Maggie's Farm

By Clive Radford

Cody and Carolyn Redford enjoy a carefree lifestyle in Kent County, with friends Gavin and Melanie Maynard. In Cornwall, the Redfords encounter a soothsayer predicting a bleak future for mankind. The foursome then notes some unexplained changes in the behaviour of wild animals and migrating birds, giving credence to the prediction. When a terrorist outrage in South Africa leads to further major atrocities in Israel and India, détente finally fails. Global nuclear war is sparked off by an unforeseen source, resulting in the superpowers exchanging H-bomb punches like drunken boxers. In the midst of survival, Cody Redford becomes aware of the artificial insemination and incubation (AI2) programme, an initiative hatched in the Cold War years to store the sperm of prominent scientists with the objective of using surrogate hosts to factory farm children in a post-holocaust world. Though appalled, nonetheless, he resigns himself to supporting the programme, unaware of the significant down the road consequences to the nature of human life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781624204913

Clive Radford

Clive Radford began writing at school, then university but mainly through subsequent life experience.His poetry has been published in numerous poetry magazines such as The Journal, The Cannon's Mouth, Poetry Monthly, Poetry Now, Storming Heaven, Poetry Nottingham, Scripsi and Modern Review, plus in many compilations by United Press.A series of his short stories and poems have been published by Ether Books. The Arts Council has sponsored publication of his novels 'One Night in Tunisia' and 'The Sounds of Silence'. His contemporary satire 'Doghouse Blues' was number one in Harper Collins Authonomy chart and has been awarded gold medal status. It has been published by Black Rose. His spy thriller 'Zavrazin' has been published by Triplicity Publishing. It's companion sequel 'Nexus Bullet' is published by Ex-L-Ence Publishing. His three-book series 'Disclosures of a Femme Fatale Addict' is published by Wild Dreams Publishing.'One Night in Tunisia', 'Zavrazin' and 'Bullet' have all been converted into three-act screenplays.The 'Zavrazin' screenplay is under contract with Story Merchant/Atchity Productions for film production.Rogue Phoenix Press will be publishing his science fiction novel 'Maggie's Farm' April 2020, and his suspense-thriller 'Incident at Lahore Basin' October 2020.His work has a distinctive voice setting it apart and appealing to those fascinated by intrigue, and who question status quo accepted views.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Desolation

Cody Redford stared blankly at the remnants of his house, scarred by battle wounds, and defaced with pockmarks. Tears welled up as he took in the unbending gravity of the wretched sight; the fragile impermanence of life brought into sharp focus under a brooding sky with distant thunder echoing over a barren landscape.

Akin to sleepwalking into cinematic fancy, the world had shrunk into the void, bereft of sane, mortal cognition, the realisation creeping into him as if through osmosis. A once great nation, now devoid of tangible credit, left a sentiment of ambiguity and introspection nestled on his shoulder.

Cursing the structural failure brought on by self-aggrandising, Teflon skinned, anointed demigods, he knew he’d done nothing to stop them abusing the high church of humanity. Instituting feral barbarism and spouting jaw breaking edicts, they had used the ballot box as their duped factotum, their citizens brainwashed and set in a line of their choosing, their worship of the hydrogen bomb without any forbearance of its worldwide catastrophic effect. Savagely insulting and delivered in such an ignoble way, the resultant wild party tore through flesh and bone, beggared of all moral restraint.

Like running alongside a driverless express train, the cabal of devils could not stop the juggernaut they had started. All came crashing down, the cradle of civilisation destroyed, three thousand years of human upward mobility thrown onto the funeral pyre, bi-products of narrow and parochial views, higher ideals sacrificed on the altar of dark spiritualism. Comparable to blind bombardiers indiscriminately dropping bombs on the innocent, in the shadow of the event hinterland, it equated to fiendishness at its finest.

