The continuing saga of Woodie, Ben, and The Duke. A short, short story, maybe 12 pages. Chapter V is almost finished, too. No proofreading this time out, so buckle up and prepare to laugh.
She was looking into his eyes – and he could see fear lurking in the shadows of her mind, then he watched as the medic came up from behind and slipped the syringe into her deltoid muscle. Her eyes fluttered moments later and she fell into his lap; by then Tate and Woodward were back in the room, looking at her, then at the ninja’s on the floor – their remains splattered all over the room.
Woodward came over to Acheson, put a finger on Rutherford’s carotid as he bent over her. “We got that co-pilot at the airport; her name isn’t Beecham, by the way. Her ID is in the FAA database, but the image doesn’t match what’s on file. First run of fingerprints comes up dry too.”
“She’s polished on 777 procedures,” Ben said, “so work through foreign pilot registries, look for women with the appropriate type ratings.” Acheson ran his hands through Rutherford’s hair, and he wondered why he felt such a strong attraction to this woman…then, “where did you pick her up?”
“International departures,” Tate said, walking into the room.
“Surprise, surprise,” Acheson added, then he looked at this new man: “Do I know you?”
“He’s my partner,” Woodward said. “Richard Tate, retired from CID, Seattle PD; he’s working under a private ticket now. Dick, this is Ben Acheson.”
“Anders told me about you,” he said, shaking Acheson’s hand. “Good work on that stuff last summer.” Tate looked at the woman on Ben’s lap and grinned. “Is it just me, or does it look like that dame’s giving you a blowjob?”
Acheson looked at Tate, then Rutherford. He shook his head, tried to hide from his feelings again. “Can we get her off now?” Ben said.
“Poor choice of words, Amigo,” Woodward said, and everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, but Acheson.
Acheson rode in a caravan to de Gaulle with Tate and Woodward and several FBI agents; they walked into Terminal 2E and were instantly overwhelmed by a sudden, massive increase in security. The group passed a bank of television monitors tuned to news outlets from around the world, and images of a wide debris field, floating in the sea off Iceland’s west coast, filled the screens one minute, then switched to images of the US Capitol Building the next. Flames and black smoke were pouring out of shattered windows, then the camera shook, the cameraman trying his best to keep his footing as he wheeled around, trying to frame the source of the explosion in his viewfinder. A huge fireball was rising from the White House, and another, across the Potomac – over the Pentagon…
And Acheson stopped, stared as an image of the new President of France filled the screen. The woman was giving a fiery speech, had just declared a new order was beginning when she turned and screamed as troops stormed the studio. She turned, tried to run and was gunned down, several cameras capturing her horrendous death on live feeds.
“What the hell is going on?” Acheson said as the screen switched to surveillance feeds coming from a subway platform. A large explosion could be seen lighting up a distant subway tunnel, then flames filled the platform. Another feed flickered to life, smoke pouring out of subway entries all around the Kremlin filled the screens, then as quickly changed to images from Beijing and Tokyo, then Aukland and Sydney – the images always the same. Political landmarks, and politicians, exploding or being gunned down. Globally. In real time.
“There’s no way any one network could have these feeds,” Acheson said. “Someone’s taken control of television networks, globally. They know where the next strike is, and are tying into the feeds…”
One of the FBI agent’s phones started chirping, and several of the men took out phones and began reading out the text message. “The Vice-President is dead,” one said. “Major blasts at the Capital Building, the Pentagon, FBI Headquarters, the Supreme Court Building…”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Acheson said, pointing at the live feeds. Airport control towers around the world were next on the list. Video feeds from Los Angeles to Lagos began showing the exact same thing: large detonations toppling control towers, streaming live on-screen…then the fact registered…
“Oh, fuck!” Acheson said. “Everybody! Get down…!”
A concussive series of explosions rippled through the terminal; he heard glass breaking and then screams filled the air, walls falling in every direction – then Acheson felt himself flying through the air, thudding off a far wall, coming to rest on a pile of steel beams and shattered glass.
“Got to out of here…” Acheson said as he climbed to his feet. He ran to the dispatch office, tried to open the door – but there was no power – and the electric security lock had tripped – then gone offline. He banged on the door with his fist, heard someone trying to open the door from inside. It opened and a dispatcher stood there, her scalp bleeding, blood coming from her ears, then she fell back and landed on the floor, gasping for breath.
