The 64-Bit Waltz

By Barry Spillberg

A freight hauler carring a super computer bound for the Pentagon explodes in the Callahan Tunnel under Boston Harbor. Fearing a terrorist plot to steal advanced computer technology, the Pentagon dispatches the commander of Home Command to investigate. This four-star general, in turn, tasks a young Air Force captain and his twin brother to investigate and stop the technology from falling into enemy hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Spillberg
• Release date: Jul 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476244136

Barry Spillberg

I'm on my fifth career (or is it my sixth?). I am one of the last children born in Boston's old West End before they tore it down in the early 1950s to build the Charles River Apartments complex. I grew up in Milton, just over the Neponset River from Boston and went to the Milton Public Schools. I also attended the Hebrew Teachers College in Brookline. My mother wanted me to become a rabbi. I had other plans. I graduated Syracuse University with honors and a major in Zoology. Because my draft lottery number for the Vietnam War was 61, I volunteered for the Air Force and completed AFROTC while in graduate school. In graduate school, at Syracuse, I was working on a doctorate in biophysics. Never finished. Lived in Israel with my wife Ruth in the mid-1970s, on a kibbutz near the Lebanese Border. Our daughter Keren was born at the Nahariya Military Hospital. Upon our return to the States in 1977, I changed careers and became a telecommunications engineer. I worked various corpororate jobs and finally with some friends established the first of two telecom consultancies, FMS Telecommunications. At the same time, I taught Telecommunications Technology at Northeastern University's State-of-the-Art Engineering Program. I retired from telecom in the mid-2000s. Grew bored sitting home, took the teacher certification tetst in science and I now teach biology, chemistry and physics at a high school in suburban Boston. I had always wanted to write. I originally went to Syracuse with the intention of majoring in literature and creative writing. Not liking the program I switched to science. The 64-Bit Waltz is my first novel.

Book preview

THE 64-BIT WALTZ

by BJ Spillberg

Copyright 2012 by Barry Jay Spillberg

Smashwords Edition 1.1

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CHAPTER I

Traffic was stalled in the tunnel. George Croft sipped his coffee from the plastic mug and put in another CD. He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. He still had an hour before his flight was scheduled to take off but he was cutting it close. Perhaps too close. Luckily, it was just the shuttle to LaGuardia and if he missed this one, there would be another one in an hour. He might be late for his appointment in the City but as soon as he parked the car in the central garage, he would call down and advise the client that he would be late. The client would understand. Travel was unpredictable these days. Looking at his cell phone mounted in its speaker phone cradle below the radio console indicated that he had no service. The walls of the tunnel blocked the signal. The call would have to wait.

What was the hold up anyway? He could not see anything. Nothing at all. There was a freight truck in front of him and an airport express bus next to the truck and even sitting in an SUV his view of what lay ahead was blocked. He was sitting at the bottom of the tunnel. The walls were dirty with soot, pollution from all the cars and trucks. A little ledge and railing extended all along the side. He never could imagine how anyone was small enough or dumb enough to walk on that ledge. He could not. He was far too big. The diesel fumes were seeping in. He shifted the vents to internal circulation. He was growing impatient.

The last thing George Croft ever saw was the blossoming orange red ball suddenly arising from the freight trunk. The whole back end of the truck seemed to be shredding. George thought of St. George and the dragon. Was this what one saw upon being consumed by a dragon’s flaming breath? At the last moment, the front end of his SUV lifted off the ground as to provide with a shield from the dragon. Too late, he thought, much too late. The world went red hot and then there was nothing at all.

Hey, Bridegroom!

Mike Asher looked up from the business magazine he was reading. His cousin, Bobby Rosenzweig, stood in front of him dressed in business casual, an open-collared shirt and chinos, holding a black nylon laptop case in one hand. Mike, putting down the magazine, smiled and got to his feet. Though Bobby was more than six feet tall, Mike towered over him. He shook his cousin’s hand. I’m not a bridegroom anymore. Not for some time.

Yeah? Then why am I renting a tuxedo for some black tie affair next Sunday afternoon at the Cotillion downtown? The invitation said wedding reception.

Mike shrugged. You know how mothers get when their children elope. They feel we’ve gypped them out of a basic entitlement. So, we get to do it all over again on Sunday. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and the bride will change her mind.

Bobby laughed. Oh, sure, that’s going to happen. What’s with the uniform? I thought the semester was over.

Mike looked down at himself. He was dressed in summer Class A’s, short sleeve, an open-collared shirt, pressed blue pants and shiny black oxfords. His blue flight jacket, the captain’s bars catching the light, and his flight cap with the silver thread along the edge sat on the adjacent chair. The semester is over. I’ve got a bunch of sophomores going off to summer camp next week and I have to brief them on what to expect and how to behave. I’m going back to the University after this.

What are you doing here, anyway? You have a meeting with Uncle Gabi?

No, no. I’m meeting with, who is it? Yeah, the technical documents manager, Louise Raditz. Wants to talk to me about smoothing out some machine translations of operating system manuals in Japanese.

That’s right. You’re fluent in that shit, aren’t you? Bobby laughed. I barely got through high school Spanish. What time is your appointment?

0900 hours.

