THE IMPERIALS #3

The Ambassador and I

The Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States of America

Madeleine Howell

Cordially Invites You to a Welcome Reception

Friday, July 20

17:00 – 20:00

The Residence

RSVP Required

Gretchen Godbold read the invitation with glee accompanied by a tinge of resentment. She enjoyed parties, and recalled fondly the occasions when she had been the hostess. She immediately pulled out a piece of her personal stationary complete with Counselor for Public Affairs; Gretchen Godbold elegantly scripted across the letter head and began to compose her reply.

Madam Ambassador:

The Ambassador and I have received your gracious invitation. Please accept this as our RSVP in the affirmative.

The Ambassador and I. Gretchen loved the sound of the phrase. Born and raised in Vienna, Austria, Gretchen had worked at the American embassy as a translator and economic analyst until meeting Kurt Godbold. Kurt Godbold’s wife, Sylvia, was plain and demure. A prim and proper Presbyterian minister’s daughter when she was on her meds, and a frigid shrew when she wasn’t. She was nothing like Gretchen: carefree and adventurous, conducting all aspects of her life with reckless abandon. If it wasn’t love at first sight, it was certainly lust at first sight. Their relationship was intense and torrid. Kurt soon filed for divorce, and sent Sylvia back to the States. Once the divorce was final, Kurt and Gretchen were married. She accompanied him on a variety of tours throughout the world. They cavorted through the capitols of Europe, mingled with the elite of Asian society, and enjoyed the colonial charms of Africa. When Gretchen’s US citizenship was granted she immediately applied for a position in the Foreign Service. They served together until Kurt was named Ambassador to the Republic of Sundland. It was a small post in a small country, but an ambassadorship was an ambassadorship. Gretchen took a leave of absence and played the role she had always dreamed of, the ambassador’s wife. She quickly gravitated to the center of Sundland society and reveled in the attention.

Ambassador Godbold’s career was cut short when he was declared persona non grata by the government of Sundland. No official reason was given, but rumors abounded, most consistently one concerning the ambassador and the prime minister’s wife. Gretchen pretended to know nothing about the rumor, but she did know how she became the current Mrs. Godbold. Whatever the finale, she was still an ambassador’s wife. Kurt retired and she returned to active service with a posting in Nordeland.

In her position as Counselor for Public Affairs Gretchen was responsible for promotion of U.S. national interests by increasing understanding of American society and values. She was the face of America to Nordeland. That was no small undertaking considering she had never lived in the U.S.

Section Chief

The soft afternoon air was filled with the scent of flowers as white dinner jacketed waiters circulated through the rear garden of the Residence delivering glasses of Cristal to the guests. Jané Leonard stood on the veranda, cigarette dangling from her mouth, surveying the crowd. All and all she would rather be elsewhere. At least the party was outdoors and she could smoke. And the booze was free. A waiter approached, caught her glaring eye, and made a wide detour. She brusquely marched down the steps and across the lawn to the gazebo bar. Another smiling waiter offering champagne was elbowed out of the way as she stepped behind the bar. Disappearing underneath she momentarily reemerged with a big smile and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. “Pour,” she said.

“Madam?” the startled bartender asked.

“Over ice.” She quickly drank the first glass, sat it back down on the bar and said, “Again.” The alcohol radiated through her system, the euphoric sensation mollifying her sullen disposition.

Wynette’s cackle could be heard from across the courtyard over the noise of the party. That woman annoyed Jané. Wynette may have been her best friend in Nordeland, but on most days Jané could barely tolerate her existence. Wynette was too loud. Her voice. Her dress. Just too loud. Red hair, glasses with red tortoise shell frames, dark blue eye shadow and a pink seersucker suit. And that accent.  All too loud.

“And how are you tonight, Jané?” Gretchen asked as she approached the bar to exchange her empty champagne glass for a full.

“As well as can be expected,” Jané replied. Gretchen’s guttural, Germanic accent grated on her nerves more than Wynette’s hickish twang. It was like carrying on a conversation with the Terminator’s little sister.

