focus was on growing his business. The best part, however, was having his best friend and his family nearby, even though the children’s age discrepancies were vast. He felt a kinship with them, or better yet all of them with each other. Gordon had his son early, whereas Mike had his children much later in life.
Yet another price we pay for living through a revolution , Mike would always say.
He was proud to have Jason as Bobby’s godfather, and proud to be godfather to Jason’s son, Sean. The two boys were like peas in a pod.
* * *
It was nearly noon. Charlene came by, with the fruit platter, cupcakes, and gifts. She was always excited about birthdays. Bobby and Sean had birthdays near each other, both in time and location, so Charlene and Parisa had become a team in getting the ball rolling for each gathering. They were efficient and organized. Both worked leisurely, as they joked and laughed about the kids, husbands, and neighbors. They set the tables, placed the food, and stacked the gifts. All the while taking a sip or two of ice tea, and testing the snacks.
“What time are Jason and family arriving?” Parisa asked.
“They’ll be here around four, after they pick up Sean from daycare,” Charlene said looking at her watch.
“Oh, and I forgot! Jason won’t make it this year. Sorry! He had an emergency at work, and had to fly to D.C.”
* * *
Jason hated having to lie to everyone about his work, his trips, and his work life. He had to. It was a matter of safety and national security. It seemed as though his colleagues fell into one of two groups. The ones with families, who were ultra-careful about each decision they made, and who were more strategic in thinking; and those who had no family at all, always shooting from the hip, and purely operational. It was always a match between long-term thinkers and short-term achievers. The main difference between the two was one had everything to live for while the other had little to live for. Truth be told, you needed both to make the best teams.
Gordon knew a little bit more about what Jason did, and was always ready to keep the family and the questions at bay. D.C., the capital, was a regular excuse for these trips. In most cases, it was the starting point for any trip, either logistically or procedurally.
Most of Jason’s orders came directly from D.C., after the morning CIA reviews in the White House Situation Room (WHSR). The WHSR hatched new projects weekly, requiring some action on the other side of the world. Most actions allowed for planning, but occasionally it was an overnight effort. Jason had attended several meetings at the WHSR, pre and post action. The visits were always exciting, and the meetings filled with people and discussions one could never share.
Each visit started with entering the southwest gate of the White House, where the guard would check IDs against the appointment list. Once approved, they escorted you up the West Executive Avenue, moving you towards the west basement entrance. There, another guard would check your access pass and ID. From there, you’d walk down some stairs, several turns later you would find the Mess Hall. Across from that would be the locked doors of the WHSR. Behind these doors, a conference room, surrounded by smaller offices, each filled with workstations, a very small but highly functional space. On every one of Jason’s visits, it was standing room only. Each discussion heated, with the decisions final, and the results often deadly.
* * *
Jason’s first career did not start the way it ended. His first love was the air force. He attended the Air Force Academy for two equally compelling reasons. First, his father, a Vietnam era helicopter pilot and all of his inspiring stories. Second, an Iranian girl he met while finishing high school in Denver, who decided to attend University of Colorado, a short drive away from the academy. A fortuitous set of events, as they married each other half way
Yet another price we pay for living through a revolution , Mike would always say.
He was proud to have Jason as Bobby’s godfather, and proud to be godfather to Jason’s son, Sean. The two boys were like peas in a pod.
* * *
It was nearly noon. Charlene came by, with the fruit platter, cupcakes, and gifts. She was always excited about birthdays. Bobby and Sean had birthdays near each other, both in time and location, so Charlene and Parisa had become a team in getting the ball rolling for each gathering. They were efficient and organized. Both worked leisurely, as they joked and laughed about the kids, husbands, and neighbors. They set the tables, placed the food, and stacked the gifts. All the while taking a sip or two of ice tea, and testing the snacks.
“What time are Jason and family arriving?” Parisa asked.
“They’ll be here around four, after they pick up Sean from daycare,” Charlene said looking at her watch.
“Oh, and I forgot! Jason won’t make it this year. Sorry! He had an emergency at work, and had to fly to D.C.”
* * *
Jason hated having to lie to everyone about his work, his trips, and his work life. He had to. It was a matter of safety and national security. It seemed as though his colleagues fell into one of two groups. The ones with families, who were ultra-careful about each decision they made, and who were more strategic in thinking; and those who had no family at all, always shooting from the hip, and purely operational. It was always a match between long-term thinkers and short-term achievers. The main difference between the two was one had everything to live for while the other had little to live for. Truth be told, you needed both to make the best teams.
Gordon knew a little bit more about what Jason did, and was always ready to keep the family and the questions at bay. D.C., the capital, was a regular excuse for these trips. In most cases, it was the starting point for any trip, either logistically or procedurally.
Most of Jason’s orders came directly from D.C., after the morning CIA reviews in the White House Situation Room (WHSR). The WHSR hatched new projects weekly, requiring some action on the other side of the world. Most actions allowed for planning, but occasionally it was an overnight effort. Jason had attended several meetings at the WHSR, pre and post action. The visits were always exciting, and the meetings filled with people and discussions one could never share.
Each visit started with entering the southwest gate of the White House, where the guard would check IDs against the appointment list. Once approved, they escorted you up the West Executive Avenue, moving you towards the west basement entrance. There, another guard would check your access pass and ID. From there, you’d walk down some stairs, several turns later you would find the Mess Hall. Across from that would be the locked doors of the WHSR. Behind these doors, a conference room, surrounded by smaller offices, each filled with workstations, a very small but highly functional space. On every one of Jason’s visits, it was standing room only. Each discussion heated, with the decisions final, and the results often deadly.
* * *
Jason’s first career did not start the way it ended. His first love was the air force. He attended the Air Force Academy for two equally compelling reasons. First, his father, a Vietnam era helicopter pilot and all of his inspiring stories. Second, an Iranian girl he met while finishing high school in Denver, who decided to attend University of Colorado, a short drive away from the academy. A fortuitous set of events, as they married each other half way
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