9:00 A.M.? You’ve got time to kill and Louise will be late. Route 128 is blocked in both directions further north. A tractor trailer turned over by Route 9. Big tie up. Heard it on the radio coming down here. So, let me buy you a cup of coffee in our cafeteria. Bobby walked over to the lobby receptionist’s counter, a large oak-covered expense with an off-white Formica top. The receptionist, a young Latino girl wearing a very tight, low-cut blouse, gave Bobby a very bright smile, large, white teeth in a brown face. Rosario, you’ve met Captain Asher, here? Rosario nodded, giving Mike a dazzling smile. Well, I’m taking Captain Asher for coffee in the cafeteria. When Ms. Raditz comes in, will you have us paged? Rosario nodded.

Bobby put his arm around his cousin’s shoulder, after Mike picked up his jacket and flight cap, and directed him through a set of automatic doors. What do you think of our little Rosario?

Mike shrugged. Pretty girl. Is it allowed for her to wear those types of clothes at the front desk? She’s exposing a lot of flesh there.

Bobby snickered. One of the thrills of getting to work in the morning, little Rosario and those generous boobs of hers.

Mike grimaced. Yeah, sure, if you say so.

Mike had come home on leave almost a year ago today, he and his twin brother, Mark. Home from the terrorist war, hunting al Qaeda in Afghanistan and places farther afield. Home, together for the first time since graduating the Air Force Academy six years before, to attend the baby naming of their newborn niece, Barbara, their sister, Jenna’s, daughter. The first morning home, Mike had met Aviva, a distant cousin just arrived from Israel, and, as was the rule among the men in his family, fell in love and immediately proposed. Aviva, much to his delight, had accepted. As marriage and constant special operations tours of duty were not compatible, Mike wanted to resign his commission and become a civilian. Through the connections of his father’s good friend, General Charles R. Cross IV, USAF, OC Home Command, Mike was persuaded to stay in the Air Force, and take a position as an assistant professor of Aerospace Science teaching ROTC cadets, at Massachusetts Commonwealth University, MCU, where his mother taught. Professor Barkin, his Aunt Nira – not really his aunt but he had called her aunt for as long as he could remember – chairperson of the university’s foreign language department, had taken him on as an instructor in Far Eastern languages. Mike taught courses in written and spoken Japanese and ran two language lab tutorials in spoken Mandarin. He kept his pay as an Air Force captain and put his language skills to use. They moved in with his kid sister, Katrina, at the family apartment building near Brookline Village. Aviva went to work for Mike’s Uncle Avi, Bobby’s father, as a bilingual administrative assistant. Mike bought the old Volkswagen micro bus that had been in the family for almost three decades, from his father. Mike and Aviva settled into domestic tranquility.

Over the Christmas break, Aviva and Mike went to Israel to visit her family. Aviva’s mother, Ronit, was Mike’s mother’s first cousin. Mike had met her and her husband, Eric, many years before when Mike’s family had returned to Israel when Mike and Mark were thirteen years old.

In Israel, Mike and Aviva decided that they should get married right there, right then. Mike’s parents were planning a large wedding for him and Aviva but Mike did not want it. So, one afternoon, a cold rainy day in Haifa on Mount Carmel, they stood under a Chuppah with a rabbi, with Aviva’s family looking on, and exchanged vows, sipped wine and Mike broke the glass. The newlyweds spent a few days, a sort of honeymoon, visiting Kibbutz Susita, on the slopes of the Golan, on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, where his parents had met and married and where Mike, and Mark were born. His grandmother, Pnina, the only member of the family who still lived on the kibbutz, was in Florida visiting his father’s mother, Helen.

Mike and Aviva visited and stayed with the Rossis, Liora and Joe. Liora had grown up with his mother. Joe had served under his father during the Yom Kippur War. Their oldest daughter, Gail, was married to Mike’s cousin, Doron, an orthopedic surgeon practicing south of Boston. Mike spent the days picking oranges. Aviva worked with the toddlers.

Their first Friday night back in Boston, they sat at Mike’s parents’ dining room table with two of Mike’s sisters, Magda and Katrina. Both girls knew of the elopement and were waiting to see their parents’ reaction. Mike, during the chicken soup, winked at Katrina sitting across from him, reached into his pocket and slowly slipped a gold wedding band onto the ring finger of his left hand. His father, Ben, watching the exaggerated pantomime while sipping his soup, cocked an eyebrow. Katrina suppressed a giggle. Magda, sitting next to her, poked her in the ribs. Mike’s mother, Dafna, in deep conversation with Aviva – they spoke in Hebrew – was attracted by the light reflecting off the wedding band. Dafna stopped in mid-sentence and gave her son one of those intense blue-eyed stares that would slice steel. What did you two do? she asked looking at Aviva and then back at Michael.

We got married in Israel, Mom. Mike replied. Didn’t want to wait all the way until June.

I see, Dafna said. Does that mean that the June wedding is off?

Well, Mike shrugged, it seems sort of pointless now that we’re hitched.

I see. The blue-eyed stare returned with even more intensity. Michael, do you know how much money has been spent on this wedding so far? Deposits for the room, the caterers, the florist, the band?

Mike grimaced. He reached for Aviva’s hand under the table. Gee, Mom, ah, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.

Ben started to laugh. Dafna made a face and then started laughing, too. Mike looked at Aviva, puzzled and then at his sisters, who were also laughing. All right, he said, what’s the joke?

Katrina, between fits of giggling, said, They already knew you eloped.

How? Aviva asked.

Aviva, do you think your mother could possibly keep a secret like that? Ben smiled. She was on the phone to us the day it happened.