“Oh Jané, you are always so funny. It is a beautiful evening. Nice weather for a party. The entire summer has been fabulous don’t you think.”

Jané didn’t think so. She hated Nordeland. The winters were dark and cold and during the summer it was light eighteen hours a day. Her embassy provided apartment was on the top floor of a turn of the century building with balconies overlooking the picturesque central plaza. Full of fountains and open green spaces, it was a gathering place for neighborhood children. Four stories above street level and she could still hear them. She did not like kids. If she had wanted the sounds of children playing she would visit her grandchildren. “Kurt does certainly seem to be enjoying himself,” Jané commented sarcastically having noticed the former ambassador across the garden paying an inordinate amount of attention to Anneli, a gorgeous blonde member of the local Nordish staff. Kurt was always on the prowl.

The flirtation had caught Gretchen’s attention also. With a sense of urgency in her voice she responded, “I had better find my ambassador and pay our respects to Ambassador Howell.”

“You need to do that,” Jané agreed.

Gretchen strutted off like a model on the catwalk to retrieve Kurt.

The attention of the crowd was drawn to the DCM who was standing on the veranda tapping her champagne glass with a spoon. Jané sat her glass back down in front of the bartender. “Again. More ice.”

The group, minus Jané, who never left her station at the bar, gathered on the lawn beneath the veranda as Chris began her welcome speech. Jané hated these events.

Tall, broad shouldered, and not particularly feminine or attractive, Jané had never had an optimistic outlook on life. It was if she had, as a child, sat down and made a conscious decision to be discontented. The Foreign Service was a second career for her. A second chance for unhappiness. She had retired relatively young after teaching high school History for twenty years. She had never been happy as a teacher. Retirement did little to improve her disposition. It just provided her more time to make her husband’s life a living hell. Divorce soon followed. She cleaned him out in court but he still got the best of the settlement. He got away from her. 

Alone, unemployed, and bored, Jané thought a change of scenery would be nice. Paris. London. Rome. Someplace nice where she could indulge her passion for history. And an interesting job. Something distinguished. She was tired of being just a teacher. She wanted something sufficiently suitable to her exceptional qualifications. Her first assignment was working the visa line at an embassy in the Caribbean conducting hundreds of interviews each day. Two years of mind numbing tedium. That was followed by two years in Africa, sweating and swatting at insects the size of Volkswagens. Not exactly the world changing experiences she had imagined. A series of somewhat menial postings followed until she was offered the Nordeland position. Finally, an assignment in a first world country. And Section Head to boot. A chance to make her mark. For once she would be in charge. Be the one telling others what to do. She was sorely disappointed when she arrived in country and found that her section consisted of a staff of two, a junior American officer and a local Nordean assistant, and the American position was not being filled due to personnel shortages. Another slap in the face by life.

**********

Also by E.C. Jacobs

THE COAST
Evan Stanley is a disillusioned insurance fraud investigator. When a friend is savagely murdered while investigating a claim, he is drawn into a journey of intrigue and suspense from which he may not return.

Evan likes his work but hates his job. He is an experienced Special Investigator for National Insurance Company, but management doesn’t like his attitude. While investigating a routine personal injury claim on the sultry Mississippi gulf coast, he inadvertently uncovers a conspiracy of corruption and murder. Traversing the back roads and bayous of the Deep South, from Biloxi to New Orleans to Memphis, Evan follows the trail through a storm of events to an explosive conclusion.

THE IMPERIALS #2

                                                   

It’s All About Chris

Christine Flowers busied herself with last minute preparations for The Ambassador’s reception. On the surface she was the dutiful public servant, the resentment contained within. With twenty years in the Foreign Service she was a trained, experienced professional. It was demeaning working for an amateur; someone who had bought their title outright. Chris had worked hard to achieve her position as Deputy Chief of Mission. Her classic good looks: green eyes, auburn hair, on a tall, statuesque frame, and propensity to sleep with powerful men may have propelled her effortlessly up the career ladder, but she had invested the twenty years.

