Mach 16

By June Marie Saxton

Traveling at the speed of angels, Mach 16 is a compelling sci-fi adventure that will make you wonder, Wait, is this real?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504955096

June Marie Saxton

June Marie Saxton is chiefly a wife, mother, and grandmother, but she truly enjoys her career as a nutritional consultant as well. June Marie owns Bear Necessities of Montpelier, a nutritional clinic and day spa, where she provides creative concepts for healthy living. She loves and serves easily, being forever fascinated by other people’s traits, culture, and talents. June Marie plans on writing until the fun wears off. “If it’s not fun I won’t budget the energy for it,” she says, “Although I don’t see my writing passion fading any time soon.” June Marie has authored eight books: Dancing with the Moon, Beckon, Into the Second Springtime, Pirate Moon, Emerald Fire, Ball Baby, Veil of Azure Sequins, and Mach 16. She was instrumental in getting her father’s manuscript published, Whirlwind on the Outlaw Trail, by Dale B. Weston. June Marie is currently writing Confessions of a Redneck Witchdoctor, which is slated for a 2016 release.

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 June Marie Saxton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/14/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5507-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5508-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5509-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015916663

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to my cousin and rocket scientist, Wayne M. Davidson, for sharing information pertinent to this story. I have respected his genius since he was four, and I was nine, and he tutored me in long division! Our carefree childhood adventures are stamped with golden embossing on the pages of my mind.

Special thanks to my darling niece, Brittney Weston, for caring enough to read and respond. Also, my heart-felt appreciation to Diane Bethers and Nancy Bartschi for our office reading days, and lastly, my sincere gratitude to Jana Saxton and MaryAnn Barker.

I appreciate Shannyn S. Davis for the cover design and photography. Her skilled, artistic, detail is unparalleled. Her patient ability to physically produce the abstract ideas of my mind is magical. Also, special thanks to Casey Saxton for the design and upkeep of my websites, www.junemariesaxton.com and www.bearnecessities.us.

A shout-out to the Historic Wendover Airfield Foundation, for preserving the legacy of patriotism and sacrifice, and most of all, my undying admiration goes to the brave men and women of the greatest generation. My fascination with the flyboys runs especially deep.

As always, my love and appreciation to those who read me! I’m not getting rich doing any of this, but your enjoyment is paramount to my own definition of success.

And greatest of all, I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for allowing me to dream about beautiful things when I sleep.

All chapter quotes for this book were found through these internet sources: Brainy Quote, Wiki Quote, Wikipedia, Inspirational Quotes, and the King James Version of the Holy Bible. I make reference to research of Sandia National Laboratories, and mention The Color Code, by Taylor Hartman, as well as The Book of Mormon, although no direct quotes are used.

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Chapter One

"The question isn’t ‘What do we want to know about people?’

It’s, ‘What do people want to tell about themselves?’"

Mark Zuckerberg

H is name was Frisco Nixx, and his muscle was all in his mouth. There were only two of us in the room, but his mouth was so big I felt squarely outnumbered. I supposed he might be quick, like most wiry guys, so I kept quiet. I checked my phone, pretending more interest in my messages than I felt.

The tangerine-vanilla scent of a woman brought my head up long enough to confirm, that yes, Frisco and I were no longer the only ones in the room. She sat next to me, nodding slightly as she did so, as if to make a cool introduction without utterance. Frisco Nixx leaned around me to check her out, a move so obvious I felt embarrassed for him, and I dropped my gaze back to my phone.

Shhhhweeet, Frisco exhaled, misjudging her.

Easy tiger, I’m taken, She said without even glancing towards him.

Easy Rita, the man countered, You might like a tiger.

Her refusal to reply did not show weakness. She crossed a lean, tan leg over her other one, letting her foot swing back and forth. I found the motion to be nearly hypnotic as a shiny red high heel caught my peripheral vision every half second. The action only lacked sound to be a metronome.