Monumental and without precedence, the epic outcome left horizons lost forever, and took few prisoners. In the aftermath, there’d be no phoenix rising rejuvenescent from its immolating ashes, no chance of reportage, only galvanised resolve to commune with yesteryear’s ghosts and angels of repose.

Blacker than black, shorn and bleached of all cellulose and fibre, with every spore and amoeba obliterated and consigned to desolation, the juxtaposition represented a far cry from the fun-filled, good times Redford once knew.

Chapter 2: Overture and Beginners

Set in 1985

Here’s something to stimulate your interest, Cody said, prodding his wife Carolyn. "There’s a White House report in The Observer."

Really. She lowered the Sunday Telegraph from the reading position, giving him her attention. What’s it about?

Reagan’s tabled a meeting with Gorbachev. Apparently, a new series of SALT talks are being considered.

God willing and the creek don’t rise. When it came to anything involving initiative from President Reagan, Carolyn had a humorous, if not cynical thought set.

Letting out a low restrained laugh in response, Cody questioned, Surely, he’s not that bad?

"Well, on the first day of his presidency, reputedly, he asked his chief of staff if he could take a gander at the White House war room. The aid told him no such room existed. Reagan replied, ‘Yes it does. I’ve seen it in the movie, Dr. Strangelove.’ She smirked. Case proven, I submit."

Based on Reagan’s penchant for simple-minded gaffes, her scathing report was undeniably true. Back home in Dayton, Ohio, Carolyn’s family had been republicans for at least four generations. Fine as a B-movie actor and confidant to Sinatra’s rat pack, they pigeonholed Ronnie as inappropriate for the exalted high office of chief executive of state, the ex-Hollywood star hardly fitting the wisdom and ability standing of republican predecessors such as Theodore Roosevelt and Eisenhower.

Deciding to goad her a bit more, he quipped, don’t sugar-coat it. Tell me what you really think. Let’s have some intellectual brio and a didactic approach applied to the subject.

Very funny, she fired off, flexing her reading matter to eye level. You should apply to go onto one of those ridiculous television talent shows, or should it be no-talent shows under the guise of a satirical comic.

Breaking into a bountiful smile, he complimented, Life would be lacklustre, if not for your down home, Middle-America humour.

She emerged from around her newspaper, her natural blonde tresses bouncing about her shoulders as she took him in. Don’t be sarcastic to your elders and betters, darling, she playfully demanded, emphasising the remark by widening her large, almond shaped, hazel-blue eyes masked behind spectacles perched midway down her nose.

Whenever Cody challenged her, Carolyn reminded him he was ten months her junior. As such, the expected requirement from him was to be respectful, though they played the ruse as a teasing game. Fleshed out with good nature and intimacy, it never lapsed into crass points scoring or indented their binding relationship. Her hawkish reading glasses magnified the thrill, making her simultaneously appear both clever and seductive.

Well, let’s have it, she jabbed. What’s Ronnie up to now?

Evidently, the White House has received a communiqué from the Kremlin. It, er...let me see— He shuffled the newspaper to the relevant section. "Oh yes, it suggests the two heads of state will have a summit meeting, and I quote, ‘...at the Hofoi House in Reykjavik.’"

Is that all? she queried, feminine guile punctuating the dismissive remark.

Collapsing The Observer, Cody glared at her. Give me a moment, and I’ll let you have the full SP.

She cast an alluring come to me look at him whilst stretching comfortably on the couch. Taking in her change of posture, he instinctively knew what was on her mind. When they were alone, Carolyn always erred towards the sexually stimulating side of her nature, the creature’s default position. When she put on an air of superiority sharpened by the domineering spectacles she wore – and only over the top of them when she was in her current mood – it always elevated Cody’s pleasure, giving him a deep, warm glow in the loins.

I’m waiting, darling, she declared.

He couldn’t help but smile. So is Christmas. Do you good to wait sometimes, my girl.