Acheson went to her, helped her into a chair, then went to the dispatch board and looked at gate assignments and fueling status; he grabbed the crew’s clipboard and memory cards for the flight to DFW, then made his way through the terminal to his gate. The ramp chief was talking to gate agents, and they turned to Acheson as he walked up.
“What’s the status of the aircraft?” he said to the ramp chief.
“Fueled, ready to go, but no bags yet.”
“Fuck the baggage. Get everyone onboard, now.”
He pushed through the crowded departure lounge, walked down the Jetway, heard people running up from behind and turned, saw Woodward and Tate, and two girls running beside Woodward, holding him up.
“Get on, now,” he yelled, then he ran past the flight attendants gathered by the main door, ran straight for the cockpit. He slammed the door shut, engaged the locks then turned around.
He saw Sandy Beecham, or whoever the hell she was, sitting in the FOs seat – turning to look at him, and two ninjas standing behind her seat, little Sig pistols pointed at his gut. He heard moaning, looked down and saw Rutherford on the floor behind his seat, blood coming from a scalp wound, debris all over her clothes.
“Did you just get here?” he asked Beecham.
“Anyone done a walk-around?”
She shook her head.
“Go!” he commanded. “We’ve got a full fuel load out, and no squawks on the cheat sheet, but check the holds are locked and crossed.”
She looked at him, not sure what to do.
“Look, either you do it, or I do. This way one of your girls can keep an eye on me. Got it?”
“Yes, Captain,” ‘Beecham’ said. As she left the flight deck he turned to the ninja: “There’s a First Aid kit in there. Get it, please.” One of the girls holstered her weapon and opened the closet, handed the kit to him and he opened it, took out some gauze pads and a little bottle of saline. “Give me a hand, would you? Pour the saline in her hair,” he said as he picked little bits of glass from her scalp with tweezers. “Good, now take a fresh gauze pad and tamp it dry.” He taped a fresh gauze over the wound, then took out a penlight and shined it in her eyes, saw little pinpoint pupils, but they were equally reactive.
“Help me sit her up, then go out and get some water, a couple of bottles at least.”
One of the girls bent to help him lift her, then left for the galley – just as Beecham came back in.
“I think she’s okay,” he said to her. “Are they ready for us to start two?”
“Da…I mean, yes.”
“Okay, Comrade. Let’s get to work on the checklist, shall we?”
“So, tell me…how’d you get roped into this little caper?”
“They chose you, how?”
“I am captain rated on this model. Apparently they could not recruit any US pilots.”
“Oh. So not simply because you’re a world class fuck?”
“I did not know this would be asked of me.”
“Seemed like you enjoyed yourself, I guess.”
She looked at the ninja, then looked ahead. “I did,” she whispered, “very much, yes.”
“Well, just so you know where we stand, I enjoyed you, too. Very much, yes.”
She looked at him and smiled. “Ready for push-back?” she said as she climbed in her seat.
He put on his headset as he climbed in, then he called for the ramp chief.
“We’re about ready to go up here.”
“Oui, capitain, but we have no authority from ground control.”
“I really don’t care, chief. Push us back and get us away from this building, and I mean right now. There are fires in there, and they’re spreading!”
There were, he knew, multiple ground control towers at de Gaulle, and the first two he called were offline, but he heard one after he dialed in 121.675.
“de Gaulle ground, Swiss 332, we are VFR OPS only at this time, and all airway routing is down.”
“Ah, 332, roger. You advise a straight in approach for runway 27 left is approved?”
“de Gaulle ground, Swiss 332, that’s affirmative.”
Acheson keyed the mic. “de Gaulle ground, American 3-8 Heavy at 2E-1-0, ready for push-back.”
“de Gaulle ground, American 3-8 Heavy, standby one.”
“3-8, standing by.”
“de Gaulle ground, American 3-8 Heavy, clear to push back.”
Acheson switched to the ramp intercom. “Chief? We’ve got the go from ground.”
“Roger. I picked it up too. We’re ready down here.”
“Thanks, chief. Ready when you are.”
Acheson watched the terminal fall away, then looked at Beecham when the 777 stopped. “Start two.”
“American 3-8 Heavy, de Gaulle ground, we’re ready for read back.”