Frisco slumped like a bored, defeated teenager, but he had to be thirty-something. His legs stretched out in front of him while he locked his hands behind his head. I don’t even know why I’m here with you stiffs.

I didn’t know why I was here either. What was expected? Anything? My invitation had come in the mail a month ago. Really, had it been that long? I calculated the days, quickly remembering the agonizing discussions I’d had with Willow.

It’s such a gamble, honey, I’d said at least twenty times, but at least twenty times more she’d answered, "But the money—we can’t turn it down. You have to go."

And then I’d quit a perfectly stable job, a move which terrified me. This could be the lucky break Willow’s fortune cookie predicted, or the complete Armageddon of my financial successes.

Breathe, the woman said, and I didn’t know to whom she directed the comment, Frisco or me. I had been so lost in my thoughts that my body language might have said anything. There is only certainty in dying. Living is another story; at least if you do it right. Her words dripped with silken self-assurance.

For the first time I looked directly at her. She was very attractive, but not in a plastic, commercial way. Her mouth was prettily shaped, and smile lines near her eyes portended a degree of pleasantry. I suddenly panicked! What if this was only an interview and not an actual job? Any man would lose while parrying against this particular woman. She was too sure, too strong. I frantically replayed the offer which had come, straining my memory for such a loophole in fine print.

How long have you been waiting? She asked.

Oh, an hour—maybe three, Frisco answered before I could speak.

The door opened behind us. High heels tapped against the polished tile as another female tentatively walked to the scant row of chairs. Hi, she called, camouflaging her discomfort beneath a perky facade. My name’s Magnolia Sweet. Daddy named me that so when the teacher took roll the class would hear, ‘Sweet Magnolia,’ on a daily basis. If you can’t tell—I’m a southern girl."

Shhhhweeet Magnolia, Frisco Nixx repeated, taking a shine to the sunny, southern girl. He slid down a chair, opening a spot between us.

She came across as down-home as fried chicken, but when Magnolia sat her posture was stiff, and she exhaled a shaky breath. But I just go by Noli; who can abide a four syllable name? Mag-no-li-a? And I much prefer being called Noli to Mags or Maggie—and that seems to be the natural inclination of folks. She paused, hoping for something out of the rest of us, and when she was met with only quiet she launched into more conversation. "I mean, it’s not that I have anything against Maggies either—I adore every Maggie I know! It’s just that it doesn’t fit me."

She seemed to talk with her whole body; being so animated that even her golden curls sprang to life as she spoke. "There were three Maggies in my fifth grade class, but I wasn’t one of them! No sir, I wasn’t, and I was quite proud of the fact that there was only one Noli!"

The woman sitting to my right finally said, Don’t worry about it. If you’re Noli, great; I’m sure none of our feelings are hurt because you don’t want to be a Maggie.

Well, the nervous southerner prattled, "It’s not that I don’t necessarily want to not be a Maggie, it’s just that I—"

I wanted to cover my ears. We were stuck with a nervous talker! Must she fill the void with her unnecessary explanations? Just then the confident woman to my right said, "Please—just be who you need to be. We are not seeking further explanations, and we have come quite unprepared to interrogate you."

I smiled, but Noli’s face dropped dejectedly, and she fidgeted with her hands. Frisco Nixx leaned around Noli and me to size up the woman at my right. Damn Rita—take it easy.

Listen, she’s not Maggie, and I’m not Rita.

Frisco countered with a hissing sound, but the room fell quiet after that, with only the self-assured woman’s nervous foot doing the talking. Thoughts must have been loudly drumming in Frisco’s head because his hands played his thighs like bongos. I felt slightly bad for the chatterbox, the How ya’ll doing, sit down and have a glass of sweet tea Noli. The conversation buzzing between her ears must have been loud and annoying.

Chapter Two

An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.