Contentedly purring like a satisfied cat, she crossed her legs. Her legs, his weak point, his oh so, delightful Achilles heel. Those endless, nylon-clad, high-heeled legs had been drowning him in passion and pleasure ever since they met. She knew exactly how to turn him on. God had made her unassailable in that domain. She’d done it many times, Cody, her willing slave, her co-partner in sexual abandon.

Flashing a quick-witted smile at him, she posed, do you want to go upstairs, or are you up to something more experimental?

Carolyn! he exclaimed before falling silent. Marvelling at the heaven before him, he conjectured, why did she choose me, an up and coming sales manager and second-rate poet, over the myriads of rich hunks worshipping her every movement? The supposition evaporated as application resumed. I’m trying to tell you something and—

Yes, she interrupted, extending her flirty sport.

Frowning, he protested, it’s very difficult to stay on the ball, when you’re seducing me. Hesitating, he kept his options open. Not that I don’t want you to seduce me, he admitted, unable to prevent himself sliding into her web.

Sniggering with expectation, she aimed a satisfied smile at him.

Sighing with pleasure, he rolled his eyes around her form, figuring it’d only be a matter of time before he succumbed to her temptress trap. Gently hitting his cheek, he recovered concentration. Later, darling, he chimed. Later.

She knew she had him but let him keep control, at least until he got to the kernel of the news.

First, he implored, let me finish what’s occurring in Reykjavik.

Giggling, she uncrossed her man-devouring legs. You have my undivided attention. I’m all yours. An insincere feint, she continued the entrancing allure, her sulk heading for unconditional authority over him.

"Stop it," he petitioned in as potent a manner as he could muster, knowing it was useless to resist. He enjoyed being putty in her hands far too much to let a piece of topical news deflect the sexual innuendo for much longer.

Seeing him wavering, she increased the magnetism, her waves of womanly enticement passing through his defences, unabated.

Holding on, he pressed his lips together in an act of defiance. Right, he warbled, retaking moderation but unable to resist glimpsing at her once more. Quivering his head, he tried for poise, an impossible task, more a gesture indicating he’d evade seduction, at least for a few more minutes.

Snapping up The Observer, he finally answered her query. ‘US president Ronald Reagan and Soviet Union premier Mikhail Gorbachev will hold a summit meeting at the famous house of Hofoi in Reykjavik October 1986. The talks will build on the success of the SALT agreements.’ He peeped up. She seemed to be listening. It goes on to say... ‘Reagan will propose banning all ballistic missiles, and Gorbachev will seek to eliminate Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces in Europe, as distinct from ICBMs. The Soviets will also propound eliminating fifty per cent of all strategic arms, including ICBMs, and probably will agree not to ask for British and French weapons to be included in the count.’

Inquisitive for her reaction, he peeked up from the report, his gaze falling on her face as she cogitated.

And I should be pleased about this for what reason? she solicited.

Tutting disapprovingly at her apparent nonchalance, Cody bug-eyed her sternly. Carolyn, this is an important issue. Be serious for once.

Lingering in her canny lair, she quizzed, are you admonishing me, my dear? her voice rich with rebuke.

No, just trying for an opinion from the spokesperson of one of the superpowers.

Yawning and stretching, she aligned her perfect body, making her full breasts jut upwards before giving him a disparaging I’ll deal with you later look.

You’ve always known I’m not a serious person when it comes to politics, she cued. Sure, I vote Republican, but it’s without conviction.

Provoking scant praise, he acknowledged, "you’re a true patriot, my dear. Shall I start singing The Star-Spangled Banner?"

"Now who’s not being serious? she retaliated. Shut up or I will bring out the correction spoon. Pausing, she twigged. Oh...I hadn’t realised this was a lead in to fun and games. What exactly do you have in mind?"

Her husband’s attempt at the mildly cynical had backfired. He realised Carolyn interpreted it to be a come on.

Opening his hands in a neutralising stance to diffuse the supposed insinuation, he beseeched, I’m sorry, Carolyn, I couldn’t resist. Please go on.

