Read Online 03 - The First Amendment by Ashley McConnell - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ashley McConnell - (ebook by Undead)
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Samuels—it meant
trouble. He should never have lost it that way. Cassidy and Pace were exchanging
meaningful glances over his head as it was.
He took a deep breath and tried to bring the discussion back to the regular
Friday agenda. “All right, you can tell that Samuels isn’t my favorite person,
but I’m going to trust you to keep him and his tame reporter where they belong.
Meanwhile, let’s deal with some of the other issues on the table and see if we
can get back to business. My personnel tell me they’re getting some flak from
your procurement people—”
The meeting turned to more everyday matters of how to keep a large facility
with thousands of employees and billions of dollars’ worth of equipment running
smoothly and in a state of constant readiness. Systems and procedures were
reviewed. Decisions were made. Scones were consumed. By the time they were
finished, all three men were well satisfied that operations would continue
uninterrupted for at least another week, without undue friction between the
ostensible mission of the Complex and the black op that functioned in its
shadow.
It was eleven-thirty when George Hammond left the CinC’s office, heading back
to his own demesne. Time, he thought, for lunch, to be followed by the latest
information review and preparation for his weekly update to the President. Which
would definitely include a few comments about some interfering Senators and
their sons.
Just another damned day at the office.
CHAPTER SIX
Frank Kinsey sat across a restaurant table from Lieutenant Colonel Bert
Samuels and contemplated the massive hamburger and mountain of steak fries on
the colonel’s plate. The cholesterol from the mayonnaise alone should be enough
to hospitalize the man.
And maybe that would be a good thing. He was beginning to be actively annoyed
at the self-satisfied smirk that had taken up permanent residence on the man’s
face. He was very tired of the “I-know-some-thing-you-don’t know” attitude.
The restaurant was one of those down-home places with farm implements on the
wall and red-checked tablecloths, just off the state highway leading south out
of Colorado Springs. It specialized in “American food,” like hamburgers and
fried chicken and meat loaf. Most of its clientele seemed to consist of service
personnel from the nearby base and truckers handling semis across the Colorado
Rockies. The food in the place actually smelled pretty good, if you liked
grease.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” Samuels said, dolloping a large
glop of catsup over his fries.
Kinsey smiled vaguely and dug into the big scoop of tuna on top of three
kinds of lettuce, discreetly edging the slice of hard-boiled egg off to one
side. He’d been surprised to find a whole section of “healthy alternatives” on the menu. Grease and tuna. Go figure.
“What are you, some kind of vegetarian?” Samuels said the word as if he
wouldn’t be surprised in the least that the man across from him was such a
reactionary.
Kinsey forked in a mouthful of fish and smiled. “Watching my weight.”
Samuels snorted and picked up a knife and fork and started cutting up the
hamburger. Kinsey paused in mid-chew in surprise.
“Little trick I picked up in London,” Samuels said. “Nobody eats with their
hands over there. It’s considered very rude.”
Kinsey, who had spent some time on the British beat himself, nodded. He had seen the British eating that way. It struck him as a bit pretentious to
do such a thing in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Maybe Samuels was trying to
impress him with how cosmopolitan he was. But then, Kinsey had also seen the
Brits eating vinegar-soaked fish and chips out of a newspaper cone, so maybe
Samuels wasn’t as cosmopolitan as he thought he was.
“You’re going to see some amazing things this afternoon,” Samuels promised,
reaching for a soaked french fry—with his fingers, Kinsey noticed. So much
trouble. He should never have lost it that way. Cassidy and Pace were exchanging
meaningful glances over his head as it was.
He took a deep breath and tried to bring the discussion back to the regular
Friday agenda. “All right, you can tell that Samuels isn’t my favorite person,
but I’m going to trust you to keep him and his tame reporter where they belong.
Meanwhile, let’s deal with some of the other issues on the table and see if we
can get back to business. My personnel tell me they’re getting some flak from
your procurement people—”
The meeting turned to more everyday matters of how to keep a large facility
with thousands of employees and billions of dollars’ worth of equipment running
smoothly and in a state of constant readiness. Systems and procedures were
reviewed. Decisions were made. Scones were consumed. By the time they were
finished, all three men were well satisfied that operations would continue
uninterrupted for at least another week, without undue friction between the
ostensible mission of the Complex and the black op that functioned in its
shadow.
It was eleven-thirty when George Hammond left the CinC’s office, heading back
to his own demesne. Time, he thought, for lunch, to be followed by the latest
information review and preparation for his weekly update to the President. Which
would definitely include a few comments about some interfering Senators and
their sons.
Just another damned day at the office.
CHAPTER SIX
Frank Kinsey sat across a restaurant table from Lieutenant Colonel Bert
Samuels and contemplated the massive hamburger and mountain of steak fries on
the colonel’s plate. The cholesterol from the mayonnaise alone should be enough
to hospitalize the man.
And maybe that would be a good thing. He was beginning to be actively annoyed
at the self-satisfied smirk that had taken up permanent residence on the man’s
face. He was very tired of the “I-know-some-thing-you-don’t know” attitude.
The restaurant was one of those down-home places with farm implements on the
wall and red-checked tablecloths, just off the state highway leading south out
of Colorado Springs. It specialized in “American food,” like hamburgers and
fried chicken and meat loaf. Most of its clientele seemed to consist of service
personnel from the nearby base and truckers handling semis across the Colorado
Rockies. The food in the place actually smelled pretty good, if you liked
grease.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” Samuels said, dolloping a large
glop of catsup over his fries.
Kinsey smiled vaguely and dug into the big scoop of tuna on top of three
kinds of lettuce, discreetly edging the slice of hard-boiled egg off to one
side. He’d been surprised to find a whole section of “healthy alternatives” on the menu. Grease and tuna. Go figure.
“What are you, some kind of vegetarian?” Samuels said the word as if he
wouldn’t be surprised in the least that the man across from him was such a
reactionary.
Kinsey forked in a mouthful of fish and smiled. “Watching my weight.”
Samuels snorted and picked up a knife and fork and started cutting up the
hamburger. Kinsey paused in mid-chew in surprise.
“Little trick I picked up in London,” Samuels said. “Nobody eats with their
hands over there. It’s considered very rude.”
Kinsey, who had spent some time on the British beat himself, nodded. He had seen the British eating that way. It struck him as a bit pretentious to
do such a thing in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Maybe Samuels was trying to
impress him with how cosmopolitan he was. But then, Kinsey had also seen the
Brits eating vinegar-soaked fish and chips out of a newspaper cone, so maybe
Samuels wasn’t as cosmopolitan as he thought he was.
“You’re going to see some amazing things this afternoon,” Samuels promised,
reaching for a soaked french fry—with his fingers, Kinsey noticed. So much
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