Read Online The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R.F. Bright
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tear. It had lots of room and hidden compartments.
The speaker phone crackled. “Arthur Gager, 7301 Farragut Place, Guttenburg, New Jersey,” she said. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
He smiled ear to ear.
* * *
M acIan’s Peregrine rocketed out of Bedford Barracks into the eastern sky. He leveled off, and said, “7301 Farragut Place, Guttenburg, New Jersey.” A heads-up display splashed across the wind-dome. He’d never heard of Guttenburg, NJ and now knew why. It sat on a magnificent, white limestone bluff straight across the Hudson River from Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where Lincoln Center used to be. He flew out of the mountains, across the Susquehanna Valley, over a series of foothills, and there it was, the New York skyline. It was far more impressive than Arthur’s fancy wallet and looked even more expensive. As he got closer, dashboard alarms sounded. He was being tracked.
The heads-up display flashed Threat Options: > Warn > Suppress > Destroy. He assumed these trackers were harmless neighborhood surveillance systems, traffic sensors and civil service monitors. He tapped the option > Warn. Every tracker in range panicked. They’d caught a Peregrine.
MacIan waited patiently as the list of potential threats grew shorter, remembering similar moments filled with actual threat. His new position as a member of the NPF, which he saw as an extension of the Navy’s Peregrine Fleet, hadn’t soaked in yet. He felt a little lost. But his faith in Admiral Carson was unshakeable.
The domestic Peregrine Fleet’s legend began with Admiral Carson’s Act of Defiance. Congress, when it was still in D.C., tried to force the Peregrine Fleet to submit to tracking. The proponents won by a huge margin and were very pleased with themselves. Until Admiral Carson’s Peregrine strafed a warehouse filled with tracking devices. A big explosion sends a big message.
Congress is the problem.
Problem solved.
When called to task for the assault, Admiral Carson proudly appeared before a Captain’s Mast, presided over by the Supreme Court. No pictures were taken, so everyone imagined their own heroic tableau. A highly decorated naval officer in full-dress. Dazzling! Standing defiantly before his disreputable accusers cowering beneath their black robes. Admiral Carson steps forward with absolute confidence and answers the charges with these laconic words, “Kiss my ass.”
He walked out—no one dared stop him—and was raised upon the shoulders of several hundred thousand veterans waiting for him on the courthouse steps. The government, and its pretense of representation, lost all credibility that day, and the veterans gave Washington D.C. a purifying dose of fire. But what they so vehemently destroyed immediately reemerged. Their attack on the politicians in D.C. led to the hijacking of the government in New York, where the politicians’ bosses lived.
But a seed of possibility had been planted in the soil of universal sentiment, and it became the custom to say ‘kiss my ass’ any time a problem actually got fixed. This kept the Peregrine Fleet ever in the people's hearts, since there were a lot people fixing a lot of things without regard to their so-called representatives. Ignoring them was the only way to get something done.
So the formerly unknown Admiral Christopher Carson appeared to have gained some power. Some authority. Some celebrity. And to everyone’s amazement, this apparent power morphed into real power. He locked himself away in his Spartan quarters at Quantico and wrote the Peregrine Fleet Mission Statement.
MacIan read it over and over again. Its stance on human dignity, integrity, justice and autonomy kept him heart and soul in faithful service to the fleet.
“Vessel on approach, please identify!”
MacIan snapped out of it. “Trooper MacIan, NPF.”
“Destination, please.”
“Guttenburg.”
A long pause. “Will you please notify if you intend to cross the river?”
A Caesar
The speaker phone crackled. “Arthur Gager, 7301 Farragut Place, Guttenburg, New Jersey,” she said. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
He smiled ear to ear.
* * *
M acIan’s Peregrine rocketed out of Bedford Barracks into the eastern sky. He leveled off, and said, “7301 Farragut Place, Guttenburg, New Jersey.” A heads-up display splashed across the wind-dome. He’d never heard of Guttenburg, NJ and now knew why. It sat on a magnificent, white limestone bluff straight across the Hudson River from Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where Lincoln Center used to be. He flew out of the mountains, across the Susquehanna Valley, over a series of foothills, and there it was, the New York skyline. It was far more impressive than Arthur’s fancy wallet and looked even more expensive. As he got closer, dashboard alarms sounded. He was being tracked.
The heads-up display flashed Threat Options: > Warn > Suppress > Destroy. He assumed these trackers were harmless neighborhood surveillance systems, traffic sensors and civil service monitors. He tapped the option > Warn. Every tracker in range panicked. They’d caught a Peregrine.
MacIan waited patiently as the list of potential threats grew shorter, remembering similar moments filled with actual threat. His new position as a member of the NPF, which he saw as an extension of the Navy’s Peregrine Fleet, hadn’t soaked in yet. He felt a little lost. But his faith in Admiral Carson was unshakeable.
The domestic Peregrine Fleet’s legend began with Admiral Carson’s Act of Defiance. Congress, when it was still in D.C., tried to force the Peregrine Fleet to submit to tracking. The proponents won by a huge margin and were very pleased with themselves. Until Admiral Carson’s Peregrine strafed a warehouse filled with tracking devices. A big explosion sends a big message.
Congress is the problem.
Problem solved.
When called to task for the assault, Admiral Carson proudly appeared before a Captain’s Mast, presided over by the Supreme Court. No pictures were taken, so everyone imagined their own heroic tableau. A highly decorated naval officer in full-dress. Dazzling! Standing defiantly before his disreputable accusers cowering beneath their black robes. Admiral Carson steps forward with absolute confidence and answers the charges with these laconic words, “Kiss my ass.”
He walked out—no one dared stop him—and was raised upon the shoulders of several hundred thousand veterans waiting for him on the courthouse steps. The government, and its pretense of representation, lost all credibility that day, and the veterans gave Washington D.C. a purifying dose of fire. But what they so vehemently destroyed immediately reemerged. Their attack on the politicians in D.C. led to the hijacking of the government in New York, where the politicians’ bosses lived.
But a seed of possibility had been planted in the soil of universal sentiment, and it became the custom to say ‘kiss my ass’ any time a problem actually got fixed. This kept the Peregrine Fleet ever in the people's hearts, since there were a lot people fixing a lot of things without regard to their so-called representatives. Ignoring them was the only way to get something done.
So the formerly unknown Admiral Christopher Carson appeared to have gained some power. Some authority. Some celebrity. And to everyone’s amazement, this apparent power morphed into real power. He locked himself away in his Spartan quarters at Quantico and wrote the Peregrine Fleet Mission Statement.
MacIan read it over and over again. Its stance on human dignity, integrity, justice and autonomy kept him heart and soul in faithful service to the fleet.
“Vessel on approach, please identify!”
MacIan snapped out of it. “Trooper MacIan, NPF.”
“Destination, please.”
“Guttenburg.”
A long pause. “Will you please notify if you intend to cross the river?”
A Caesar
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