Everything in The Ambassador’s office was just right. New furniture, carpets, drapes, and fresh cut flowers from the embassy garden in front of the bay window. And the view. Like a fortress, the embassy compound sat perched atop a three hundred foot cliff towering over the small, picturesque, capital city of Nordea City, in a diplomatic enclave aptly referred to as The Hill. Surrounded on three sides with twelve foot walls, the cliff side was left with only a waist high safety barrier providing splendid panoramas. Among the most idyllic of old European capitals, the city spread out below, across the narrow coastal plain ending with the harbor at the water’s edge. The horizon was dotted with the islets of the Nordean Archipelago stretching into infinity, the sun sparkling on the surrounding waters.

Chris’s office was at the opposite end of the suite. She had the cast off furniture from the previous ambassador, and a view of the driveway and flag pole in the front quad. The furniture was quite nice. It had been custom made by hand to the former ambassador’s personal specifications. Chris had always admired it. But like a small child wearing hand-me-downs, she didn’t want it. It wasn’t new. It was someone else’s rejects.

The time was near. The entire staff gathered on the front steps of the chancery complete with Marine honor guard in dress blues and polished ceremonial rifles. A brief official welcome was planned for Ambassador Howell’s first day at work. Chris just wanted to get it over with. She was tired. The weekend had been too short and too busy. She had attended a conference in Frankfurt. It had been long and dull, but that was the price she paid for a chance to see her current love. Her previous posting had been Frankfurt, and she had made at least one lasting attachment. Ever since she had aggressively sought out every opportunity to return: meetings, conferences, training, and she always insisted on transiting Frankfurt anytime she flew anywhere. It all amounted to government funded conjugal visits. She had returned on the last flight of the previous day arriving in Nordea City late in the evening. To make matters worse, she had had to drive herself home. It infuriated her that she was not provided a car and driver for her personal use. The late night was followed by an early morning. All necessary to ensure the new ambassador was properly greeted.

The flag flapped lazily in the light breeze blowing off the sea. The sun shone brightly in the empty blue sky. It was going to be a warm day. While she waited Chris took out her micro recorder, “Note to self – send a staffer from the embassy to the house to open the windows and let the dog out. Don’t want it stuffy when I get home.”

The Marines stood at parade rest on the steps leading to the front door of the chancery, the entire embassy staff arrayed behind them in anticipation of The Ambassador’s arrival. The embassy complex consisted of two buildings, the chancery and the Residence, an impressive Colonial Williamsburg styled mansion, sitting on opposite sides of the central quad. As the seventy-five staffers stood on the steps, they were looking directly at The Ambassador’s front door, the limousine parked in attendance at the base of her steps.

Chris lived in an embassy owned house across town in an exclusive seaside neighborhood. She called home a rambling waterfront manor with a wall of windows on the seaward side; an indoor spa including a pool, sauna, steam room and hot tub; a guest house; boat house and dock. Nordeland not generally known for its white sand beaches, the house was built along a rough, rocky stretch of coast. Her repeated requests to be provided with an emergency escape and evasion boat having fallen on deaf ears, the boathouse sat empty, the dock unused. All in all, Chris would prefer to live on The Hill.

The eerie silence was broken by the chirp of a cell phone. Wynette Shackleford, the executive office secretary (they prefer to be called Office Management Specialist), began scrambling for her pockets. A quick exchange over the phone. “Everybody, that was Bob. She’s coming.” Wynette managed to get it out as The Ambassador simultaneously emerged from her house just twenty-five meters away. Bob scurried down the steps in front of The Ambassador and opened the door to the limousine. As the car slowly made its way around the large circular drive, Bob sprinted across the quad, through the roses, around the flag pole, and breathlessly skidded to a stop at the curve just as the limo rolled to a stop.

The commands rang out, “ATTENTION.”

The Marines stood ramrod straight.

“PRESENT ARMS.” 

Snap! Pop! Weapons up.

Bob opened the door. There was a pause for dramatic affect. Ambassador Howell exited the car beaming ear to ear. She was in her element.

