Let’s continue our serpentine path around and through the periphery of the Eighty-eighth Key, on our way to Time Shadow. For music, I’d recommend Trevor Rabin’s PUSH to set the mood, perhaps while you grab a cup of tea?

First You Make a Stone of Your Heart – The Amaranth
3.1
Beaufort, South Carolina
A park bench in shade, one of many that line the water’s edge. A red brick walkway, uneven, worn down by time and shaded by overhanging live oaks – some draped with lingering strands of Spanish moss. A woman, a uniformed woman, dressed as a chef – perhaps – or perhaps a waitress. She looks care-warn, almost depressed as her mind processes the words on the sheet of crisp, white paper in her hand.
She sits on one of the benches by the water’s edge, lost inside a rose garden of meandering implications, not quite sure how to proceed amongst the thorns, not at all sure what even her next step might look like. She turns away from the paper and shakes her head – a brief, imperceptible shake to the casual passersby – as she watches the incessant parade of boats and barges moving along this stretch of the intracoastal waterway, and she wonders where all the people out there are headed. A marina to her right is full of boats – but rarely do people head down the ramps and board one of them.
She looks down at her phone and checks the time – it is one fifty in the afternoon so she must go up to the restaurant now – one last time. The notice in her hand has advised that after almost 90 years both the restaurant and the inn will be closing…for good. Today will be her last day of work, and despite all the swirling uncertainty ahead she doesn’t know quite what to feel. She has worked in the kitchen for a few years yet she has few friends.
A freshening breeze fills in from the north and little arcing williwaws race across the water. She watches the passing boats for a moment longer then shrugs before she turns and walks through the little park to the inn.
+++++
Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort (Merritt Field)
The civilian yacht had been tied-off at the fueling docks at the end of Quilali Road, adjacent to to a row of patrol boats lined up like sharks’ teeth lined up with their bows pointing into the intracoastal waterway. All of the patrol boats were on alert, their gun stations reporting manned and ready; two Block Three F-35Bs circled ten thousand feet overhead, their sensors trained on the seaward approaches to Beaufort and Hilton Head island, while an Air Force RC-135S ‘Cobra Ball’ MASINT aircraft orbited the area at flight level three-four-zero, her medium wave infrared array turned skyward as her operators watched, and listened to, Russian and Chinese satellite operations half a world away.
A half hour window was about to open, and during this brief pause in satellite surveillance a civilian Gulfstream would touch down at Merritt Field; its three passengers would be rushed to the waiting yacht and the business jet would takeoff and return to her original routing to Jacksonville, Florida. Once everyone was aboard, the yacht would cast off her lines and head to the seawall off Chambers Park, in central Beaufort, and tie up for the night. And this would mark the beginning of the most dangerous, not to mention consequential, part of the operation.
Admiral James ‘Spudz’ MacKenzie sat in the radio room just aft of the yacht’s bridge, talking with the colonel in command of the old Boeing circling miles overhead. “Anything new?” MacKenzie asked.
“Nothing,” came the crystal clear reply from Colonel Jim Parker. “No changes in orbital trajectory; no launch detections. Congrats, Spuds. Looks like you spoofed ‘em.”
MacKenzie nodded while he looked at the countdown timer on an adjacent display, then picked up the mic to VHF COMM 3: “Merritt, Nord 1. Stop repeat go.”
“Go repeat stop,” came the static-filled reply. 
MacKenzie switched over to Merritt’s main tower frequency and listened-in as the Gulfstream made its approach; as soon as the jet was on the ground MacKenzie turned to Command Master Chief Jim Turner and nodded. “Secure the fuel lines, Jim, and standby to cast off.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
“Tanks full?” MacKenzie added.
“Seventeen thousand, five hundred gallons onboard, Sir. Fuel pre-heated and polished.”
“Okay, Jim. You better go see to the deck.” Turner saluted and started to turn – but MacKenzie pulled him up short, then hastily added for the umpteenth time: “Jim, in case you’ve forgotten…please recall that I am in fact retired. Okay? No salutes, none of that other BS? Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral,” he grinned.
Turner had been with MacKenzie since the late-90s, during MacKenzie’s two years as CO of the Constellation, and he’d been with MacKenzie ever since. First following him to the Joint Analysis Centre at RAF Molesworth and then to the Pentagon, where the freshly minted admiral began working in the Joint Intelligence Center; Turner tagged along when MacKenzie was sent to the White House as the president’s naval attaché. With a little presidential arm twisting, MacKenzie spent his last year in uniform working with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research before, once both had officially retired, Turner joined his admiral when he took a position at Northrop-Grumman – until the very same president twisted MacKenzie’s arm – again – and sent him back to the Pentagon – again – only now as Secretary of Defense.
And that, Turner had wittily observed more than once, was when things got really weird, and soon turned very, very dark.
+++++
Beaufort, South Carolina
The mood in the inn was quiet, almost somber, beyond palpably depressed. People who working at the inn’s restaurant, and some had literally for decades, simply had no frame of reference to deal with their sudden unmooring. Cast adrift as if miles from shore and with no idea which way to swim, the older waitstaff and kitchen crew had devoted their professional lives to carrying on the restaurant’s fully justified 144-years-old reputation. And now all that was over? Gone?
She watched these people going about their routines as if they were functioning on some kind of emotional autopilot, their forced smiles and easy shrugs worn like masks to hide the cascades of emotion she assumed each felt. Old, long time customers were just as shocked, and no one understood the why or the how of the moment.