And you all knew? Mike started to turn red. He looked at Katrina and then at Magda. You two double scammed us, didn’t you?

Magda shrugged and smiled. Gotcha, big brother. She stuck out her tongue.

Of course, Michael, it still does not solve the problem of what to do about all the money that has already been spent. The stare was back.

Don’t sweat it, Sweetie, Ben shrugged. I’ll find him something to do and he can work it off. Janitor, washroom attendant.

Thanks, Pop. You’re not helping.

Oh, I don’t know, son. Then again you can get married again. There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t walk down the aisle twice with the same woman.

You want us to go through with the big wedding?

Ben looked at Dafna. See. I don’t care what his brother says. He’s not that stupid. Ben smiled at the happy couple. Your mother and both grandmothers want to see the two of you under the Chuppah. Not to mention all your relatives and friends. Come June, the two of you will do it all over again. Are we clear?

Mike squeezed Aviva’s hand. Yes, sir.

Good. Ben stood up and went to the sideboard. He pulled out a bottle of cognac and placed it on the table. Pouring a small amount for each person, he walked behind the newly married couple. He kissed Aviva’s cheek and squeezed his son’s shoulder. As you know, Ben said picking up a snifter. I don’t usually drink but tonight is a special occasion. To Mike and Aviva, to a hundred and twenty.

Six months later and the big wedding was around the corner. It did not concern Mike much. His mother and his Aunt Batya were taking care of all the details. All he had to do was show up with his hair cut and his shoes shined. No sweat from his point of view.

Mikey, I want to introduce you to Josh Reisman, our production manager. Josh, this is my cousin, Mike Asher.

The Chairman’s son? Josh Reisman was short and round with thick lens black glasses. Mike nodded and smiled. They stood in the company cafeteria with broad glass windows. The view faced northeast across Route 128 toward the Blue Hills. The northbound side of the highway was a parking lot. Trucks and cars at a stand still as far as the eye could see, the sun glittering off countless windows. The southbound traffic was sparse. I’m honored, Reisman proffered his hand. Mike shook it. Your father is a very great man.

Thank you. I guess he is.

Do you have a few minutes, Josh, to give Mikey a tour of the automated production line? Bobby asked. I’m sure he would be very impressed.

Reisman shrugged. Sure. It’s really quite something and I say it with all humility. Come, it’s this way.

Mike followed Reisman and his cousin through the cafeteria toward a double wide set of doors opposite to where they had entered. People stopped and stared. They must have made a sight, the short and round and the tall and lanky. Bobby seemed to know everyone. He waved and said good morning to everyone they passed.

Is there anybody here that you don’t know, Bobby? Mike asked.

Bobby laughed. I’ve been working here since the place started back when I was an undergrad at Babson. It’s like a big family, like our family.

How long have you worked for Blue Hill Computing, Josh?

Me? Well, formally, I’ve been here nine months. I was an applications engineer for Susita Robotics and designed and helped install the automated production line. After we got it up and operational, BHC made me this excellent offer to stay on and keep it running.

So, you know our Aunt Tsippi?

Dr. Rosenzweig? Sure, sure. A very, very intelligent person. Knows more about automated systems than all the rest of us combined.

Mike smiled. Tsippi and his mother were best friends, grew up together on the kibbutz in the same class as Liora Rossi. She was married to his Uncle Dan, his mother’s third oldest brother. Her sons, Jimmy and Jerry, shared the apartment across the hall with Bobby and Bobby’s two brothers. Aunt Tsippi was a brilliant woman, reputed to be the best robotics designer in the country. Mike had always considered her a little cold, a lot like his mother.

They came to another door. Reisman swiped his identity card through and then punched a five-digit code on the adjacent key pad. A light went green over the door and Josh pushed the door open holding it for Mike and Bobby. They entered a brightly lit corridor that bordered the production area. The whole right wall consisted of floor to ceiling glass panels.

Josh pointed to two women dressed in white plastic robes, their hair under plastic caps with goggles and masks. Each sat in front of a microscope with a tray next to them. With gloved hands, they picked up what appeared to be a narrow square, presumably a computer chip, and placed it under the microscope. They then turned to a computer key board and typed something. Placing the chip in a special holder, they tapped the key board and what looked like a printer head made a pass across the chip. Each chip was placed again under the microscope and reinspected. The chip was then placed in a special cup and the cup placed on a conveyor belt.

As you’re probably aware, BHC makes massively parallel 64-bit super computers, reputed to be the fastest computers in the world.

What’s 64-bits? Mike asked. You’ll have to excuse me if I ask some dumb questions but I’m not up on the technology. I was a political science major at the Academy. I use a computer like I use a car. I put the key in, start it and put it in drive. Don’t care much about what goes on under the hood.

Reisman nodded. That’s okay, Mike. The concept is pretty easy. Information is encoded in a series of zeros and ones, zeros mean no current, one, there is. The computer you have at home reads thirty-two zeros or ones, thirty-two bits, at a gulp. How fast is your home computer?

Mike thought a moment. Three point three gigahertz, whatever that means.

Yeah. That means your computer eats thirty-two bits at a rate of three point three billion gulps per second. Pretty fast. Our chip eats data at twice the bit rate and the gulp rate is very fast, a lot faster than a home computer. Each chip could make a personal computer perhaps two orders of magnitude, maybe a hundred times faster, than the machine on your desk at home.