The rest of the morning was spent conducting the Country Team meeting, a briefing of The Ambassador by all key officers. After a quick lunch Chris returned to her office, shut the door, and sat there. It would be two years until the next election. It could be a long two years if the current blue blood in the front office wanted to make it hard.

Chris had been born in Kansas City. Her father was an assembly line worker at the Western Electric plant and her mother worked part time in a greeting card shop. They were comfortably middle class, but not prepared for the expenses of the education Chris wanted. She had her sights set on the Ivy League. She was tired of the Midwest. Wanted some excitement. She had the grades to gain admission to Columbia, but unfortunately not quite good enough for a scholarship. But she was determined. Her parents paid what they could and she came up with the rest. She got grants, student loans, and worked numerous part-time jobs. She earned a degree in International Relations with a minor in French. The summer following graduation she completed an internship with the State Department spending two months in a tropical paradise. It was possibly the best two months of her life. She had been met at the airport by her sponsor with an embassy car and driver and taken to her apartment. She had to share it with two other interns, but it was in the heart of the city close to the embassy, restaurants, and night clubs. She began to greatly admire the Foreign Service lifestyle: the large houses, maids, gardeners, handymen, almost always someone else to do the dirty jobs. Life in Kansas City had never been like that. Back to college and two years later she had a master’s degree and a job interview to join the Foreign Service. With a degree in French she envisioned a posting in Paris. Two years in the City of Light. Museums, restaurants, bars, parties. Surrounded by history. She forgot about the many French speaking former colonies in central Africa.

If nothing else, Africa was an experience. She worked hard. She played hard. She moved on to other assignments. Always moving to something better. Whether it was due to her job performance, or a combination of her tastefully short skirts, exceptionally feminine figure, and brilliant green eyes, her employee evaluations were always stellar, and she effortlessly moved up through the ranks.

The one detractor of her career was a persistent rumor that followed her from post to post. Almost everyone had heard it. Some were appalled. Some were amused. Others were intrigued. Most would like to have seen the proof. The rest just wanted to ignore it. Maybe it was true. If so, it wasn’t really hard to believe. In her youth Chris had at times been somewhat indiscreet with her personal exploits. She was alleged to have made some porn movies to support herself while enrolled at Columbia. The only bit of evidence available was closely held by a brotherhood, the United States Marine Corps Security Guards. Twenty years prior, members of a detachment made an interesting discovery one movie night. They were watching a cheap production about college coeds. During the finale orgy scene, amongst the mass of writhing bodies, an attractive young woman rose up and looked straight into the lens. There were no long auburn curls. Instead, her hair was a short blonde bob. But those brilliant green eyes were almost unmistakable. In an instant she was gone. All the Marines hooped and hollered. Was it their young junior political officer? Some said yes. Some said no. The debate raged for years. The tape was kept in a safe. Which each transfer the Marines would send the tape via diplomatic pouch to her next post. In time, the contents were transferred to DVD, but over the years it followed her to every new assignment.

Who Moved My Government Cheese?

The Ambassador stepped out on her front porch and looked around. She was all alone with the exception of two geese feeding in the quad. There was no waiting car. No Marines. No one. She waited. It was a pleasant morning under a turquoise sky with a warm sun and cool breeze. She quickly became impatient, began to fidget, then crossed her arms and stood tapping her toe. Her attention was drawn to a small group of staff members on the sidewalk across the quad in front of the chancery. They didn’t seem to notice her at all. She wouldn’t want to publicly admit it, but that irritated her. Finally, she just gave up and stomped across the quad, through the rose bushes, around the flagpole, and up the steps to the chancery.

“Where is my car?” she demanded as she breezed past Wynette’s desk.

“Ma’am?” came the confused reply in Wynette’s lilting Southern twang.

“Where is my car?” The Ambassador repeated.

“I assume it is in the garage with the chauffeur. Why? Would you like to go somewhere? I can call them.” Wynette volunteered.

“Where are the Marines?” The Ambassador persisted. “The Marines. Where are they this morning?”