“de Gaulle ground, American 3-8 Heavy, taxi R-Robert to Whiskey-one-one. You will be number two for departure on runway 2-6-right. Wind is calm, altimeter 2-9-9-2. This will be a VFR only departure, and departure control is offline. London is offline, but Shannon is currently on the air. New York and Dulles are off the air, but La Guardia is still on the air. Denver and Dallas Fort Worth are on the air, but Houston Intercontinental and Hobby are off the air. ATL, FLL and MIA are reporting limited VFR OPS. KDFW reporting thunderstorms, ceiling 2500, winds out of the southwest at 2-0 knots. ILS OPS currently restricted.”
Ground, 3-8 Heavy, Robert to Whiskey 1-1, number 2 for 26 right, two niner niner two. VFR to DFW.”
“3-8 Heavy, be advised we have no radar, no ATC at this time. Rennes, Brest and Plymouth are attempting to coordinate. Contact Rennes approach on 122.25, and you are clear to taxi.”
“So,” Acheson said as they began rolling, “where are we going? I mean, really going?”
“To DFW?” Beecham said, shrugging.
“Flaps seven,” he said. “So no grand plan now?”
“Seven, check. No, Captain.”
An Emirates A380 was ahead of them, just turning onto the active runway, and Acheson could see landing lights in the distance, yet “the tower” – such as it was – hadn’t mentioned any incoming traffic.
“Uh, 3-8 Heavy, de Gaulle, we see several aircraft lining up for all runways. Do you know who they are?”
“3-8, you are cleared for immediate take off. We are getting word these could be Russian troop transports. Berlin just reported dozens of Russian transports landing, then went off the air. Air Force units now report Russian incursions, air combat near Liege.”
“Okay, 3-8 Heavy, we’re rolling.”
‘Good luck! Bon chance!”
Not quite at the end of the taxiway, Acheson guessed the first transport was two miles out, then he started his turn. “Damn…wish we were in a C-17 today…”
“Captain, you are going a little fast for this turn, are you not?”
“What about the 380s wake turbulence?”
“This could be interesting, Da?”
“Da, Comrade,” he said as he pulled out on the runway and applied full take off power – and he watched as four Sukhoi-35s streaked low over the airfield – on their way to the city. “Oh, this just isn’t funny. Not one little fucking bit…” he whispered.
“80 knots,” Beecham called out. “V-one – and rotate!”
He barely pulled back on the stick, and when the radar altimeter read 150 feet he called for “Gear up!”
“What are you doing?” Beecham cried.
“Staying down in the trees until we’re away from those goddamn fighters.” He looked at the city off the left wingtip, saw explosions in the distance, then dark smoke trails rising into the sky. “This can’t be happening…”
“Da, it can be. Russian leadership is opportunistic. They seek weakness, they exploit weakness. US politically neutralized, Germans and French now too. Russian Army will move into Eastern Europe and Baltics in one move, into Iraq and Saudi Arabia in other.”
“So, you’re Russian? Aren’t you happy now?”
“No, not Russian. Ukraine.”
“Ah, so not happy.”
“No, now we have new Soviet monster.”
“The bear slips out of his cage again, I guess?”
“Da – Power lines!”
Acheson pulled up sharply on the yoke, and the 777 vaulted into a steep climb – just clearing a set of high-tension power lines hanging over the Seine. “Okay, enough of this. Clean the wing, configure for a maximum speed climb, then look up the numbers for Shannon.”
“Because,” they heard Rutherford say, “he’s the captain, and he knows what he’s doing.”
He turned around and saw the woman looking at him, then he reached around and took her hand, felt her kiss his fingers. “You feeling groggy?”
“A little, but what’s going on down there?”
“It looks like our Russians friends are getting adventurous again. They’re taking European capitols right now.”
“Damn,” Rutherford said.
“You were not expecting this, I take it?”
“It is not completely unexpected, but it means the entire North American command and control network remains compromised.”
“Well, you did infiltrate it? You did try to compromise it? What were you expecting?”
“A quicker transfer of power. Consolidation of our assets in Washington and Omaha.”
“Do you honestly expect members of the military to fall in line with you?”
“Yes, when they see the current order collapse, and sudden threats emerge to our control of the larger world order.”
A light on the overhead panel started blinking, then chiming.
“What’s that?” Rutherford said, looking at the light.
“SELCAL. Company broadcast.” He flipped the light, selected the main cabin speaker.