Wow! That’s impressive.

Reisman smiled. Yes, and on top of that, we make the computers operate with multiple chips, multiple processors. These computers can chew through a lot of data very quickly.

What are these women doing?

Ah, this is the only part of the process that is done by hand. The chips come in by air freight from the manufacturer.

You don’t make them here?

Josh shook his head. We design them here but they’re made by a specialized chip fabricator out in Silicon Valley. It’s far less expensive that way. As it is, these chips are difficult to manufacture. The yield is relatively low. It’s my understanding that for every sixteen chips produced, only three are actually any good. The chips are very expensive.

How much do they go for?

A lot. I don’t have the figure but they’re not cheap. The two ladies do a visual inspection for any damage occurring during shipping. That rarely happens but better to be safe than sorry. They then print an identifying label on each chip. Each chip has a unique number so we can track it throughout the whole manufacturing process. They recheck the chip to make sure each chip has been correctly labeled and the labeling process did not damage the chip.

Reisman moved them ahead to the next production station. A robot arm took each chip and placed it on a small pedestal-like structure. We put each chip through an extensive testing process. We start slow and then we crank it up. Mike saw one chip, at the end of the line being diverted to a spur. Reisman followed Mike’s stare. That’s one that didn’t pass. We put a red dye spot on it to signify a failure and then we ship them back to the manufacturer for a refund.

Do you fail a lot of chips?

Less now than we used to. The manufacturer is continually improving the process so yields are improving and failures are declining.

Bobby laughed. Speaking of chip refunds, just settled a case with our mail shipper. We sent back a shipment of bad chips and it went missing. Shipper picked it up and lost it. Lot of money involved.

How do you lose a box of chips?

Bobby shrugged. Who knows? It made it into the truck but never made it to the shipper’s Boston depot. Might have been theft. Don’t know.

I was wondering, Josh, Mike continued looking at the chip testing line, what could you use such a powerful computer for? Not for word processing.

Reisman laughed. And e-mail? No, no, no. Weather forecasting, database farming, nuclear research.

Really? Nuclear research?

Sure. Can do all sorts of highly complicated simulations in real time. Had a physics professor come through here last week. Dr. Yohar was giving her a personal tour. She was very enthusiastic. Told me that with such a machine, one might someday see the face of God.

She wasn’t about so high, Bobby measured a height below his chin with his free hand, long, reddish brown hair under a beret, long, loose blouse and a long skirt? Wore a butterfly pin on her blouse?

Yes, that was her. Had a hyphenated last name. Do you know her?

Mike looked at Bobby and they both laughed. That was Mike’s cousin, Shoshi, Professor Asher-Stein, head of the physics department at MCU. Mike’s father’s favorite niece.

Really? She’s your cousin? Humph.

It would seem to me, Josh, Mike continued, that you guys must be doing one hell of a business.

Yes, we are. Business has substantially increased over the last several quarters. The government is buying a lot of our machines. As a matter of fact, our biggest machine to date just got shipped out to the Pentagon this morning. The government contracts are both a blessing and a curse.

A curse? Why is that?

The Feds are pretty restrictive about who is allowed to buy these machines. We have to file for permissions from the Export Control Board at the DOD every time we sell a system to anyone outside the North America Free Trade Zone. And there are countries to whom we are not allowed to sell. Like Israel, for instance.

For heaven’s sake, why not?

Josh shrugged. I really don’t know. They’re on the prohibited list. We’ve had groups of Israelis come through here on tours over the last six months and you can literally see the drool coming out of their mouths. It must really pain Dr. Yohar, him being an Israeli and all that.

Before Mike could reply, an overhead page broke in requesting Captain Asher to call an extension number. Ah, Mike said, Ms. Raditz must have arrived. Is there a place that I can make the call?

Sure, sure, Reisman nodded. You can call from my office. It’s at the end of the hall. They passed other sections of the production line behind the glass windows. Robot arms moved back and forth, data racks full of cards moved on computer-controlled dollies. Lights flashed red, then green. Horns beeped. Electric motors whirred.

They pushed through double doors into the production staff offices. A crowd of people stood around a television set hung on brackets on the far wall. Somebody seeing Reisman waved him over.

There was a huge explosion in the Callahan Tunnel just a few minutes ago, the person reported, a tall, pimply faced kid with long greasy hair tied back in a pony tail. Started a big fire. They’re talking about a lot of casualties. The Callahan and Sumner Tunnels were the main access points to and from downtown Boston to East Boston and Logan Airport. They traversed underneath Boston Harbor.

Oh, my Lord!! Reisman exclaimed. Was it terrorists?

The kid shrugged. They don’t know. Too early to tell. They said maybe a fuel truck caught fire and exploded. Fire trucks can’t get close. Too many cars in the way. They’ve closed the Sumner Tunnel as a precaution. Rerouting everything through the Williams. The Williams Tunnel was the third harbor tunnel, opened in 1996, the connection between it and the highway was still not yet completed and tunnel traffic was usually restricted to commercial vehicles such as taxis and buses.

Does anybody know if this morning’s air shipment got through? Reisman asked of the crowd. No one knew. Reisman grabbed the tall kid. Pinky, go down to shipping and ask them to find out, would you? Run.