“Was he not on duty at Post One?” Wynette asked as she followed The Ambassador into her office.

“Not him. The others. Out front. Like yesterday.”

“Oh,” Wynette began to understand. “Ma’am, they don’t do that every day. Yesterday was special because it was your first day.” Wynette embellished her accent when delivering bad news. People seemed to accept it better.

The Ambassador stood there with the look of a child who just found out there was no Santa Claus. “And the car?”

“Well…” Wynette hesitantly began to explain. “The last ambassador usually just walked across the yard from the house.”

The Ambassador pondered that for a moment, “Even in the winter?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s not bad. They clean the sidewalks. And it’s not far.”

Ambassador Howell stood staring at her desk with an expression of consternation on her face. After a minute of soulful contemplation her appearance brightened. “Well, we’ll see how it goes. Time to get to work. Are you ready to take some notes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wynette sat down with pad and pen at the ready.

“First things first. We need to start putting together the entertainment plan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I just love a party. Don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to start with a reception at The Residence for all embassy employees and their significant others this Friday after work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can work with Roberto, my events coordinator on this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Ambassador leaned forward and whispered, “You know he’s a homosexual.”

Wynette joined the conspiracy with a whisper, “Yes, ma’am. I kind-of thought that.”

Returning to her command voice The Ambassador continued, “But I am a firm believer in Equal Opportunity.” Lowering her voice again, “Besides, those people throw the most splendid parties.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

The morning wore on as the wheels of international diplomacy began to turn.

Wynette sprang from truly humble origins. Born and raised on a small farm outside Poplarville, Mississippi, she had rarely even been out of the state prior to joining the Foreign Service. The week after high school graduation she married the only boy she had ever dated, Leroy Shackleford. Leroy worked at a small trucking company and had aspirations of owning his own rig someday. He dreamed of being on the open road. Wynette dreamed of a house and kids. What she got was a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama for a honeymoon, a mobile home her father let them place on the back ten acres, and a career as a checker at the Piggly Wiggly.

Fifteen years into the marriage she went home one Saturday evening after the late shift to find both Leroy and their trailer gone. He had hitched it up to his new truck and left. Later she found out he was living in Alabama with a Shoney’s waitress. Maybe she should have realized something was wrong. During all those years of marriage he had never taken the wheels off their trailer. She had always thought he was just lazy. But apparently he had always wanted to be ready to go. Wynette had never been the brightest child in class.

She showed up on her mama’s door step in tears, and life reverted back to what it had been a decade and a half before. Wynette was a thirty-two year old woman with a ten o’clock curfew. Bound and determined not to spend the rest of her life under her domineering mother’s roof, she enrolled in the Business and Office Technology program at Pearl River Community College. It sounded mighty fancy, but in reality Wynette was studying to become a secretary. She didn’t care. She simply wanted get out from behind the cash register and off her feet. Two years later she immigrated to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and began working for a personal injury attorney. That lasted until he was indicted for attempting to bribe a federal judge and was disbarred. Once again Wynette found herself alone and broke. Trolling the internet looking for her dream job she stumbled across the federal government recruiting site and was reminded of her father’s rants against government workers: overpaid and underworked. Sounded like a job for her.

THE IMPERIALS

This is a bit of satire I wrote a few years ago. I decided to publish via my blog in a serialized fashion, a chapter or two at a time. If you find it humorous, or interesting, please feel free to share.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Join Ambassador Madeleine Howell and the intrepid staff of the U.S. Embassy to Nordeland as they endure the hardships of life in Western Europe and struggle to bring freedom, justice, taste, style, refinement, and sophistication to the longing masses.

THE IMPERIALS

Prologue

Nordeland 

The land begins in the far North emerging from the forbidding sea. The stark beauty of the barren arctic plain extends southward rising to meet the tree covered foothills of the Northern Range. Herds of reindeer roam the vast emptiness followed by a people who have known no other way of life throughout recorded history. Further south, past the towering spires of mountains, the geography shifts to an expansive central plain bounded on the west by the Gulf of Scandinavia and the east by the Snow Mountain Range, a series of low, but treacherous hills, that effectively seal off the main Nordean landmass from her surrounding neighbors. The dominate feature of the land is the Joki River, a life giving artery flowing through the center of the country ending at the Baltic Sea.   