So she hid behind her work, carefully shaved a handful of thin shards from a new block of parmesan and placed them ever-so-delicately atop a perfectly prepared bowl of shrimp & grits, then sprinkled thinly sliced roundels of crisp green scallion on the cheese. She looked over the plates, as always her own worst critic, and hit the pickup light to summon the waitress who would serve her creation.
She turned and looked at the clock over the door that led to the dining room and saw they were down to their final hour, and just then one of the waitresses she had known for years walked into the kitchen and right up to her.
“Well, well, well…lucky you,” the old waitress smirked. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
Sara Caldwell simply shrugged off the question, because in a way none of that mattered anymore. Not now.
“It’s your favorite customer, if you know what I mean?” the waitress added salaciously. 
“Spudz?” Sara asked. “Really?”
“He just got off a big boat and I saw him walking through the park, heading this way.”
“That’s not a boat,” Lucien Rousseau sighed, “that’s a yacht…with a capital Y.” Lucien was the youngest member of the dining room waitstaff and he usually waited on Spuds whenever he happened by – which wasn’t all that frequently – but this customer had appeared to take a real interest in Sara Caldwell several months ago. Whenever he was in town he made it a point to visit the inn, and he always asked to speak to Sara, complimenting her on her obvious skills in the kitchen and usually asking her to take a walk with him after the restaurant closed for the evening. He was always very polite, almost gentile; everyone referred to him as ‘old school,’ a real old fashioned gentleman, and she’d begun to look forward to his visits. Even so, no one at the inn knew the slightest thing about him, beyond his name and that he always paid in cash – and always tipping generously.

And now she suspected she’d lose even this modest sense of connection, too, and it hit her just then. This must be what it felt like to miss someone, even though she and Spudz had never done anything more than take a few brief walks in the park together. He was polite, almost solicitously so,  and she’d often felt that he cared for her. Then again, she’d had no idea that he had a boat, or a yacht, or whatever Lucien thought it was, so in the end he was still realistically little more than a stranger.

But that’s not she felt about him. Not really. Somehow he’d become a part of her…life.