The television reporter stood with her back to the Boston entrance of the tunnel. Massive clouds of black smoke bellowed out of the tunnel entrance punctuated by the flashing lights of fire trucks and police cars. The scene shifted to the other side of the tunnel, the East Boston end. The barricades separating the Sumner tunnel and the Callahan exit were being removed allowing those motor vehicles stuck at the tollgate to turn around and head up the ramp, back into the airport and then to the Williams Tunnel. The reporter announced that Logan was not shutting down and continued normal flight operations.

Mike turned to Bobby. I’m going to have a problem. Aviva’s family is coming in this afternoon.

Yeah, that’s right. Well, you could try the Williams, or park Downtown and take the Blue Line. Or maybe the water shuttle from Rowe’s Wharf. That’s expensive but it’s fun.

Another page asking for Mike blared from the overhead speaker. Bobby walked over to a cubicle, picked up a telephone handset and dialed. He spoke briefly into the phone. Come on, he said to Mike, your appointment is getting impatient. I’ll walk you over there. Hey, Josh, thanks for the tour. I’ll see you later. Josh, his attention glued to the television screen, waved. The governor had just come on and was about to make a statement.

Bobby escorted Mike out of production and into a bewildering maze of corridors. Mike tried to fathom where they were but gave up trying. A few minutes later, Bobby delivered him to the front of Louise Raditz’s door. He shook Mike’s hand. Good luck. I should go and do some work myself. I’ll see you back at the house tonight.

Yeah. Tonight. Thanks for the coffee. Mike knocked on the door. The door was opened by a short middle aged woman with steel gray hair. Her eyes widened as she looked up, and up, at Mike’s uniformed figure taking up most of the door opening. Ms. Raditz? Mike smiled. I’m Mike Asher. Sorry that I’m late. I was getting a tour of the production facility.

My goodness, you’re a giant! Louise Raditz exclaimed as she stepped aside to let Mike enter. Mike had to stoop to get through the door. The office walls were covered with flow charts and diagrams. The desk and table were covered with stacks and stacks of papers and loose-leaf notebooks.

Consequences of having a tall father and a very tall mother, Mike replied. The documents’ manager cleared off a chair and Mike sat down. He noticed that even sitting down, he was still taller than she was standing up.

I should apologize to you for being late myself, Raditz said handing him a card. Mike handed her his card in return. The southbound side of 128 was totally blocked. Had to take a bunch of side roads to get down here.

Mike nodded. I heard that. Big accident near Route 9. Did you hear about the explosion in the Callahan Tunnel?

Raditz nodded. It came over the radio just as I got here. Very strange, ah, Mr., ah, how do I address you?

Oh, Mike looked down at himself. I’m a captain in the Air Force. I teach a couple of ROTC classes at MCU. Just call me Mike, Ms. Raditz.

Okay, and I’m Louise. Fine. I’ve heard some very good things about you, Mike. A friend of mine over at HP-Compaq in Maynard, Cesar Topario, holds you in great regard.

Ah, yes. Did some translation work for him a couple of months ago.

How do you come by your translation knowledge, Mike? Obviously, it’s neither cultural nor ethnic. You don’t look East Asian.

Mike laughed. No, Ma’am. Not oriental at all. He shrugged. Always had a facility for foreign languages. Have an older cousin with the same ability. I can learn a language almost by osmosis. I majored in Far Eastern Studies at the Air Force Academy, spent some time at the Air Force Language School outside San Diego and did a lot of work in East Asia for almost six years. I’m totally fluent in Japanese, Mandarin, Cantonese and Korean among other things.

I find that amazing. Most people can barely speak English.

I suppose that’s true. My twin brother barely got through French in high school. On the other hand, he’s much better in math and science than I am.

A twin brother? Is he as tall as you?

Mike nodded and pulled out his wallet. He handed Louise a picture of him standing with his brothers and sisters and his parents taken a year ago. We’re all fairly tall. My sister, Jenna, the one holding the baby, is the shrimp. She’s only 5'10. My sister, Maggie, is as tall as Mom and Katy, the youngest girl, is as tall as my father. Carl, the baby, is as tall as Dad but he’ll be taller. He’s still growing. My brother, Mark, and I are about the same size."

Louise stared at the photograph. That’s the chairman, she said. You’re Ben Asher’s son? I should have realized. Same last name. But you don’t look anything like him. She handed Mike the picture.

Mike laughed. None of us do. We all take after Mom. Tall, dark hair, steel-blue eyes. You didn’t know I was related to Ben Asher? Louise shook her head. Actually, that’s a relief. Mike said putting the picture back in his wallet. I was afraid my father or my Uncle Gabi put you up to this meeting.

No, no. I had no idea. Your name came up when I asked around for someone to translate English into Japanese. Excellent translation, rapid turn around.

Well, good. Mike’s smile broadened. Then what would you like me to do?

Ah, yes, well. We’re getting the go-ahead to export systems to Japan. We ran the operating manuals through one of those machine translation services. We had used them before when we needed to translate stuff into German and Spanish with excellent results. We sent samples of the translations off to our sales office in Tokyo. They came back to me saying that the translation was virtually unreadable. I decided that we better get somebody in to help us. Here, take a look at these. She handed him two sheets of paper. One was in English, the second in Japanese, the equivalent machine translation. Mike read the English first and then the Japanese. He grimaced. Ouch, he said, I can see why they were not happy. It’s pretty bad. The syntax is horrible.

Can you help?

Mike nodded. Yes, though quite frankly, it might be faster, and less expensive for you if we throw out the translation and let me translate from scratch.