Charles Dickens

I had given up on any new job prospect by the time the hot Nevada sun rested against the horizon, searing the desert landscape with an odd, burning beauty. If I was still here in the morning I would witness a Utah sunrise, because the small community of Wendover straddled the state lines. The Utah side of the town seemed shabby and depressed. Nobody needed a map to see where the state line cut through town—the large casinos of Nevada did that. They loomed, impressive, and well-lit, taunting the Utah businesses like spoiled, rich brats.

The town was so small that the casinos and businesses primarily lay on the main strip. I stood south of there, on old military property near the po-dunk Wendover airport, Decker Field. It was almost laughable—in fact, it was extremely laughable, until we went inside the small building. It served not only as a municipal airport office and ticket counter, but as a museum of sorts. I learned there was more history to this place than met the eye.

In the late 1930’s, Congress appropriated funds for a bombing and gunnery range. Since the community of Wendover, Utah, only boasted 104 citizens, there were plenty of wide open spaces. In fact, the shimmering Salt Flats of Utah made the perfect location! By 1941, the site consisted of 1,822,000 acres; the largest site of its kind in the world.

At first only eleven men were stationed here, but they were soon joined by thirty-seven more. They set up targets on the salty desert, and made things ready while construction was taking place on barracks, mess hall, buildings, hangers, runways, and other necessary improvements. By 1943, most of the construction was completed, and the tiny town of 104 residents had been radically transformed.

B-17 and B-24 heavy bombardment training was in full swing at this point. Little cities made of salt were constructed as targets, even electrically lit for night illumination. These scenes were vivid in my head as I imagined the flyboys dropping bombs on these salt cities, anticipating their imminent debuts in the theatre of WWII.

On August 6, of 1945, the famed B-29 bomber, the Enola Gay, left this very spot, carrying an atomic bomb, destination: Hiroshima, Japan. What were the emotions of the crew? What were the thoughts of those on the ground, watching as the Enola Gay sped down the desert runway, splashing through mirages of water until it lifted into the air?

Today was also the Sixth of August…and I wondered if that was merely coincidental. This day would either prove to be a victory over my debts and obligations, or the nuclear holocaust of all my efforts to date. I again turned my gaze toward the setting sun, inwardly fearing terrible symbolism as it sank beneath the desert rim, leaving only a glowing imprint that today had ever existed.

An hour later, shadows crept between crumbling barracks, and the air felt heavy and haunted. I leaned against the corner of a shoddy building, just listening to the desert evening. I imagined lively poker games of long ago—or the sounds of envelopes ripping open when letters arrived from home. I heard laughter, and curse words, bragging, boasting, and quiet prayers uttered in apprehensive moments. I imagined the aromas of potatoes boiling in the mess hall, and the noisy clatter of trays and silverware.

I stirred from my thoughts when I heard the whine of a plane engine, but it was fleeting, and as I peered toward the puny airport runway, I saw nothing. I stepped onto the over-grown road, searching the sky to gauge the source of the sound, but no lights came into view. I chalked it up to my imagination, but the same sound clip of a whining plane happened four more times in succession.

I was so lost in my lonesome curiosity I didn’t hear the approach of shoes against the gritty soil. It’s creepy as hell out here. I jumped a good foot from where I was rooted, cursing as I whirled. Frisco Nixx grinned, holding a lighter to the cigarette between his lips. The momentary glow reflected off a broken barrack window, adding another eerie tattering to the night.

It is that, I said.

Frisco arched a brow. Well brother, I didn’t know you knew how to talk. That’s the first thing you’ve said since I’ve known ya.

I didn’t think you knew how to listen.

The wiry guy grinned before taking a long drag on the cigarette. Little curls of white smoke disseminated into the thick air, making it thicker still. You think we’ve been played?

Well—I’ve been here the better part of six hours now, with no word, and no contact. I’m standing on the outskirts of a five-casino town, in the middle of nowhere, wondering if I should pawn my watch, and put it all on red.

If my watch was worth anything, I’d put it all on black, he said. So one or the other of us would lose. As it stands now, maybe we both have anyway. That’s what I’m thinkin’. We shared a pathetic chuckle, and I realized I might have misjudged him. My nerves had been too tight all day; tight to the point of snapping.

