cell No government identification, uniforms or electronic devices,” were the “No only words Jones said as Ritter scrambled through his disheveled bachelor pad grabbing things he thought he might need. Ritter changed into civilian clothes and gathered a small bag of toiletries. Ritter almost asked if he could make a call to his parents, but the look of near-murder in Jones’s eyes as he brought out his cell phone told him that idea was a no-go. They left Ritter’s apartment and to a small civilian airport just north of Fort Huachuca. A motley assortment of single engine planes crowded the only hanger; a larger private airliner waited on the tarmac, stairs lowered and impatient engines whining. Ritter had started to utter a protest, but stopped when he saw the tremble in the Major’s lip and his ogre hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to cause a groan of protest from the steering column. Ritter concluded that if he didn’t get on the plane at full combat speed he would be thrown on in a manner. The stairs rose as soon as Ritter stumbled into the plane which lurched into movement soon after. No pre-flight safety briefing, no stewardess and no reminder about the FAA’s stern policy against smoking. That was eighteen hours ago, by Ritter’s watch. Ritter tossed the mystery burrito into the microwave and hoped for the best as he watched the microwave’s timer tick down. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a pilot and copilot in the cockpit. No one had come out to eat or use the facilities since he’d come aboard. He chided himself for such useless speculating, and went back to speculating why he was even in this situation. Had his father’s foreign contacts triggered some sort of alarm with Military Intelligence? As one of the world’s leading petroleum engineers, Ritter’s father was well traveled and well known in every country with hydrocarbon reserves. Perhaps one of those Russian venture
“No cell No government identification, uniforms or electronic devices,” were the only words Jones said as Ritter scrambled through his disheveled bachelor pad grabbing things he thought he might need. Ritter changed into civilian clothes and gathered a small bag of toiletries. Ritter almost asked if he could make a call to his parents, but the look of near-murder in Jones’s eyes as he brought out his cell phone told him that idea was a no-go. They left Ritter’s apartment and to a small civilian airport just north of Fort Huachuca. A motley assortment of single engine planes crowded the only hanger; a larger private airliner waited on the tarmac, stairs lowered and impatient engines whining. Ritter had started to utter a protest, but stopped when he saw the tremble in the Major’s lip and his ogre hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to cause a groan of protest from the steering column. Ritter concluded that if he didn’t get on the plane at full combat speed he would be thrown on in a manner. The stairs rose as soon as Ritter stumbled into the plane which lurched into movement soon after. No pre-flight safety briefing, no stewardess and no reminder about the FAA’s stern policy against smoking. That was eighteen hours ago, by Ritter’s watch. Ritter tossed the mystery burrito into the microwave and hoped for the best as he watched the microwave’s timer tick down. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a pilot and copilot in the cockpit. No one had come out to eat or use the facilities since he’d come aboard. He chided himself for such useless speculating, and went back to speculating why he was even in this situation. Had his father’s foreign contacts triggered some sort of alarm with Military Intelligence? As one of the world’s leading petroleum engineers, Ritter’s father was well traveled and well known in every country with hydrocarbon reserves. Perhaps one of those Russian venture
The_Caliban_Program-Sample.docx