell…a few at the top have all the wealth, once you get it you keep getting…profit has no home, men kill, women weep, children die…spend trillions for military…thousands of nuclear weapons scattered around like parade confetti…the art of war…that’s the art of killing…been doing it since the beginning, why is that…need to dominate…winning isn’t everything it’s the only thing…not thinking bigger picture, earth a tiny spec in the vastness…humans even smaller specs…to date no other life…killing each other over lines on a map… the cost in human lives… would rather blow up the world rather than give up what? Gold, religion, a pedazo de culo, what?
Zack recalled the counter argument–the most developed, successful, wealthiest nation in history…are you not a capitalist…it’s the way it is, natural selection, the strong survive…or is it the wealth survives…what obligation do I have to feed populations who only breed?
He remembered Case quoting Pope Francis, “When banks fail it’s a disaster, when people die of hunger, have no place to sleep it’s, oh well.’”
The Case sentiments dovetailed into thoughts about that never ending editorial he had been contemplating for some time–The colors black and white—white being the presence of all color, black being the absence of all color—why black awaiting the lighta candle in blackness? Why not light instead of the blacknesswinding up rather than downprogress rather than degeneration? But look how far we have comethe progress we have madewhere we are todayevolved from beasts into caring, compassionate creatures…do unto others as you would do to yourself…
Thinking about it all in view of the present reality, he looked around. Unbelievablesimply cannot be. This is not happeningbut here I am, on an airplane headed for Washington DC. What will I say to Beno? She’ll think I’m insanealready does. But I have the recording from Joe Case—former owner of The Bimini Road, now living on an Island, surrounded by young maidens with “3.14” on their baseball hats. Like Jimbo said, think about it.
In the middle of his thoughts, peripherally, in the graying red light of dusk, he saw the tip of a silver object in the sky outside his window frame. In a moment, a U.S. Air Force jet fighter, thirty feet away, came into full view. He read the black lettering on the silver fuselage—U.S. AIR FORCE.
Zack smiled. “Well, hello there.”
He watched the fighter pilot’s white-helmeted head turn back and forth. Feeling detached, he glanced to his right across a row of drowsy passengers and there, outside the opposite window, a duplicate Air Force jet fighter floated in the purplish sky.
“Amazing,” he said, gulped some coffee, nudged a shoe against his briefcase, longed for a cigarette and checked the time. Twenty minutes until scheduled arrival at Dulles International.
Amid passengers’ bobbing heads and mumbling questions, two flight attendants, with darting bird-like glances and plastic smiles, began cruising the aisles.
A baby began to cry.
A male voice said, “What in blue blazes is going on?”
A calm voice on the intercom broke the clamor. “Good evening, this is your captain, busy up here. We have, ah, as you can probably see, some company. We’ll be talking to our air force friends and keep you posted. No need for alarm. They’re ours.”
“So you think.” Zack began mind maneuvering. “It’s true, it’s really true. They’ve traced my call to Beno orthe airline ticketor that creep, Doug Hoffman.” He took his briefcase, moved to the aisle seat and pushed a call button. In a moment a flight attendant appeared at his side and, wide-eyed but cool, said, “Yes?”
Zack savored her wintergreen breath and smiled. “I must see the captain.”
“Sir, please stay quiet, that is impossible.”
“You do not seem to understand. Here is my card, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca, a Miami Newspaper. This is imperative, national security. Please, I must talk to the captain. I must talk to him.”
The attendant took the card, sniffed Zack’s breath, looked down her slender nose into his eyes, “Sir, the captain is a her.”
“Oh, I”
“Right.” She studied the frayed The Boca business card, “This the only one you have?”
“Yes.”
“Stay seated, I’ll be right back.” She walked toward the cockpit.
He whispered to himself, “Captain’s a her, I have to move into this century,” and began to think. What if the Air Force blows us out of the sky? Naw, they wouldn’t do that. What do they want? Ha, they want me and the Joe Case audio recording. How did they know SUN-TV, Channel 10, that smelly news director HoffmanI played the tape for him…what else do they know…credit card…airline reservation…
The attendant appeared again. “Follow me, sir, please, quietly.”
Zack unbuckled his seatbelt, grunted out into the aisle with his briefcase and followed.
A female passenger shook her fist at him, “You dirty terrorist, killer of women and children.”
They think this is my doing, he thought and stopped. “Look, I”
The attendant touched his elbow. “Follow me, please, keep moving.”
She led him forward. They entered the darkened cockpit. The captain––blue-eyes, red pixie hair–– talked into a tiny mouthpiece to the Air Force pilot to her left:
“Look, I don’t give a hooter’s hock who you say you are. This is more horse manure than down on the farm.” She listened then, “Look, pal-o-mine, I’m scheduled to land at I.A.D. and that’s where I’m putting this sucker down.”
She listened to the Air Force for several seconds then responded, “Why didn’t the tower tell me Dulles International had been closed?”
She listened again while making steely eye contact with Zack.
Zack pointed to his briefcase.
The captain spoke to the Air Force: “Roger, okay, let me get back to you in a minute. I got a glitch here with a sick passenger.”
She flipped her microphone off and looked at Zack. “You the guy with the problem?”
The flight attendant said, “Yes, Captain, this is Mr. Stearn, you have his card.”
“And what may I do for you, Mr. Stearn, while I talk to the U.S. Air Force, fly this very old bucket, and suck
my molars.”
“Captain, I’m Zackary Stearn, you have my card.”
“I don’t have a card but I’m Glenda Bodine.”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
She shook her head. “Look, buddy, I’m kinda busy here. The boys in blue want me to land at Andrews.”
“You don’t understand”
“No, you don’t understand. I got one hundred-fifty passengers back there, two U.S. Air Force jet fighters want me to land at a military base and my hemorrhoids are killing me.”
Taking the audio player from his briefcase, Zack said, “Listen to this recording. There is a national conspiracy going onPresident Armstrongit’s all a plot, a coup d'état.”
Glenda looked at the flight attendant then closed her eyes. “Has this guy been drinking tequila or what?”
“I don’t think so.”
Glenda squeezed the steering yoke. “Get him the fuck outa here.”
Zack pleaded. “Listen to me, please. The rioting, the national emergencyit’s all a plot, fake news orchestrated by the President, his E.I.C., to declare a national emergency, so he canlisten to this recording, please.”
Glenda looked to the left, listened, then flipped her microphone on. “Roger, have a very ill passenger, heart attack, will get back to you.” She flipped the microphone off and looked at Zack.
He said, “Why do you think they want you to land at Andrews?”
“What is this, a quiz show?”
“They know I’m on board and I have this audio recording.”
Glenda shook her head. “Get him out of here.”
“Listen to me, please, I’m telling you the truth. Those fighter jets, all that’s going onwhat’s happeningif it looks like a duck”
“It’s a duck.” Glenda paused, wiped her lips. “How long is this recording?”
“Not long.”
She looked up, “Why me?” looked to the fighter jet to her left, flipped her mike on and spoke. “Roger, heart attack passenger critical.” She turned the microphone off and looked at Zack. “Play it.”
He snapped his audio player on and the voice of Novak, McCallister, and Lande filled the cockpit.