Ever the huntress, ready to make him do her bidding, she responded with a rueful yet encouraging smile. We’re talking about a global paradox, she insisted. Something not fulfilled at the ballot box. That is correct, isn’t it?

Undoubtedly, he agreed, a disgraced schoolboy expecting the cane guise consuming him.

Assuming a rare sombre mantle, she effortlessly segued out of man-baiting mode. We’re all in the hands of those governing us, she advanced. Even if everyone expressed a desire to rid the world of nuclear weapons, it’s exceedingly farfetched to see our rulers taking a blind bit of notice. He nodded in full agreement. You see, having the bomb not only results in parity with the presumed enemy. For governments, it’s also a way of mastering its nationals.

What in particular do you mean?

It suits both the West and the communist states to proliferate nuclear weapons and thereby perpetuate an agreeable tension between the superpowers.

Why?

Because it diverts public awareness from other topics never assessed, or worse, swept under the carpet.

Such as?

Oh, the economy, unemployment, social components, she began to enumerate, the price of beans, how to resolve world overpopulation, anything calling for transformation or compromise. She sat forward to emphasise the corollary. The potential threat of global thermonuclear war is merely used to veer our attention from the more everyday contentions buffeting our lives.

So...huh. Grimacing, not quite attuned to her line of understanding, he probed, what exactly are you saying?

What I’m saying is for Uncle Sam, Maggie and the communist states, it’s virtually a godsend. Something they superficially enrich to get the populace involved and to stop them ruminating about more pressing appraisals impinging on daily life government should be addressing. She cocked her head to one side, as if signifying the absoluteness of her assertion. That’s what I’m saying.

Content with her analysis, she relaxed. Fascinated by her image-breaking assessment, Cody felt dumbfounded but detected she awaited his riposte tout de suite.

My god, he blathered, his uninformed schoolboy feeling intensifying. That was impressive.

Why thank you, kind sir, she accepted. Renewing playful mode, she brought her chin close to her knees, staring at him expectantly.

Only a few months earlier, Cody had married a breathtaking siren, who apparently secretly possessed the drapery of an astute and gifted political analyst and lateral thinker. Where on Earth did that come from? he pondered. She sensed a question coming from him, but having trouble framing it, he remained silent.

Don’t forget, my darling, she incited, I did politics as part of my business studies degree at Sinclair.

Me too, as part of my degree, he countered, but I’ve never come out with anything as insightful as that. He raised his eyebrows. And I’m meant to be the clever one in the kinship.

She smiled. Never underestimate a girl from Ohio.

The smile shape-shifted into a grin of surreal wickedness. They started laughing. She got up, raised herself to her full statuesque height, moved ahead with a wiggle and stood gazing down on him, her features drenched in yearning. Withdrawing The Observer from his grasp, she sat in his lap, crossed her irresistible legs, wrapped her arms around him and smothered his welcoming mouth in a voluptuous kiss. Cody knew what was coming next, but he’d not struggle or resist.

Aphrodite, don’t fail me now, he begged.

Chapter 3: Prelude

Uncertainty hung heavy like a pregnant thunder cloud about to scatter its load.

Everybody either knew or felt something herculean hid just around the corner, waiting to alight with biblical impact, but most ignored the warnings. Lighthouse keepers and meteorologists had seen the signs. Sages and seers were having a field day. Nature prepared to be assaulted.

At Jodrell Bank, astronomers picked up alien code tapped out in the half-life of waking. Scuttling across the radio-telescope monitor in regular darts, they regarded it wistfully. Lowering their eyes in calm calculation, they contemplated what could be proffered from the quivering promises, semi-vacant and clouded.