I heard the whining plane sound again, and Frisco’s head jerked toward the runway. Nothing came of it, and his brows knit together in a troubled manner. That’s the fifth time I’ve heard it out here, I whispered.

Too much energy here, he mused lowly. There’s too much energy for a ghost-airbase to handle. He exhaled slowly, blowing smoke from his nostrils like miniature jet trails. Damn, he whispered hoarsely. I hate when the hair on the back of my neck bristles like that.

A couple of dogs began barking about five hundred yards away, across the rickety base, where two or three barracks had been converted into living quarters. I assumed Mexican families lived there—probably worked at the casinos. The town didn’t seem big enough to staff even one of the gambling halls, and these tumble-down buildings provided an affordable option to a housing crisis. One of the barracks had been converted into an auto body shop, another one or two were storage units. The majority, however, stood like forgotten headstones in an obscure cemetery—except for the one we’d sat around in all afternoon. It was neatly renovated, resembling a real estate office from the outside, and a blank canvas on the inside. It boasted neatly painted beige walls, five or six chairs, and a folding table that leaned against a portable whiteboard. Oh, and those two women.

Where’s Noli and what’s her name?

Rita’s sleeping, and Maggie’s writing, ‘I can’t believe I came to this dried up, arid, stinking place for nothing,’ on the whiteboard. I invited her to walk with me for a drink, but she said she was too depressed to enjoy it. I think she was just blowin’ me off.

This place is creepy enough, man; she didn’t need to disappear into the darkness with you. I slapped his shoulder just as we heard the ghost plane whine for the sixth time.

"It is August Sixth," Frisco whispered, squashing the spent cigarette into the sand.

You noticed that, huh?

Yes. Right now my imagination tells me the Enola Gay makes a ghost run, every year, to commemorate her day in the sun. I shrugged, thinking Frisco’s imagination was as good as a real explanation. So, do you even have a name, stiff?

Emerson Slade, I said, extending my hand for a shake.

I like it, the confident woman called. It’s one of those high sex-appeal names like ‘Bond—James Bond.’ Please, tell me you’re a secret agent, Slade.

Hey Rita, Frisco said, motioning her closer. Great, now we have two stiffs in the same dark night.

"I’m prepared to strategically place a high heel about six inches below your belt if you call me stiff again, Mr. Nixx."

Go ahead Rita, I might like it.

She’s not Rita, a southern voice said, minus the bouncing enthusiasm exhibited earlier. Apparently Noli’s bubbly spirits sank with the sun. She stood in the shadows, somehow reminding me of flat champagne.

"Put a clamp on it, Maggie, I wasn’t speaking to you." So Frisco Nixx was a smart mouth—an oral agitator. I was right to have judged him that way, yet he annoyed me less than he had done in the beginning, while annoying the women even more.

I pictured the ghosts of yesteryear straining their ears to the sounds of our banter. The four of us had suddenly made the night feel very crowded; surely we put the squeeze on the shadows, haunting the hollow hurt of days gone by, with our present apprehensions.

Then we heard it all together, the whining whir of an airplane. Noli said, I’m going to ride that plane back to wherever it came from—I’m getting out of here! With exaggerated bounce, she took several steps, intending to stomp inside and retrieve her luggage, but once she realized there was no plane, she froze. Why is the hair on the back of my neck standing up? We didn’t try to answer. The sunny, southern voice quavered, Mr. Nixx, I’d sure like that drink now—but I’m positively too petrified to go for one.

Chapter Three

If the dead can’t rest in peace, how on Earth can the living?

Cheri Revai

W e bunked down in the building, barricading the door with our luggage, no longer caring to solve the riddle of our interrupted lives. Daylight would be a better time for us to sort out flight plans at Wendover’s thriving municipal airport. First thing in the morning we would hoof it back to Decker Field to beat the rush.

