Disaster Among the Heavens - Don E Peavy Sr (best books for students to read .TXT) 📗

but The President turned his chair around so he could look into Walter’s eyes and allow the venerable newscaster to see the sincerity in The President’s eyes.
“Any chance of those missiles being fired?” Walter continued.
“No Walter, thank God. We have the situation contained. While things are not yet back to normal, they are under control,” said The President. He placed his right hand on Walter’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring light squeeze.
“What do I tell the American people?”
“The same things I said at the Press conference. You might add that you have no reason to doubt your President.”
“Do I, Mr. President?”
The President did not answer. He stood up and walked back to the door and beckoned the Agent to join him as he proceeded on to his private quarters. Walter returned to the Press room, gathered his things and left.
He sensed that there was more to the events of the day than The President was admitting to. One does not become an internationally respected journalist without a nose for the news and an inner eye to see beyond the obvious.
His nose now felt like a radar that has sighted an unknown intruder as he left the silence of the White House and the White House lawn and entered the courtesy car which had been sent to bring him to the Press conference by the White House Press Secretary. His nostrils opened wider. This stalwart of American journalism sensed a foul smell in the air. It was that prophetic odour that one who is attuned to nature gets whenever the winds are about to shift and an ominous cloud appears to announce the storm which is approaching from the distant horizon. Walter sensed these things. Yet, little did he know that his senses were warning him not of a storm, but of a disaster among the heavens.
. . .