The archeological records indicate the presence of man in Nordeland for thousands of years prior to any written record. The original inhabitants were hunter-gatherers that followed the reindeer herds. Vestiges of their civilization are still apparent today in their descendants. Geographically isolated from their neighbors due to mountains and seas, Nordeland did not become an active participant in international events until the late nineteenth century. This historical extreme isolation facilitated the development of a unique national character; strong and fiercely independent.

With the coming of the industrial age in the eighteen hundreds Nordeland slowly began to interact with the world around them. By the turn of the twentieth century the capital and largest city, Nordea City, was a bustling commercial center; its harbor clogged with steam ships, its brick paved streets traversed by electric trams, and its inhabitants connected by telephone. Though modern technologies brought dramatic changes to Nordea City, the interior of the country remained largely unaffected; the central plain dotted with small family farms, and the people of the northern highlands and arctic tundra herding reindeer.

As the First World War engulfed much of the European continent Nordeland remained neutral and out of harm’s way. The interwar years were a renewed period of isolation. The Nordelandean people had been horrified by the devastation and destruction around them. Retreating within their borders they managed to seal themselves off from the excesses of the rest of the world. Shielded by their largely agrarian economy, Nordeland was able to weather the Great Depression that ravaged so much of the world without the overwhelming social upheavals that were so common elsewhere.  The good fortune that had sustained the small country for centuries finally fell short during World War II. Caught in the middle, their homeland became a battlefield. The cities were bombed and the land was burned, but their small, elite military managed to stave off complete subjugation. Nordeland emerge from the ashes of conflict a free and sovereign nation.

Sitting astride the crossroads of intrigue during the Cold War, Nordeland deftly balanced ideologies of freedom and democracy against self-preservation. Identifying with the West, passively assisting when possible, without antagonizing the East.

Upon the collapse of the leviathan to their East, Nordeland was positioned to reap the benefits of an ever growing global economy. With a highly educated, literate and multilingual workforce, and a competitive advantage in telecommunications, the little country soon became a global leader in the technology sectors. Nordelandian expertise and networks were integral to propelling commerce around the world.

Among the oldest royal families in Europe, the House of Vara, dating back 800 years, is much loved by the Nordean people. Before the country could really be called a nation, the clans were divided by both geographical barriers and intricate webs of political alliances and adversarial partitions. Each valley populated by its own sovereign clan.

In 1133 marauding bands from the East crossed the Snow Mountains and began raiding the farms and reindeer herding camps of Nordeland. The disparate groups of Nordeland, separated by rivers, mountains, gorges, dense forest, blood lines, and feuds, were forced to band together to expel the invaders.

The Vara clan was among the largest and most powerful in ancient Nordeland.

Occupying the rich, fertile land of the central plain, they maintained influence far beyond their borders by aggressively controlling the Joki River. With a charismatic warrior chieftain, whose exploits in battle and on the hunt were epic, the Vara clan soon became the foremost military power in the region around which all the other clans coalesced.

During the following centuries of alternating war and peace, the House of Vara continually gained greater influence over the country as a constitutional monarchy slowly evolved to replace the previous system of clan alliances.

The most recent Vara to wear the crown was King Janni. Possessing the charismatic and inspirational leadership traits of his ancestors he was a leader in both business and politics. With great foresight he leveraged the personal wealth of the royal family and founded the company We Communicate, manufacturers of the WeCom, the highest selling personal communications device on the market. Under King Janni’s leadership both his company and his country made great strides in their influence on the world around them permanently cementing King Janni’s popularity with his subjects.

A small but wealthy country, Nordeland maintains an international leadership role in business, education, technological development, and diplomacy, exerting far greater influence over world affairs than many much larger countries. 