Hearing the incoming alert sound off, they saw a new effigy, their vision shepherding a dark star, its enormity heralding the blackness of a world without windows, sleep pouring into emptiness. Was the star the source of the alien code? Soft thrills of surmise. Brooding. Anticipation heightening, their unflagging concentration became rapt by the monitor screen. Then another efficacious spectre revealed itself, its parasitic glow beguiling their minds. They watched alien code superimposed on alien code, the monitor rhythmically cluttered. Star closed on star with quixotic rage. They gasped, a gradual thickening of air constricted their throats, coiled darkness eclipsed light and seminal craze enveloped cerebration.

Distrustful of the high-tech system, a grizzled old stargazer unsheathed an ancient tarnished brass telescope, training it at the firmament. Peering through the eyepiece, his choking breath generating a dew-mist congealing on the scientific instrument, he conceded the marvel to be real. His only emotion, fear. Care lost on hot irons, the torturer’s rack. It would be soon.

Then brightness and uranic scattering burnt out the heavens in a brief, doomed, titanic flare, registering dimly on partially blind eyes. Committed to memory with photographic fidelity, a stunning multitude of pearls faded from his haunted audit, his imagination swirling in fatuous impressions, like whispered curls of fancy, full as harvest.

As the Jodrell Bank platform filled with stargazer’s dismayed mannerisms and cagey murmurs, the terrible clarity of the spectacle settled into stillness.

Was it an intergalactic warning? someone uttered. Just what did it mean?

Peeping through his brass telescope, the old cosmologist awaited the next distant encounter. He’d be long in eternity before it happened again.

~ * ~

Frustratingly, the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks agreement had been in play since 1972, but both superpowers, some say stubbornly, others realistically, refused to make the categorical final commitment to dispensing with the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. By the early 1980s, nuclear proliferation had become endemic. Many unstable, anti-superpower autocracies had either acquired nuclear technology and weapon delivery systems from nefarious sources or were close to perfecting the hydrogen bomb, internally. Consequently, neither the eagle nor the bear felt inclined to go the full stretch and declare unilateral disarmament.

In the West, though popularly called up as reasonably-minded people, CND and other anti-nuclear lobbies were nonetheless suspected by elected governments to have communists within their ranks. Likewise, virtually from the on-set of regime change, Communist Bloc countries incessantly feared counter-revolution, brought on by dissidents funded by foreign agencies. Not as simple as just two opposing behemoth ideologies, over many decades, the contest had blossomed into an extremely complex, multi-dimensional entity involving dread of insurrection from within by both the NATO allies and the Eastern Bloc.

Behind closed doors, many in opposing camps on the UN Security Council explored lateral maneuvers to achieve worldwide nuclear disarmament. Some had cogently argued the problem had steered away from Soviet aggression versus US interventionism. Those facets were well-known and conjointly regulated to conserve parity on the worldwide chessboard. Apart from a few spies on either side meeting premature ends, as far as the public knew, there had never been a single incidence of gunfire exchange between the superpowers. In more recent times, insomuch as the Pentagon and the Kremlin were concerned, the burgeoning threat to both the West and the Communist Bloc came from Muslim and Third World states, having few alliances with either superpower.

Lateral thinkers suggested the US and USSR should join forces, to ensure the emerging threats were brought into line through combined diplomatic measures and economic sanctions. Failing that, military intercession by a joint US-Soviet corpus would be the next option. Too much to swallow for both heads of state, they shelved the radical and pragmatic blueprint. Both the White House and the Kremlin had a thickly entwined matrix of covert confederations with perceived enemies, and cloak-and-dagger deals with strange bedfellows, often signed-off behind closed doors, and never made public. Although the proposition made perfect sense to strategic advisors and much of the top-ranking brass on both sides, due to the clandestine complexities, it never saw the light of day, and in the end, was forgotten.

Beyond executive layer intrigue, Western citizens could not believe how unfriendly their Eastern European neighbours had become. But it didn’t matter, the West had superior weapons, and God was on their side. For many flanking the great divide, the prospect of worlds colliding stayed superficially masked-off from urgent worry, though they sensed some global metamorphosis closed in on them.