“Repeat. EWO-EWO-EWO. Emergency War Order case Baker. Repeat. EWO-EWO-EWO. Emergency War Order case Baker…” He flipped off the channel, shook his head. “Goddamnit all to hell…” he sighed.
“Ben?” Rutherford said, her voice now unsettled. “What is it?”
“Oh, in plain English it means the Civil Defense network has been activated, that nuclear hostilities are considered imminent, and all airborne aircraft are free-agents now. We’re to get our aircraft and passengers out of harm’s way, any way and any where we can.”
“That means the…”
“This order, Baker, is supposed to go out when missiles are being fueled in their silos, when launch is imminent.” He looked at Beecham, then shook his head. “What’s your name, anyway?”
She turned, startled, and looked at him. “I – don’t…”
“You don’t remember your name?”
“No, of course I do, but I think I like this Sandy Beach name.”
“Sandy Beach. Yeah, I get it. Well, okay Miss Sandy Beach, get the numbers for Bermuda into the FMC, and a heading as soon as you can.” He settled on 270 degrees, looked over the panel, saw the Scilly Isles ahead and to the right, then checked their current altitude. He changed frequencies, listened to eastbound commercial traffic trying to check in with London…
“Delta 003, is anyone on this frequency?”
“American 3-8 Heavy, go ahead Delta.”
“Geez, all our COMMS are dark. What’s going on?”
“Russian transports moving into European capitols right now. We have an EWO broadcast. Did you get that yet?”
“I’d get down on the ground as fast as you can. There are Russian fighters over Paris.”
“What about London?”
“Been off the air for an hour or so. Shannon is supposed to be on the air.”
“Uh, Speedbird-2 here, did you advise London is off the air?”
“Affirmative 2, advised by controllers on the ground at LFPG.”
“Well, Delta, Dublin is a better facility for heavies. Ah, 3-8 Heavy, where are you off too?”
“Over the channel now, heading for Bermuda.”
“I say, I wish we had enough fuel for that.”
Acheson heard knocking on the cockpit door and flipped on the closed circuit camera, saw Woodward standing out there, with two of the flight attendants. He unlocked the door, then turned to one of the ninja. “Let them in,” he commanded.
The girl looked at him, then at Rutherford.
“He’s the captain. Follow his orders.”
Woodward walked in, saw the ninja, then Rutherford, and he sighed. “Ah. Things have changed again, I see.”
“Captain?” one of the flight attendants said. “What should we do back there? People are getting restless, getting phone calls from home. There’s a lot of confusion…”
“What’s the food situation?”
“We have enough.”
“How many passengers did we end up with? The manifest says 220…”
“We’re full up front and in Business Class, but coach is almost empty. Maybe 150.”
“That figures. Well, get meals out fast, free booze for everyone. Tell them I’ll have an update in a half hour.”
“Woodward? We’re headed for Bermuda, that’s about all I can tell you right now. We’ll get on the ground as fast as we can, then…”
“Why? Why aren’t we going to the States?”
“Again, I’ll tell you more in a half hour. Things aren’t real clear right now.”
“Speedbird-2, 3-8 Heavy, are you still on the air?”
“3-8, go ahead.”
“Reports coming into Dublin advise Russian forces have moved into Norway and Finland, and that an American carrier battle group has been attacked in the GIUK gap. There is apparently a large air engagement taking place off the Yorkshire coast, NATO forces trying to stop a Russian air strike on petroleum facilities near Rotterdam.”
“So, you’re saying it’s World War Three? Right?”
“It rather looks that way. We’re tucking into Shannon, try to refuel, then head your way.”
“Okay. We’ll stay on this frequency, our ETA is about four hours.”
“Right-o. See you there.”
“Did he mean – war has broken out?” Woodward asked.
“It’s the law of unintended consequence,” Rutherford said. “Do one thing, expect one set of consequences, then another materializes, upsetting all prior calculations. Our movement critically weakened the West, to the Russian mind, anyway, and this is the opportunity they’ve been waiting for, patiently, since 1945.”
“So,” Woodward asked, “what happens next?”
“The war either remains conventional, and protracted, or it ends quickly, via nuclear exchange.” Rutherford added. “Our military will be assuming command absent civilian leadership. They’ll be least likely to resort to nuclear war, until they see a direct threat to the homeland or NATO, then they’ll strike out, fast and hard. If a carrier group has been attacked while rushing to reinforce Norway, submarines will be getting their firing orders soon.”