Part One

THE BEST AND THE BRIGHTEST

The Princess

The only sound punctuating the afternoon calm was the buzz of an insect drifting from flower to flower among the patch of dandelions growing along the edge of the tarmac. Bob Coleman paced back and forth beside the limousine. The sun was warm. Too warm for a coat and tie, even in the northern latitudes. He uncomfortably tugged at his stiff collar with one hand while shading his eyes with the other, straining for a glimpse of the plane against the glare of the sun. Bob was The Ambassador’s Personal Affairs Coordinator and had traveled to Nordeland weeks in advance to ensure that all household matters were in order prior to The Ambassador’s arrival.

“Are they late? They had better not be late. I have things to do this afternoon.” Jané Leonard was impatient. Jané was always impatient. The world was a minor inconvenience for her.

“They’re right on time,” Bruno Jeffries responded, pointing at a speck in the distant sky.

“Good, because I have things to do this afternoon,” Jané concluded the conversation.

The speck grew to a plane, flared its flaps and entered the approach pattern.

Within minutes the pretentiously large private jet had taxied into position near the two-car motorcade and the ground service crew was positioning the stairs at the door. The welcome committee quickly got themselves organized: reception line at the base of the steps, chauffeurs standing at the ready by their vehicles. The door to the aircraft opened and a small fluffy, white ball of fur shot out, zoomed down the stairs and leaped into Bob’s arms. Bob grimaced as the little dog licked him on the face.

“Marie Antoinette,” he grumbled, holding the squirming little beast at arm’s length. He quickly handed the dog off to the chauffer.

She appeared in the doorway posing with her best politician’s smile. As she came to the realization that the welcoming throng consisted of just three individuals, her persona appeared to deflate, but just for a moment. She quickly regained her composure and descended the steps with head held high, the debutante she had always been.

“Madam Ambassador, welcome to Nordeland,” Bob began the introductions. “This is Jané Leonard, Political and Economic Counselor…”

“Oh Bobby, I’m exhausted. The flight was simply interminable. Can we save the introductions for when I am feeling better?” It wasn’t really a question. “I want to go to the house now. Take care of the staff and have the servants deliver the luggage, but not too late.” She was in the back seat of her limo handing him the dog, “And take care of Marie Antoinette. She needs some exercise after the long flight. Her doctor says she doesn’t get enough.” The door slammed shut and the car sped off. Marie Antoinette leapt from Bob’s arms and chased after her master.

Bob turned to find Ambassador Howell’s personal entourage of her attorney, interior decorator and party planner gathered around watching with disinterest. No one made a move to catch the dog. Bob hated that dog, but he needed his job. “Marie Antoinette! Marie Antoinette!” he called as he sprinted after the speeding ball of fur.

Madeleine Howell was money. She was old money. She was lots of old money. Great-grandpa Earnest Howell had started the dynasty. He was in timber; when he was sober. He owned a logging company, harvesting the public lands high in the mountains of the American West. It was hard work. And lonely. Weeks and months at a time, isolated in the back country. Earnest Howell didn’t really like hard work. And he had a powerful thirst, so in his spare time he ran a still. That was his true calling. At least whatever he didn’t sell he could drink. Or conversely, in Earnest Howell’s case, whatever he didn’t drink he could sell.

He had been working for months in a high valley clear cutting everything in sight. Drinking stocks were running low so Great-grandpa took a break from lumberjacking to cook up a fresh batch. Being zealous in quality control he sampled often. During a midafternoon break from the strenuous labor, Earnest Howell took a nap, leaving the roaring fire burning under the kettle unattended. As the cauldron boiled and bubbled something went terribly wrong. Great-grandpa Howell was abruptly awakened from his drunken stupor by the deafening explosion of the still. Burning alcohol sprayed forth in a wall of flame. The shed was engulfed and the blaze quickly spread to the surrounding dry grass. Clothes on fire, Great-grandpa made a dash to safety in the river where he watched as the flames reached his freshly distilled inventory. A series of explosions followed with the conflagration rising high into the air. Soon the entire valley was awash in flame. The only avenue of escape was to drift downstream to where the horses were corralled. As the flames approaching ever closer, he managed to catch one of the frightened animals and rode hell bent for town.

