Vice Admiral, retired Frank Halloran plodded barefoot to the end of the floating dock, his navy blue pajamas fluttering lightly in a pre-dawn breeze. After 30 years, he still couldn�t break the early-rising habit he acquired as a new pilot on the USS Ticonderoga, flying sorties over Vietnam. He settled into the weathered Adirondack chair, crossing his long legs, cradling his USN mug of hot coffee in his weathered hands. His beloved Pocahantas, a painstakingly restored PBY-5A, floated serenely beside him, close enough for him to reach one of the tethering lines. He carefully placed his mug on the chair�s slightly uptilted arm ��Don�t move, you son of a bitch,� he commanded � while he strummed the line. His fingers combed through his thinning white hair.
Rangely Lake could be remarkably quiet in the morning, and this was one of those mornings. A still night had gradually transformed the surface to glass, and the big seaplane sat squat and still, her pontoon hull clicking on the blue sheen almost surreptitiously, twin Hurricane engines at the ready. Frank sipped his coffee and smiled. He heard a loon dive for its breakfast, breaking the lake surface perhaps a hundred yards away. Slowly the placid scene would fade as Rangely awoke for the day. First one loon, then another, then a canoe or perhaps an electrified rowboat. Frank lit up a Camel, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke defiantly skyward. His morning e-mail had contained about a half-dozen Viagra spams; all were filtered out save the one that promised he�d �fly like an eagle.� He ran it through the crypto program. �Freemantle enroute. ETA Vinalhaven 0300 8/7.� Frank puffed again and watched the exhale waft over the lake.
The Osiris Project had been dormant for almost 20 years. Two trials, two deaths � all fast, all with no intel, each bringing more cover-up lies and red ink zeros. He finished his coffee, carefully field-stripped the Camel butt and pushed the tiny paper remains down his PJ vest pocket. Why that pocket never filled was, he laughed to himself, yet another proof of the existence of God.
�Put a fork in me, I�m done,� he thought. �I�d sooner try to fly the damn thing myself than waste another pilot who hasn�t seen his 30th birthday.�
�Ah, shit!� He thought of the half-dozen buddies who never made it back to the Ticonderoga. �It�s like the Air Force says � live in fame go down in flame � we�re not twisting any arms here; he says yes, he goes.� He stood up, spat into the water and padded back to the house. The dew on the grass soaked his Navy issue slippers. He kicked them off � Nancy would�ve beamed � and walked into the kitchen barefoot.
Rangely Lake could be remarkably quiet in the morning, and this was one of those mornings. A still night had gradually transformed the surface to glass, and the big seaplane sat squat and still, her pontoon hull clicking on the blue sheen almost surreptitiously, twin Hurricane engines at the ready. Frank sipped his coffee and smiled. He heard a loon dive for its breakfast, breaking the lake surface perhaps a hundred yards away. Slowly the placid scene would fade as Rangely awoke for the day. First one loon, then another, then a canoe or perhaps an electrified rowboat. Frank lit up a Camel, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke defiantly skyward. His morning e-mail had contained about a half-dozen Viagra spams; all were filtered out save the one that promised he�d �fly like an eagle.� He ran it through the crypto program. �Freemantle enroute. ETA Vinalhaven 0300 8/7.� Frank puffed again and watched the exhale waft over the lake.
The Osiris Project had been dormant for almost 20 years. Two trials, two deaths � all fast, all with no intel, each bringing more cover-up lies and red ink zeros. He finished his coffee, carefully field-stripped the Camel butt and pushed the tiny paper remains down his PJ vest pocket. Why that pocket never filled was, he laughed to himself, yet another proof of the existence of God.
�Put a fork in me, I�m done,� he thought. �I�d sooner try to fly the damn thing myself than waste another pilot who hasn�t seen his 30th birthday.�
�Ah, shit!� He thought of the half-dozen buddies who never made it back to the Ticonderoga. �It�s like the Air Force says � live in fame go down in flame � we�re not twisting any arms here; he says yes, he goes.� He stood up, spat into the water and padded back to the house. The dew on the grass soaked his Navy issue slippers. He kicked them off � Nancy would�ve beamed � and walked into the kitchen barefoot.
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