I don’t understand.

Well, to clean up this translation, I would have to first read the English for content, and then read the Japanese and edit the text to get it to conform to the intent in English. And if this is an accurate representation of the quality of the translation, this is going to take much longer than simply correcting grammar or substituting a word here or there. Whole sentences and paragraphs need to be replaced. As such, it would be far quicker for me to just read the English and translate on the fly. For this type of translation, where I don’t have to worry about the literary nuance, and just make the wording functional, I usually average about 5,000 words per hour. The gating factor is my typing rate. I’m fairly good at about 100 words a minute.

You type in Japanese?

Mike nodded. I have a Hiragana, Katakana keyboard. Ah, Japanese has three alphabets, Hiragana and Katakana, about 200 hundred letters apiece, which are phonetics based and Kanji based on Chinese ideographs with over three thousand characters. I usually type in Hiragana and Katakana. Words that have been adopted from foreign sources as, for instance, computer words are written in Katakana. My program will read the Hiragana and if it comes across a phonetic Kanji equivalent, will ask me if I meant a specific Kanji character or perhaps give me a choice of several if there are conflicting or overlapping meanings. After I finish a section, I print it out and proof it for typos and things, just like one would do for an English manuscript.

Wow!! That is something. Louise thought a moment. From a stack of items behind her desk, she pulled out a jewel case containing a CD-ROM. She handed it to Mike. Mike looked at the label. It was the system operating manual. When can you start?

Mike made a face. That’s a problem. This week is sort of shot. I’m getting married Sunday and there’s a lot of family activities this week.

Married? Aren’t you already wearing a wedding band?

Yeah. We eloped last December. My parents insisted that we go through another ceremony and reception for all the relatives. This Sunday’s the big day.

Well, then, congratulations. Where are you going on your honeymoon?

Not really taking a honeymoon, at least not now. I have to report Tuesday morning to Otis AFB on Cape Cod for four weeks of ROTC summer camp. Part of my duty commitment. We’ve rented a house near Old Silver Beach in Falmouth. After that, I’ll be free for about two months until the semester starts in mid-September. I can start working on it now and try to make some headway, and depending upon how long it is, should have it completed, or most of it completed, by then. Can you wait until September?

Louise nodded. For a good translation job, yes. Are you sure you want to start now? It does not sound like you’re going to have much time.

Not a problem. It will give me an excuse when the family gets too much. I’ll just excuse myself and lock myself away in my office.

Louise laughed. I see. Fine. What else do you need from me to start?

Well, let’s see. A purchase order agreeing to the rate as outlined in my e-mail will be helpful. We invoice you monthly for work in progress. Oh, yeah, and I’ll need a contact name if I need an explanation about something I’ve read but not understand.

The purchase order is not a problem. I’ll send your cousin, Bobby, an e-mail. If you run into something you don’t understand, contact me. My e-mail address is on the card. She stood up as did Mike. They shook hands, her small hand lost in Mike’s much larger one. Louise wanted to escort him to the lobby. Mike, looking at his watch, and deciding he had time, asked instead to be directed to the executive suite. He wanted to say hello to his Uncle Gabi.

Is Dr. Yohar your Uncle? Louise asked as they walked down a corridor.

Ah, not really. He’s Bobby’s uncle. Bobby’s mom, who is married to my mom’s oldest brother, is Aunt Sally’s older sister. My dad allegedly introduced Sally to Gabi on the kibbutz where my brother and I were born. Uncle Gabi served with my dad during the Yom Kippur War or something. Mike shook his head. Quite frankly, Louise, all of our family relationships are complex. It’s hard keeping track of all the people I’m actually related to, let alone the ones I’m not but am anyway. I’ve called Gabi and Sally, uncle and aunt, all my life. If it wasn’t for Aunt Sally and Aunt Naomi, I think we would have starved as children. My mom, as smart as she is, was never one for spending much time in the kitchen. Even when she tried, her cooking was horrendous. Aunt Naomi and Aunt Sally lived in the same apartment building with us. Used to go over there to eat all the time. Aunt Sally always had cookies and cakes ready for us.

They parted at the door to the executive offices. Mike pushed his way inside. The area was nicely appointed in dark wood paneling and muted art work of New England scenes. The woman at the desk, middle-aged but very smartly dressed, stared at him.

Hi, Mike smiled. I was wondering if Dr. Yohar was available? My name is Mike Asher. I’m Dr. Yohar’s nephew.

Do you have an appointment, ah, Mr. Asher?

It’s Captain Asher, Ma’am. I don’t have an appointment. I was meeting with someone else in the building and thought it would be only polite for me to stop by and say hello, seeing that I was here and all.

The woman nodded. She dialed a number and spoke softly into her head microphone. Mike looked around for a chair and was about to sit down when Gabi Yohar came bustling down the hall to greet him. Uncle Gabi, in his early fifties, was of medium height with a receding hair line. Aunt Sally’s cooking had landed solidly around his waist. Michael bent down to receive a kiss on the cheek and an embrace.

Michael, it is good to see you, Uncle Gabi spoke English well but with an Israeli accent, you’re looking well in the uniform. Reminds me of your father. He turned to the receptionist. Rita, do you know who this very fine looking Air Force captain is? This is one of Ben Asher’s twin sons. The one who is getting married next Sunday.