I lay awake, replaying the last hour. Our makeshift motel room smelled of pepperoni because someone called the town’s Pizza Hut, and they delivered.

The delivery man was just a kid, old enough to drive, but probably still illegal. His English was lacking, yet I sensed he was a fast learner. You live here? I quizzed.

Jes, for two years; I live across the street from Montego Bay, in an apartment.

By yourself?

No, I live with my family; my parents, my uncle, my aunt, my cousins, their grandma, my three sisters, and a friend.

Do you like it here? I pressed.

He shrugged, It’s nice.

Does it scare you coming down around here?

Not if you don’t rob me.

Frisco had laughed at the answer. Yeah stiff, don’t rob the guy.

Tell me—do you ever hear planes?

With a j slung onto the front of yes, he answered again, Jes, then he pointed southward, Because there is an airport right down there, and he laughed. Yeah, the pizza kid was laughing at me.

Noli stole into my thoughts with a question. Hey—who ordered the pizza? That was a good question; come to think of it, I just figured she did, judging the way she wolfed down that first cheesy slice. Frisco? Noli pressed.

Wasn’t me, Maggie.

I’m certain it was the gallant, quiet knight amongst us, the smooth woman answered in the darkness. Confess it, Mr. Slade.

"It hurts that you don’t think I’m gallant, Rita."

I shook my head in the darkness, finding my present company more entertaining than irritating at this late hour. Again the smooth voice asked, Emerson Slade?

It wasn’t me.

I felt the ripple of emotion, even in the dark. A moment to process, and then Noli said, The suspense of this is kind of fun. Now we know they fed us at least! Perhaps there is still hope of something more. When the room was quiet again, I prayed there would be.

I dreamt I was home with Willow asleep in the crook of my arm. We’d been married fourteen years, struggled through the first years of college, and tiny rentals, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Tierney and Hudson were born. In my dream they were only three and six, and they crowded our bed because it was thundering outside.

They’re sleeping, will you carry one back to bed and I’ll take the other, Willow whispered. She sat up, and I straightened my arm, shaking the kinks out. These little bed hogs had us both cramped and uncomfortable. I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and hit a wall…in a building in Wendover, Utah, and that’s how the dream ended, with me realizing I was laying on hard, cold tile, with my jacket wadded beneath my head for a pillow.

Someone was softly snoring in the room. I pulled my phone up to check the time. It was a little after four. I readjusted my jacket, trying to get comfortable again, but that was impossible. The tile was too hard and cold while my thoughts were too loud.

Emerson, you have to go. The money’s too good, I recalled Willow saying.

We’re not too bad off now, are we?

No—it’s not that, but look! We could pay off the house—even build a new one! And you could retire if you wanted to.

A new house? We just built a new house! That was half of my worries, how to pay for the damn thing in my lifetime. But I’d be gone for a while—I’ll miss the kids’ soccer season, Tierney’s birthday, their fall break—maybe even Thanksgiving and Christmas. Do you want that?

No, of course not, but forever after this you wouldn’t have to work so hard! And you only make it to half of everything now.

I recalled how the statement made me bristle. I tried; I honestly tried to put the family first, but my responsibilities to them extended beyond just giving my time. A living had to be secured! That was, perhaps, my biggest quarrel with Willow. She always wanted more. If I took time off, she missed the overtime on my paycheck. If I made the pay she missed my company.

So how, I had wondered, would she react to me being gone this long? That was my biggest worry, that somehow, she would unravel herself before I got home. I pictured my belongings sitting outside on the sidewalk when I returned. I could just hear, Thanks, but while you’ve been out having all these adventures, I’ve been stuck here, with the kids, and the laundry, and the PTA.

Louder than ghost planes, my thoughts and apprehensions haunted what was left of the night. I was relieved when the early pre-dawn glow filtered through the east window. I’d slept in my shorts and a T-shirt, and as quietly as I could, I dug my running shoes out of my bag. I would feel better about everything if I ran for awhile. The other three lay like corpses in the room. Both women must have become chilled by the cold tile, because they were snuggled beneath layers of shirts, pants, and skirts; whatever they’d dug from their suitcases.