Albeit, SALT talks had taken place in Geneva for years. Shrouded in clamorous objections and tilts at craftiness, invariably, tabled solutions were diluted with counter proposals designed to give parity. In practice, nobody gave anything away, each side conveniently ignoring the relevant passages germane to the central crux.

Deeply locked in a labyrinth of ambiguities, inextricably linked to historical and personal vendettas, the foremost protagonists avoided holistic solutions at all costs. Common accord simply did not suit their appetites. Instead, feeding on a cocktail of national fervour and-or moral rectitude, their supernumerary lieutenants did their bidding without regret or forethought of consequence. Evolving into an irresistible impulse for all political and military combatants, their out-of-control egos overrode responsible action. Crisply wrapped in deception and trickery, the tournament moved into a cursory metaphor for one-upmanship, its contestants playing up to their media-portrayed caricatures, granting them colossal celebrity status within their insular protectorates.

Preparation for global thermonuclear war had long been the arms dealer’s Klondike. Any nation could have it, if they raised the necessary cash. A simple trade of dollars for peace, deterrence and security, bilaterally intermediated by men in black hats, it had grown into the top salesmen’s product of choice, their commission package far exceeding that gained from lesser gilt-edged stock.

Whilst on business in Dallas, Cody Redford had seen American patriots parading around the entrance to DFW International Airport carrying placards proclaiming, ‘Support your country. Nuke a commie,’ the incongruous display beguiling his reasoning. In Blighty, he also witnessed every blue-blooded bank manager, estate agent, lawyer and stock broker wanted their own thermo-nuclear missile, precluding the need for Ronnie or Maggie to ‘nuke a commie’ for them. Calculating the acquisition to be a treasured status symbol, far beyond Porsche logos and plush piles in the countryside, the ability to exercise independent self-reliance far outweighed the plastic attractions of the cult of celebrity and partying in executive jets.

Such words and passions tortured Cody day and night, their obvious contradictions and implications mutually exclusive. But he kept it to himself. No need to burden others, certainly not Carolyn, with his assumed paranoia, he told himself.

To the rational mind, or to those choosing to avoid the sequel, it prevailed as virtually inconceivable that once brought to critical mass, a cricket-ball-sized warhead containing fissile elements could unleash a potency mammoth enough to destroy Kent County. Reciprocal pretence ensured its absurdity. An inferno of Dante scale proportions could never engulf the Earth, could it? Rubbish, condemned the masses, let the silly middle-classes and the bourgeoisie play their childish intimidation shenanigans.

Almost as if it had been realised by over-hyperactive minds for a Hollywood movie, the inevitability of the final conflict always transpired as far-fetched. However, for supremacy-crazed megalomaniacs, the apex warring device had become one of sciences’ simplest creations to build, operate and deliver. The logistics of demographic targeting accomplished via user-friendly command and control terminals ensured even those with limited intellectual equipment, found it very easy to master the concept. Ad modem to playing glorified Space Invaders, to them, it made the awesome clout of computer-controlled nuclear weapon systems too tempting to resist for much longer. They worshipped it either side of the International Dateline.

Once considered precious, life had gradually become fragile and seen by some tacticians to be of sub-pawn value in the grand scheme; the ace plan for ideological world domination.

Order and stability were the hypothetical tools of world leadership, but in truth, random unconnected events piggybacking on the guiding principle cast doubt on its validity. Politicians ignored the inconsistency, belittling it as background noise inconsequential to the main theme. That underestimation proved to be a monstrous mistake. Instead of governing it, they promised voters benediction as reward for their gratification, the tools of State benefits hush money deployed to ensure the nulling of minds, the policy remaining unimpeded. In the process, people were lamely sucked into an injurious, reverential way, without recourse to alternates, the rules simply not allowing it. Opportunists in the corridors of power employed a simultaneous narrative to promote the gorgeous and irresistible cutting edge whilst concealing the shortcomings of their Fabian strategies. They thrived on factionalism. It suited their blinkered itinerary and kept opponents guessing, the egocentric motif guaranteeing truth rarely crystallised, or press releases were fully-functionalised into coherent facts, meriting challenge and debate.