The wild lands burned out of control for days destroying thousands of acres of timber, grazing lands, ranches and farms. It burned and burned until the long hot summer came to a rain soaked end. The skies turned dark, and the deluge fell day and night until the scorched, barren earth could absorb no more. Fire and rain, like Biblical plagues. With no trees, grass, or life of any kind to maintain stability, the side of the mountain broke loose in a massive landslide, burying the valley below and damming the river.

The river had been the life blood of the surrounding country. It supplied water to numerous farms and ranches, and further downstream to the villages and towns. Homesteaders began to pull out. The population in the towns began to shrink. As the situation neared crisis proportion, Great-grandpa Howell came to the rescue. Always the enterprising individual looking for a new deal, he ventured back to the scene of the crime and began to build a pipeline from the newly formed reservoir to the valley below. And Western States Water was born. Four generations later it was the largest water company in the United States supplying millions of customers in sixteen states. In addition to water, the Howell family had diversified into numerous other industries quietly building one of the greatest private fortunes in the world.

Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States of America Madeleine Howell. That was the full and formal title. She had spent a lifetime buying things: shoes, cars, houses, small islands, companies, people and influence. Influence was her favorite. A figurehead position in the family company gave her prominence and prestige, but political influence gave her power. She had reached the pantheon of Party politics by supporting everything from the county commissioner, to the state governor, to national congressmen and senators. Joining the ranks of the Pathfinders, the highest level category of Party fundraisers, had provided instant access to the White House, and a plush appointment.

If You Give a Bureaucrat a Bagel

If You Give a Bureaucrat a Bagel

He (inappropriate) (must be gender neutral) They will want a doughnut instead. They will demand it be a Crispy Crème, and will refuse any reasonable alternative as inferior.

They will want a cup of coffee to go with it. But it must not be just any cup of coffee. It must be a brew of socially responsible gourmet coffee: beans organically grown by a cooperative made up of indigenous persons, and custom roasted and served by a small sole proprietor, preferable of some minority status, who provides a full range of benefits to their staff and pays well over minimum wage. 

Once the deliciously progressive cup of custom roasted, socially responsible, gourmet coffee is consumed, the bureaucrat will want a physically and mentally stimulating workout. Instead of taking a walk, they will form an advocacy group of fellow bureaucrats to lobby their employer to utilize taxpayer funds to provide a gym, free of charge. In the long run, this will save the tax payers money through increased morale, therefore productivity, among the workforce.

With a place to work out, they will also need the time. Instead of going to the gym before or after work, they will form an advocacy group of fellow bureaucrats to demand their employer allow each employee to take up to three hours a week, during regular work hours, to exercise. In the long run, this will save the tax payers money by promoting healthier lifestyles and boosting morale, therefore increasing productivity, among the workforce.

After an invigorating workout, they will need a time of peaceful solitude for personal reflection, meditation, and refreshment of both spirit and body. They will form an advocacy group of fellow bureaucrats to lobby their employer to utilize taxpayer funds to provide a serenity room. In the long run, this will save the tax payers money through increased morale, therefore productivity, among the workforce.

After a period of quiet relaxation and contemplation, they will return to the office. Upon completion of the minimally legally required quantity of selfless, sacrificial, public service, they will want to take a break.

When they take a break, they will want a deliciously progressive cup of custom roasted, socially responsible, gourmet coffee.

If you give them a cup of coffee, they will want a doughnut.

Book Review - Clay (Farther Than We Dreamed Book 1)

Clay (Farther Than We Dreamed Book 1)

Intriguing teaser for the series.

This is a short read. Possibly a novella. Book 1 appears to be primarily a setup for the series but it did grab my interest. The premise of a distant futuristic spacecraft crewed by significant historical figures spanning the centuries is compelling.  If you are a fan of science fiction, and even if you are not, you may enjoy this.  I recommend it.