“Fallout patterns,” Acheson whispered.
“Da,” ‘Sandy Beach’ added. “We must go south.”
“South?” Woodward asked.
Rutherford stood. “Could someone get me some water, please?” One of the ninja left for the galley, and Rutherford came up behind Acheson, put her hands on his shoulders. “Bermuda can house thousands, but it hasn’t the agricultural base to support such a massive influx of permanent residents. Nor do any of the Caribbean islands, except perhaps Puerto Rico, or the Dominican…”
“Too close to fallout,” Sandy said. “If war breaks out, we must get as far south as possible.”
“I can’t handle this,” Woodward said, leaving the flight deck, mumbling as he went.
“Many people will react like this,” Rutherford said as she watched Woodward leave. “Many will want to go home, regardless, others may simply lose the will to live. You need to be mindful of this, Captain.”
Acheson was more mindful of something else he heard in her voice. She had just surrendered to him, in effect submitted to his authority. She had told her girls to obey not her commands, but his. She was depressed, perhaps from the tranquilizer, but she was compromised emotionally, and he needed her strength right now.
“Your airplane,” he said to Sandy, then he motored back in his seat while he undid his harness. “Come with me,” he said to Rutherford, and he took her by the hand, led her aft to the toilets by the forward galley. He pushed her inside, felt her flaccid response, then turned her face to his –
And he slapped her, hard.
He saw the sudden fury in her eyes, the trembling lips of uncertainty, then he bent to her and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. She responded instantly, and as passionately, digging her fingernails into his back.
“You know me so well,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s like we were born to love one another. I feel it in my bones.”
He held her close, then he felt her fumbling with his belt, pushing his trousers down. He knew where this was going, felt himself falling over the edge of the abyss, then he was entering her, helping her legs encircle his waist. Her mouth open beside his, he heard her breath mingle with his own, felt all his fear turn to inverted lust, then he put his mouth on hers, driving into her, fear to lust, lust to need, then an infinite release.
“I need you,” he heard himself say, a coarse whisper at first, and he felt her shuddering orgasm as he added “I want you.”
“I am yours, forever,” she sighed, her legs pushing him deeper as they came down.
“And I need your strength, so don’t leave me again,” he said as he kissed her a few minutes later.
“You need to call Genie,” she said. “Warn her, get her headed south,” then she went to her knees and began cleaning him with her mouth, taking him in, swirling his need with hers, and a minute later his knees began to buckle, his back arched – and he felt himself coming undone in her mouth, and he held her head while she cleaned him again, then his hands went out to the walls, holding himself up against all the contradictions he felt flowing through his veins on the way – into her.
It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out some things, and when I looked at that Acheson kid I could see it all over his face. Mid-30s, in command of an airliner, re-captured by the very same women we thought we’d captured just a few hours before. That Russian girl up there? How did they do it? I told Tate as soon as I got back to my seat, then Liz and Persephone were leaning close, listening to every word that came out of my mouth – like it was the last thing they were ever going to hear.
Then Acheson comes out of the cockpit with that Rutherford woman, his face set in stone, like anger, only worse, then that bitch. Like she’s in heat. Lips puffed up, breathing deep, then he’s in that bathroom and then the walls start shaking. Like the fucking starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. Then he walks out of there a minute later and the front of his slacks look like Monica Lewinsky’s little blue dress. Then she crawls out of there, cum running down her legs and looking like she’d gone ten rounds with Ali. I swear, I’d do anything to be thirty years old again.
Then Tate’s looking at me – like ‘what the fuck?’ – as in: what’s going on up there?
Then Liz leans over, tells us to be cool, some kind of dominance game was going down, that Acheson was taking control of Rutherford, and it hit me then. We’re like dogs and cats, the birds and the bees. We’re nothing but hormonal drives and dominance dances, not a helluva lot different than Frigate Birds on Midway Island, or gorillas in an African mist.
Anyway, Liz starts looking at me all goo-goo eyed and hands me a Viagra, and I’m like, ‘Really? World War Three is breaking out, and you want to get laid?’