On Maggie’s Farm, Missus Thatcher’s rigidly formulaic foreign policy was based on notions of Western freedom verses communist tyranny and bred on material consumption increasing with productivity. Her government’s idealised and stylised electricity spun the wheels of the economy even faster, creating a massive bonus for most, so few discussed the price to be paid downstream. Lacking statesmanship depth and gravitas, the doctrinal discourse dovetailed into the over-simplistic, and as with all gospel, became inherently unsustainable. It rose on the advocacy of early adopters, peaked with fervent mass acceptance then decayed resultant from global factors beyond national constraint. Pointedly, the monochromatic view from the top of the leadership pyramid categorised all things as either black or white, ignoring the shades of grey depicting authenticity and actuality. It left little scope for compromise or negotiation, because conventionally, options were not that binary. Cast by some as an equal to Reagan, often Maggie could to be seen in the company of the American President. In fact, as with all NATO heads of state, she held plenipotentiary status, her position no more than a diplomatic ambassador, licensed to reflect US international and thereby US corporate policy.

Sounding louder from Third World quarters beyond the nuclear guild, the drum beat of contention started to earn traction. Gaining prominence and demanding to be heard, their staccato cadence of discontent and disobedience percolated international affairs. Surprisingly, the five permanent members of the UN Security Council lowered the entry bar in favour of their inclusion, but it was a blind, a ploy to buy off malcontents with palaces dripping in gold and their own private airlines, the ruling exclusive club not wanting underlings diluting carefully conceived top-table détente. Ostensibly, the stranglehold had bestowed the preeminent governors worldwide dominion, at least at the horse-trading level, Hell freezing over before overarching sway was shared beyond the big five.

Transparency had to be avoided in the name of national security. Any hint of what lay beneath the fragile facade could spread resentment, leading to calls for change, the enemy of all oligarchies and democracies. The machismo peacocks tail occasionally betrayed the big five’s real international intent, only for it to be subdued and at least partially restrained by cooperative economic and political measures. As those flexing their newly acquired power-play muscles subjugated themselves to the corrupting major-league ideal, their sanctimonious posing quickly died away. Notably, the Bay of Pigs incident pre-dating the Cuban missile crisis, Vietnam, and ceaseless instability in the Middle-East, were all sideshow storms in a teacup and completely adjacent to the expected principal bout between the eagle and the bear, should it ever come about. Such relatively localised skirmishes presented opportunities for governments to increase defence spending exponentially and defence contractors to indulge in space-age weapon fantasies. In the process, economies boomed, people got rich, but a massive blind eye was turned to the offshoot, voters discerning the dichotomy without construct of rationale criticism and with only sketchy objection. Inevitably, they were persuaded by the overwhelming positivism of the ideal. Perfecting the scam, the corrupt bribed the partially innocent through State-funded welfare; politics real opium to placate the masses.

On the global stage, diplomacy was merely a cosmetic pageant intended to evade calls for counter argument, and conveniently side-step harsh inequity. It relied on players’ ability to tread carefully on the high wire without losing balance, whilst juggling the fine margin between triumph and failure. Luck as opposed to crafted judgement played an axiological operator in the outcome of all cases. When the G-7 or the UN circus rolled into town to pronounce their edicts, it resulted in the usual media frenzy. Claiming exclusivity, each hack scurried away to phone in the breaking news, the precious collateral translating into food and drink for media moguls, enriching and broadening their influence. Bending and twisting information to suit their political taskmasters and their own commercial agendas, the newspaper and television corporate layer consummated the cosy politico-media loop. Often reversing roles and in the guise of puppet masters conducting the circus players, they vociferously poured fuel onto inconsequential embers, making them into raging fires, reckoned to thrust national fervour to the hilt. Patently, just what the circus wanted, it guaranteed their axioms were embraced and made policy. Self-perpetuating since man climbed out of the slime, the vicious circle ensured truth and political slant rarely converged.