The woman’s eyes opened wide and she blushed. Perhaps she was embarrassed that she did not recognize the boss’s son. While Gabi Yohar was president of BHC, Ben Asher was the largest shareholder in the privately held firm, one of several technology companies that he owned.

What’s with the uniform, anyway? Gabi asked.

I have an ROTC briefing after this. They get all upset if I show up in a T-shirt and cut offs.

Gabi laughed. Do you have a few minutes? Good, come on back then. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda? Mike shook his head. Mike was introduced to several executives who seemed enthusiastic in meeting him. Gabi ushered Michael into his office, a relatively large affair with desks and work stations and tables and chairs. It was a corner office with large windows overlooking the Blue Hills. Mike realized that they were two stories above the cafeteria. The northbound side of Route 128 was still a parking lot.

The flat screen television was on a news station showing smoke still pouring fourth out of the Callahan Tunnel. The sound was on mute. Gabi noted where Mike was looking. You heard about the tunnel explosion? Mike nodded. Bad, very bad. They think the tunnel has collapsed or may collapse. They can’t tell yet. Nobody can get near enough to find out. Gabi walked over to his desk and turned off the large display screen on the credenza. Working on the design of the next generation chip. He smiled. I’m glad your father has not been greedy and taken us public yet. I can spend my time developing product and application. If we were a public company, I would be obliged to spend all my time talking to shareholders and Wall Street analysts. This way, I only have to speak with your father and we do that over a plate of lox and eggs Sunday morning at the Heights Deli. Though this Sunday, it will be different. So, how are you doing? Getting nervous?

Oh, come on, Uncle Gabi, Mike laughed. I’ve been married six months. This is just to please to my mother. It’s no big deal.

No big deal for you. Your Aunt Sally is driving herself nuts and me, too. The right dress, the right shoes. And the girls. This is no big deal is costing me a small fortune. Gabi and Sally had four daughters ranging in age from twenty to eight.

Mike shrugged. I’m sorry, Uncle Gabi. I tried to spare everyone the bother but Mom wouldn’t have it.

Gabi laughed and squeezed Mike’s arm. It’s all right, Michael. I’ve been looking forward to this day since the day you were born. Though, who would have thought that you would have married one of Ronit’s daughters? Gabi shook his head. They’re flying in this afternoon, aren’t they? Mike nodded. It will be good seeing Eric again. Your father-in-law is a very good guy, Mike. Always was. Your mother-in-law, well, I keep remembering her as a teenager. Looked like a shorter version of your mother. Used to give your parents fits trying to keep her line.

I never understood that. Why were my parents responsible for Ronit? Where were my grandparents through all this?

It was Ronit’s father who asked your parents to be in charge. Didn’t think your grandparents were up to the challenge even though they had raised five children themselves. But Eric tamed her. There’s a lesson there. The quiet guys who play piano win out all the time.

They spoke for a few more minutes. It was getting later. Mike, who always enjoyed talking with Gabi, reluctantly had to announce that he had to leave. How are you going to go to the campus? Uncle Gabi asked as he walked Mike out of the executive suite and down into the lobby.

Mike shrugged. The Expressway is probably a parking lot. I figure I’ll cut through the Blue Hills down through Milton to Lower Mills and then Morrissey Boulevard.

Probably the best way. Well, tell Eric and Ronit I said hello. There’s that cookout at your parents’ Wednesday night? Well, we’ll be there. They shook hands.

Mike stood in front of the classroom, hands on hips in the best Air Force style, finishing his briefing to the twenty-five eager faces who sat in a three-row semicircle around the speaker’s podium. Look, the bottom line, ladies and gentlemen, is that you really have nothing to worry about. You all have passed the minimum physical training requirements, you all know and can run the drill and are well versed in military courtesy. This is not going to be a marine-style boot camp with drill instructors screaming at you. We have every confidence that you will do well.

Michael paused and then looked at four cadets who sat together near the front right, two men and two women. That’s all true except for the four of you who have volunteered for the special operations training camp starting at Otis next week. That is going to be a bit more rugged with a lot more strenuous PT. There will be less drill but a lot of time over at Camp Edwards next door learning tracking and jungle lore though how one learns jungle lore in a scrub pine forest is beyond me. Yes, Cadet Woodruff?

Cadet Woodruff, a small, compact blonde, a criminal justice major, stood up, Captain Asher, are you going to be at Otis at this training camp?

Mike smiled. Yes, I am, Cadet. But to answer your next question, I do not know if any of you have been or will be assigned to my flight. Most probably not. But not to worry, Cadet. The four of you have worked hard to be accepted to this training. It is the goal of this training to challenge you, pull out the best from you, not to break you. I am positive that you will all do well. Is that all, Woodruff? You’re still standing.

Ah, Captain Asher, sir, Woodruff started to blush, ah, the class wanted to know, sir, was if you were getting married, sir? Pardon the question, sir. No offense, sir.

Did the class want to know, or did you want to know, Cadet Woodruff? No, you don’t have to answer that, cadet. Yes, for the general information of you all, I am getting married, again. As you all know, Aviva, Mrs. Asher, and I were married in Israel over inter session. We’re doing it again for family and friends on Sunday at the Hotel Cotillion in the Back Bay. Mike paused and looked at them. If you want to come and attend the ceremony, you are invited, but cadets, this is a black tie event. The ceremony starts at 1300 hours. If you do decide to come, I expect that you will be properly attired and be properly behaved. A four-star Air Force general, General Cross, he is in charge of home command, will be in attendance. He is an old friend of my father’s. They served together in Vietnam. If any of you embarrass me in front of the general, you will not survive the first week of your junior year. Is that understood? They all nodded. Woodruff still stood.