Then I’m thinking about it. Yeah, you know, if the human race wants to go out with a bang, well then, what the fuck. Why not get a woody and duck into the head, join the Mile High Club? Then Sephie is looking at me, her lips all puffed up and I’m wondering, like, if there’s room for three in there…and will my heart be able to take it?
But really? Why the fuck not?
Know what I mean, Jelly-Bean?
Acheson climbed back in his seat, noticed the SELCAL light chirping away and slipped on his harness, then put on his headset. He scanned the panel, then he flipped the circuit and listened to the message – through the headset this time. Headquarters had activated Case Epsilon. War, probably nuclear war, was considered imminent, and all pilots were now ordered to land at the nearest open airport. He listened to The Lord’s Prayer coming over the circuit, then shut it down and took off his headset.
“What was it?” Rutherford asked.
Acheson shook his head, bent over the keypad on the Flight Management Computer and entered ‘LPLA’ – then watched data stream onto his PFD, the Primary Flight Display. A prompt came up: “Execute?”
He sighed, hit the button on the keypad, and the aircraft banked hard to the left, then settled onto the new course.
“Lajes?” Beach asked. “Why?”
“We’re two thousand miles from Bermuda, six hundred from the Azores. We’ll lose GPS signal any time now, they’ll be encrypted. There’s a storm off the east coast, it’ll sock in Bermuda by the time we get there, and without GPS I’m not sure we can shoot an approach there.”
“Why will we lose GPS?” one of the ninja said.
“It’s SOP when launch of ICBMs is considered imminent.”
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he heard the girl whisper.
“Yeah, if you’re the praying sort, now’s the time to get on your knees and pull out your rosary. Sandy, write down our coordinates, the coordinates for Lajes and start a DR plot, the faster the better.”
“Okay,” she said, her hands shaking now.
He scanned the horizon, saw something far off to the left. “You see that?”
“What?” Sandy said.
“Ten o’clock, a little high.”
She peered around the center-post, squinting just a little and he smiled, then turned back to the panel.
“You know, I see three aircraft, maybe four…”
An alarm sounded, then another.
“Alert! Collision imminent, turn right!”
Acheson toggled the autopilot and pushed the yoke down and to the right.
“Something’s not right,” he said as he re-engaged the autopilot, then the alarm sounded again. “Alert! Collision imminent, turn right!”
He looked out the windshield again, looked aft as far as he could, then he smiled, relaxed – as four F/A-18F Super Hornets pulled up alongside the port side of the 777. He signaled 121.5 to the lead pilot and switched COMM 1 to the emergency frequency.
“American 3-8 Heavy to Diamondback Lead.”
“Lead here. What’s with all the evasive maneuvers, Captain?”
“Collision alert sounded. Sorry about that.”
“You headed to Terciera?”
“Yeah. How many of you are there out here?”
“Whatever’s left of the air wing from the Papa Bush. We had about half my squad up when she was hit. Low yield nuc, torpedo we think. Subs in the Atlantic were ordered to MFD about twenty minutes ago.”
“What’s MFD?” Rutherford asked.
“Missile Firing Depth.”
Another alarm hooted, and Acheson looked as the GPS SIGNAL LOSS banner flagged on his PFD. “Fuck,” he whispered, then he toggled his mic, “Okay, D-Back lead, we just lost GPS. You have encrypted sets in those birds?”
“Yup. I suppose you want to follow us?”
“You got enough gas?”
“Yeah, we just tanked. Another section is tanking east of here. You military?”
“Air Force, reserves now. C-17s.”
“Well hell, look who just assumed tactical command?”
“Swell. Okay lead, why don’t you scoot up ahead, leave a couple back here with me.”
“Alright, 3-8 Heavy. Out.”
He turned to the ninja, looked them over and shook his head. “You know, where we’re going, if you get off this airplane dressed like that you’re likely to be run out to the nearest wall and shot.”
The girls looked at each other and nodded, then peeled off their suits.
“What about me?” Rutherford said.”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you going to do about me?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. What do you think I should do with you?”
She frowned. “I think you should try to get in touch with Miss Delaney.”
And he smiled…which, he could tell, seemed to bother her – a lot.
© 2017 Adrian Leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites.com | this is fiction, all fiction, and nothing but the fiction…so help me Bill. Bill the Cat, that is.
Aa, Are you having fun yet? To borrow from a Network program, he just became an accidental squadron leader.
Good thing I don’t watch TV. And yes, this is fun.