Working as the beadledom choose, the manufactured intercontinental debacle left ordinary people slouching irreproachably towards the final conflict, never part of anything and clinging to the edge in the hope of survival.

At Cheyenne Mountain, NORAD’s threat assessment apparatus hovered at DEF CON 4. It had been up-rated from the worldwide peace setting, DEF CON 5, because the NSA had picked up intelligence traffic, denoting a disturbing situation developing somewhere in either Asia or Africa, but the source could not be more specific. Safety from surprise had been compromised, but few appreciated where it could someday lead, the circus players continuing to weave their narcissistic machinations, oblivious to misfortunes about to overtake them.

~ * ~

Breakfast in the Redford household had expanded into a forum for Cody and Carolyn to review happenings and make future overtures before the onset of work.

Stopping nibbling a lightly-buttered piece of toast, she broached, what’s your Marconi schedule for next week?

Musing, he then replaced a coffee cup on its saucer and acquainted, there’s a Future European Fighter Aircraft conference at MBB Munich followed by a Tornado IDS update with British Aerospace at Warton. Apart from that, I have some internal project audits to cover off. He peered at her inquisitively. Why do you ask?

Let’s break loose and do something impromptu, she suggested, her note upbeat.

Such as?

How about a long weekend away?

By nature, explorer Carolyn never settled on one distraction to the exclusion of other possibilities. Knowing life to be short, she figured she’d go for maximum exposure of whatever the world had to offer. Since crossing the pond to Blighty, Cody had taken her to the Cairngorms, Snowdonia and the Dales. They’d also spent weekends in Chester with his parents, York and Stratford, but in her mind-set, she’d only just begun, the discovery thirst tarried sharp and had international dimensions.

After inspecting his diary, Cody contrived, I could arrange that for the weekend of 20th and 21st July, probably getting the following Monday and Tuesday off, as well. Contentedly, he defended, not quite spontaneous, but does that suit madam?

She brimmed with elation. Pretty good, pretty neat. I knew you’d come up with something.

So, got any ideas regarding where you want to go?

Swinging around on a breakfast room stool, Carolyn tipped her head sideways. Pouting and seducing, she sent his libido into overdrive. Astonish me.

Typical Carolyn, her off-the-cuff craving for adventure and spontaneity never ceased to amaze him. New experience energy had become the cornerstone of their association, the two-way enjoyable enterprise further cementing their union. As part of her personal testing process and with little notice, she loved to put Cody into unfamiliar situations, to see how he reacted.

She’d chosen him to be her life-long soulmate, but still her selection had to be stress tested for physical and intellectual robustness. Before they married, she’d taken him to Port Jefferson, Ohio.

Don’t forget your swimming gear, she instructed before the trip. I want to see you swim the Ohio River.

Would that be the crawl or the butterfly, you need me to demonstrate? he jovially retorted.

Whatever.

Splitting to form a long island in mid-river just off Highway 16 with the shortest distance from the riverbank to the island about fifty yards, when he inspected the geography, the Ohio confrontation posed some brainteasers for Cody.

Off you go then, she uncompromisingly decreed.

What?

I want to see how long it takes you to swim across to the island.

Swimming had never been his topmost strength. Staring across at the distant objective, he uneasily enquired, any undercurrents here?

No, she wistfully assured.

Shaking his head, he then gave her a dubious simper and began the swim while she kept an eye on her dainty Cartier wrist watch timing him. Although Ohio basked in over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, the water felt icy to his tender skin.

Reaching the island, he called across to her. You coming over?

Grinning, she shouted, oh, I can hardly swim.

What? he barked.

Come on back, she hollered, beckoning him with a hand motion.

Carolyn! he screeched in a higher register, his temper rising in reaction to the