Now what is it, Woodruff?

Sir, but are you getting married in uniform, sir?

Mike started to laugh. Actually, that’s a good question, Woodruff. And the answer to that is yes. Are we through, Woodruff?

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

Good. If there’s nothing else you will find your grades for this class posted on the office bulletin board after lunch. All right, class officer, dismiss your unit.

The class officer, a tall, lanky black kid from Dorchester, stood up, called the class to attention and then dismissed them. Mike watched them file out of the lecture hall. He smiled. They were all good kids and would all someday make good officers. Mike left the lecture hall and walked across the corridor to the Air Force ROTC office. He handed the Chief Master Sergeant a sheet of paper. Here are the grades for my sophomores, Sarge. I promised them you’d post them after lunch.

No problem, Captain. I’ll record them in the master roster and then get them up. Looks like they all did well, sir.

Yes, Sarge. They’re smart kids. They all did fine. Well, I’m off. Have to hand in the grades for my language courses. Have a good summer, Sarge.

You too, sir. And congratulations on the wedding.

Thanks, Sarge.

Mike left the ROTC building and walked over to the language building. He walked down to the basement, passing the language labs, and entered the foreign language department office. Loretta, the department secretary, sat at her desk typing something into her computer. Hi, Loretta, Mike said taking out his grade sheets and placed them in the in-basket designated.

Hello, Michael. Loretta smiled at him. Professor Asher called to remind you to make sure that you pick up your in-laws at the airport this afternoon.

Thank you, Loretta. As if I’d forget and she could call me on my cell phone. Mike’s mom held a dual appointment in the Education School and the foreign language department in English as a second language, ESL. She taught prospective teachers how to teach people how to speak English as well as taught a few classes of English herself. She was also in charge of advising for international students. Mike had been drafted to advise about thirty East Asian students as he was fluent in their native tongues. Well, you know how your mother gets, Michael.

Yes, I know, Loretta, especially when I don’t check in with her first thing in the morning and get my daily orders and reminders.

A voice called out from the inner office in French. Is that the little Michael Asher complaining about his mother again?

Mike rolled his eyes and replied in the same language. Yes, it is, Aunt Nira. It’s me though I am not so little. Not any more. Mike stuck his head in the office doorway. Aunt Nira, Professor Barkin, sat at her desk, her feet up, reading what appeared to be a racy French paperback. There were two naked women on the cover. Aunt Nira was in her mid-forties. Small, pretty and looked much younger. Her family nickname was the Munchkin but Mike would never dare call her that, at least not to her face. I see we’re catching up on our smutty reading, Aunt Nira.

Nira looked up from her book and smiled. Just doing research. She switched to Hebrew. Had another ROTC class, I see.

Yes, but now I’m through until next week. Aunt Nira, do we have to keep playing this game? It was fun when I was little but it’s sort of giving me a headache now.

Nira switched to Spanish. Come, come, Michael. It keeps your mind agile. Your Hebrew has gotten much better.

Thank you but the credit should go to my wife who forgets her English every time she gets excited or gets pissed.

Nira laughed. So the bride’s family is coming in this afternoon? She reverted to English. Mike sighed with relief.

Yes. The whole crew.

Ah, Ronit. Nira smiled. It will be good to see her and Eric again. It will be like old times.

You and Ronit roomed together, didn’t you?

For a couple of months during the war when we were in high school. Then Lenny and I got engaged and I moved in with him. Then Eric moved in with her, and my friend, Gila. She stared at the wall and laughed. Those were strange days, Michael. Strange days.

There was a knock on the door. Nira’s husband, Dean Barkin, Mike’s Uncle Lenny, stood at the door. Michael. Nice to see you. I was going to invite my lovely wife to dine with me at the faculty dining room. Would a young foreign language instructor like to join us?

Sure. If we can keep the language to English. I’ll be more than happy to join you.

And you, Professor Barkin? Can I entice you away from your dirty French books?

Of course. Nira got to her feet and stood next to Mike. There was a time, she said looking up at him, when I was taller than you.

Yeah, Lenny said with a wink, when Michael was two. Come, Munchkin, and you, too, Captain Asher. Humph. It’s been a long time since I’ve said that to somebody.

They were seated at a corner table with a view of the inner harbor. Mike could see a pillar of smoke rising from beyond the horizon. The fire in the tunnel still blazed. Lenny would have liked to have ordered the steak but a look from Nira made him change his order to the schrod with the baked potato. Nira ordered the French onion soup, and the Quiche Lorraine. Mike settled for a cheese burger, medium rare.

Michael, Nira said in reply to his question, I’ve been married to him for almost thirty years and I still do not understand this fascination with baseball, especially Red Sox baseball. And this animosity toward New York is totally unfathomable.

What about the Yankees, Michael? Uncle Lenny asked with a wink.

They suck, pardon my language. Any school boy knows that. If you sat there with my Aunt Naomi, you would learn the game. She really understands all the nuances.

"Michael, do you know how many times I’ve sat through a game next to Naomi and heard her explain the nuances of the game? Your mother and I? Your Aunt Tsippi and I? Makes absolutely no sense to any of us. And it’s boring to boot. Hockey, now that’s a game I like. Speed,