Chapter 8

Shannon read and reread the telex before dropping it into a nearby paper shredder. After he was convinced the document was demolished beyond repair, he turned the machine off and turned to face Rodney Simmons who was entering the part of the Boeing 747-100SP jet liner where Shannon was. The aircraft was designated for the exclusive use of Shannon and so he named it Tereus.
“What’s up?” asked Simmons as he entered the small alcove which comprised the communications centre of the special equipped jet.
“Marching orders from The President.”
“Well, like, what do they say?” Simmons gave Shannon a searching look.
“Sorry,” responded Shannon as he exited the centre and headed for the main cabin where he set down in a plush leather chair. Shannon followed him and sat down opposite him in a similar chair.
“You don’t have the proper clearance to know. But do not worry, you will be told what you need to know at the proper time.” answered Shannon.
“Like, it’s a black thing, right?” Simmons retorted with the breath of a charging bull.
“Look, don’t go giving me that black thing shit,” retorted Shannon with a tinge of irritation. “It doesn’t matter what color you are – you don’t have the proper clearance and that’s that! Jesus, there are more requirements to life than race!”
“Excuse me, sir, would you care for a drink?” A nicely shaped brunette in a light blue A-line dress which ended about five inches above her knees appeared at an opportune moment. She was the lone stewardess on this flight of only two passengers.
“Yes, Barbara, how about a pitcher of Martinis?”
“Sure, coming right up.” Barbara turned and left.
“What about me?” asked a disgruntled Rodney.
“We don’t have malt liquor on board. Relax, it’s time to move up to the big leagues,” said a smiling Shannon. He patted Rodney on the knee then pressed a button on the console of the right arm of his chair and a table slowly emerged from the floor between where the two men sat.
“Wow!” exclaimed Rodney. “That’s rich. Maybe this revolution ain't so bad after all.”
Shannon smiled. He pressed another button and the lights in the cabin dimmed. Another button brought the sound of Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue.”
“Far out! Man, you are full of surprises,” exclaimed a beaming Rodney.
“You can thank Barbara. I told her I was bringing a distinguished detective from Memphis who likes serious music,” smiled Shannon.
“Ah man, the king of cool. Miles is like the master musician – the creator of a whole new sound. Jazz will be forever described as before and after Miles,” lectured Rodney. Shannon just smiled. He had no idea what was happening on the American music scene.
“Here we go, sir,” said Barbara pushing a Povl Christiansen Danish Modern tea cart which she parked aside the table between Shannon and Rodney. She removed a silver tray and placed it on the table, then set a Tiffany crystal picture of Vodka Martinis on top the tray. Next, she placed a crystal bowl of mixed nuts on the table and finally a small crystal bowl of caviare, followed by Ritz crackers, silk napkins and Oneida silverware.
“Thanks, Barbara,” smiled Shannon. He gave her a quick wink.
“Yea Barbara, like thanks a lot, especially for the music,” added Rodney.
“You are both welcome,” beamed Barbara. “I am here to serve whatever your needs are.” She placed emphasis on “whatever.”
“Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” answered Shannon.
Barbara poured Martini into two glasses and sat one in front of each of the two men. She then straightened the items remaining on her tray and before changing sides so she could push the tray in the direction from which she had come, the pleased and smiling stewardess said, “Remember, I am just a press of the finger away.”
She disappeared before a response could be made. Shannon raised his glass and said, “Here’s to a successful mission.”
“Here, here,” agreed Rodney. He added sarcastically, “Whatever mission it is.”
Glasses raised then lowered, the two men took a long gulp of the smooth liquid. “Wow!” exclaimed Rodney. “That is some heavy stuff.”
“Really?” questioned Shannon in a displeased tone. “I am sorry; it is supposed to be light and refreshing. I’ll have Barbara to fix another batch.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Rodney. “Heavy as in like really cool – good.”
“Oh, I see,” laughed Shannon.
They downed the remainder of their drinks and Shannon refilled the glasses about three quarters full. “Try this,” said Shannon. He placed some caviare on a cracker and handed it to Rodney on a napkin.
“What the hell is that?” asked Rodney. His face contorted into the kind of expression a child displays who has just been forced fed a spoon of Castor Oil.
“Caviare,” answered Shannon. “C’mon, give it a try.”
“Caviare?” asked Rodney. “I’ve heard of that but this is the first time I’ve seen it. Not the most appetizing looking food I’ve seen.”
“Well, you can’t judge food by its looks. Here, try it.”
“Ummmmm, that’s good. What is it?” Rodney took the cracker, smelled the caviare, looked at it from several angles, took a tiny bite then inhaled the remaining cracker.
“Fish eggs.”
“Fish eggs?” queried an incredulous Rodney. He frowned.
“Relax. Or, as you would say, chill out,” laughed Shannon. He gulped down a cracker of caviare, made two more and handed one to Rodney.
“What difference does it make at which stage you eat fish? It is all a matter of perspective. Enjoy.”
Rodney accepted the caviare as he sat back in his seat and pondered the comments of Shannon. He did not know that Shannon was after more than the appeasement of the young detective’s appetite. The veteran knew that if they were going to succeed in their mission, he needed the complete trust and confidence of his young associate. Between these two men was a vast gap. There were cultural differences; age, experience, outlook, philosophical and many other factors which contributed to that gap. Thus, Shannon needed to find what Gadamer has referred to as a “shared horizon of understanding.” He had to find a way to narrow the distance between them without diminishing who each of them was and without raising suspicions that the novice was being appropriated to the service of the expert. Shannon valued Rodney too much to make such an error as he knew that if he were to succeed in his mission, then he needed insight into the men who were holding NORAD hostage. Rodney was able to provide that insight – at least that is what Shannon hoped.
As the jetliner moved ever closer to Colorado, the gap between the two men remained; however, the Martinis and good food helped to ease the turbulence created by that gap as Shannon continued to elevate he and Rodney to a shared horizon of understanding. Trivial conversation helped in this latter regard.
“Like how are we going to work together if I don’t know what’s happening?” asked Rodney as the music changed from Miles Davis to Jimmy Smith’s “Living It Up.”
“I mean, hell, I didn’t ask to come on this trip.” The laughter faded from the young man’s face signalling a shift from casual conversation to the business at hand which caught Shannon slightly by surprise. Rather than relaxing Rodney, the Martinis seemed to have emboldened him.
Displaying neither surprise nor disgust, Shannon leaned across the table and looked Rodney squarely in the eyes. “Take my word for it, you will be told all you need to know at the time you need to know it.”
“Come again?” Rodney’s face distorted into a puzzled look.
Shannon moved even closer to him and smiled. He put his hand on top of Rodney’s and tried to ease the young detective’s concerns. If they were going to reach a shared horizon, this was a critical moment.
“Look, Detective, don’t sweat the small stuff; everything’s going to be okay. Let’s get some sleep. Soon we will be landing and there will be no time for sleeping – only action. Believe me, we’re going to need all the strength we can muster and more once we touch down.”
Although not completely satisfied, Rodney relented. He headed for his sleeping quarters. Shannon did likewise. This had been a very unusual and taxing day for both men. Weary as they were, they each sought the blanket of darkness in the hope of finding comfort in the light that had been denied to them.
While they slept, the jetliner Tereus took them ever closer to NORAD as Barbara cleaned the table and returned it to its resting place and prepared breakfast. These forlorn travellers faced a crisis which would demand all the energy they could summon and more. They were oblivious as their specially equipped spy agency in the sky etched towards the Cheyenne Mountains and to a fate neither knew nor anticipated.
Perhaps had they known what lay ahead, they would order the captain to turn the silver bird around and retreat to the known disaster from which they had come. Yet they did not know. In ignorance, they slept to the hum and clatter of Langonliers eating away at the past and marooning them in an uncertain future. In the morning they would awake and together they would discover that they had landed in a disaster by day that was far greater than any irruption of the night. Sail on silver bird betwixt heaven and earth, even as disastrous