She went back to work and wasn’t at all surprised when his order for filet mignon Marchand de Vin came in; he always ordered the same thing, daring to change only what he had as an appetizer or for dessert. And he always dressed for dinner, never came dressed casually. And, as had always been the case, he finished his meal a few minutes after the restaurant closed and then asked to speak with her.
But tonight she really didn’t know how to proceed. Tell him about the inn closing, the restaurant too? Or had someone already told him?
He was in the main dining room with his back to the kitchen, his close-cropped steel-gray hair instantly recognizable to her. She threw aside the caution she felt as easily as she had her apron and did her best to smile as she walked through the remaining dinner guests, stopping to ask each table if their evening had been satisfactory, and then she was there.
“Was your filet as good as you remembered?” she asked as she walked up by his side.
He stood attentively and walked around the table to the empty chair opposite his own. “Sara. Please, would you join me for a modest libation?”
This was something new; he was breaking his usual script, taking a new way forward.
She saw two untouched drinks on the table as he pulled out the chair for her; with his eyes he was asking, no pleading, with her to join him, and she couldn’t resist the sincerity she witnessed. She nodded and sat, and he went back to his chair and joined her.
“Drambuie,” he said, picking up his glass. “I hope that’s alright.”
She nodded and smiled. “It’s perfect,” she sighed, watching him watching her.
“Lucien told me the news. How are you holding up?”
“I haven’t…I really haven’t had time to process everything yet.”
“I can imagine. Any idea what you might do next?”
“No. None.”
He nodded and looked away for a moment, then turned and looked at the massive yacht tied-off by the benches in the park…
“Is that yours,” she asked.
“It is,” he said, turning back to face her.
“What’s her name?”
“Amaranth.”
She blinked rapidly then looked away for a moment, and he found he couldn’t take his eyes off hers.
“Isn’t that a type of plant?”
He nodded. “Yes, just so. However, in Attic Greek it translates roughly as immortal.”
“Ah. I remember one variety of the plant is called Love Lies Bleeding,” she said, now looking him directly in the eye.
“You have to love the British,” he rejoined, now watching her intently.
“How so?”
“Prolific gardeners. A bit florid, I suppose, but c’est la guerre.”
“Ah. So, you love the British?”
“I suppose we all have an affinity with our original homelands. I’m sorry, but the Drambuie isn’t to your liking?” he asked, noting that she had yet to pick up her glass.
“I don’t drink,” she said, her voice dull, flat, emotionless.
“Care to take a walk? I know, I know, it’s cool out, but…”
“So, you want to show me your etchings,” she replied, now smiling just so, almost provocatively.
“Would you like to come aboard?”
She stood and he stood quickly, reflexively. “Let’s take a walk,” she sighed.
They walked down the red brick promenade towards the water and she found it impossible take her eyes off his brightly lighted yacht. It had three levels – that she could see, anyway – and the light gray hull and gleaming white superstructure looked huge surrounded offset here by the blackness of night – almost looking like a ship suspended in the black ink of space.
“Amaranth…” she whispered. “Do you think yourself immortal, Spudz?”
“Me? Goodness, no. The sea, I think…the sea is immortal.”
“Where are you going now?” she asked, stopping and turning to look at him.
He shrugged, an indifferent, noncommittal shrug. “I’m not really sure yet.” He turned to face her, his eyes locking onto hers, and for a moment he felt like he was back on the Connie, on her bridge turning his ship into the wind. “So tell me. If you could pack up and go right now, and I mean go anywhere, where do you think you might you go?”
“Far away,” she whispered without the slightest hesitation. “As far away as I could get.”
He reached out and took her hand, his eyes now boring into hers. “Sara, what…are you running from?”
She gently shrugged away from the question but then, after hesitating on the icy precipice of her indecision, she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, the side of her face settling softly, almost naturally against his shoulder. “I don’t…I wish I knew,” she just managed to say – before a sudden tremor passed through the moment.
Almost caught off guard, MacKenzie leaned into her, held her fast against the opposing tides of doubt and destiny, unsure what all this meant but wanting to meet the measure of the moment, the measure of her need. “I guess I probably shouldn’t mention this again,” he whispered, “but would you like to come aboard, maybe take a look around? With me?”
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“Is there anything here you need? Clothing? Medications?”
“No. Not really.” She leaned back a little, not wanting to let go of him – or the moment. “Is there anything I could do?”
“Onboard? No, not really, unless you wanted to cook.”
“You…need a cook?”
He smiled, then just sort of shrugged, and like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar he rolled his eyes. “Well, I reckon we could make do with bologna sandwiches for a while.”
“How many people are onboard?”
“Three guests, and I’ve got five people helping out. People who used to work with me.”
“Oh?”
“Co-workers that, well, they’re all the family I really have.”
“Is there room for me?”
“Yup. Your own stateroom, complete with head.”
“Do you think maybe I could stay with you for a while?”
His head canted quizzically just a bit and he felt a completely unexpected flush of excitement roll from his brow as he continued to hold her in his eyes. “Would you like that?” he asked after what felt like a lifetime had passed.
“I’ve been alone for a long time, Spudz. A really long time…”
He nodded, his eyes brimming with empathy. “So have I.”
“I’ve never really felt like I could trust anyone, you know? Not until I met you, anyway.”
His stomach lurched and knotted – and suddenly he felt like the lowest form of life there is – but he nodded and pulled her close. “I know, I know,” he whispered. “I’ve felt that way too,” he added, perhaps a little evasively.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, concern growing in her eyes as she heard – and felt – a darkening change come over him. 
“Sara, can’t you tell me what you’re running from? I’d really like to…no, that’s not quite right…I need to know…”
She pushed away gently, looked into his eyes – searching for the truth of the moment: “I haven’t broken any…no one’s after me…”
“No one?” he asked, his eyes cold and hard.
She looked away, then shrugged.
“Are you in any danger? Sara? Please, no evasions. I have to know.”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, suddenly tired of this life all over again. That was why she had run away the first time, and every time since. Only now she felt like she was running out of time. Like her life was running on empty and now, suddenly, there was nowhere to run or no one to turn to – if only to make the noise all stop.
She needed more signal. Not all this noise.
But then a voice called out – from within the darkness of Amaranth. 
“Admiral, it’s 22:30. Slack water in ten.”
MacKenzie turned to the boat and nodded, then he faced Sara. “The choice is yours, Sara. I’d love to have you with us on this trip…”
“You never answered my question. Could I stay with you?”
His acquiescence remained unspoken; instead he simply kissed her forehead and took her hand. “Let’s go,” he said, finally, though he waited for her to make the first step towards the little ship.
She looked at the Amaranth then gave his hand a gentle squeeze as she started down the bricks to the water’s edge.
+++++
Two hundred and thirty miles overhead cameras, within an NRO orbital surveillance satellite in synchronous orbit, cameras tracked her every move, and had been doing so for weeks. Still, the men and women watching the live feed from the satellites’ cameras were waiting for one of the small blue spheres to arrive. That was, after all, the Main Event; Sara Caldwell was simply an afterthought, the means to an end.

The puzzle was right in front of them, yet not one had bothered to try and understand just one simple fact. Why her? What did the spheres want with Sara Caldwell…?


© 2024 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites. com | this is fiction, plain and simple.

For a little more music, try Steven Wilson’s Harmony Codex (the track, not the album). Adios.