The morning air of the salty desert was as crisp in the early hour as it had been hot in the late afternoon. My eyes watered at the sting of the chilly temperature as I ran. The desolate plain awakened with the pristine sunrise. I witnessed new beauty in salted crystals, grey-white sand, and faded yellow scrub. If I were to run another eight miles I’d leave the scrub behind. The Bonneville Salt Flats was other-worldly; white and flat, and no blade of grass could grow in the sheeted prairie of salt.

I ran only two miles before looping back, facing the depressed view of the town. I wanted a shower, but I’d settle for a spit bath in the small bathroom sink. I tried to enter quietly in case the others were still sleeping, but the door creaked when I opened it. Noli leaned out of the bathroom to see who’d come inside. She was brushing her teeth, or I assumed she would have smiled. The other woman leaned against the north window. She was dressed in a black skirt, emphasizing her long, tan legs. She was still barefoot. She wore a sleeveless, button-down white shirt which wasn’t yet tucked in. Her dark hair cascaded in wavy volume from a simple ponytail. Since her back was to me, I’d chanced the stare, but Frisco Nixx caught it, and a lopsided smile plastered his face.

Rita, you’re a looker, he said, either to entrap me, or test her, I couldn’t tell.

I don’t know who Rita is, the woman said without turning around. Then I realized that she was applying makeup, using her reflection in the window as a mirror.

What is your name? I asked.

Slade, I’m glad you have a voice today. I couldn’t imagine why you never asked yesterday. I simply decided you didn’t care.

Suit yourself, I said, shaking off any interest, pretended or real. I grabbed my suitcase, ready to take my turn in the bathroom.

It’s Crimson. My name is Crimson Redd. That’s Red with two D’s, same color. The upturned smile of the pretty mouth said she’d used the line before.

Crimson Redd, Frisco breathed. What a name! Damn, you’re a lot of woman.

Before you tease me further, Crimson said, applying a matching shade of lipstick, my sisters’ names are Ruby, Scarlet, and Rose. Pre-thinking Frisco’s next question she answered, All taken.

My reality couldn’t have been trippier. I stepped into the bathroom and gratefully shut the door, hoping to reconnect with my life while splashing cold water on my face. I stared in the little mirror above the sink, running a slow hand across a day’s stubble. The rough appearance suited my mood so I purposely left my razor in the travel bag.

I used my T-shirt as a towel since I hadn’t packed one. I dressed in jeans and a light-weight shirt for comfortable travel. This fiasco was taking me nowhere, and I would walk to the airport as soon as I gathered my things. Maybe if I called and begged Sloan I could get my job back. I doubted it, but maybe.

Hey Slade, Frisco called. Hey Slade, you might want to come out here!

I stepped from the bathroom to see a man’s form in the doorway. Hungry, Emerson? He asked without apology.

Chapter Four

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

T.S. Eliot

H is name was Dr. Sterling James, and he was smart. Not the nerdy, tape in the middle of bug-eyed glasses smart, but seriously intelligent. The light in his eye, the buoyancy of his step, the confidence in his speech worked like a living recommendation that we would do well to listen to his every word—and not just listen, but g rasp.

He was unapologetic on every level. He didn’t care that he’d called us from the four corners to swelter in desolation. There was no alluding to our discomfort of sleeping on a hard, tile floor. No mention of the lack of coffee, and sweet rolls, or any of those typical niceties which accompany even the most modest business trips.

He offered no excuses for yesterday’s confusion, or for the general lack of communication. But his unapologetic manner did not allude to unkindness. What it did do, was convince me of his honesty. His intentions with us would be forthright, but our own lack of preparation would necessitate patience on his part.

He drove us to Montego Bay. They have a tasty buffet, he remarked. If you can’t find something to eat, I shall gladly see you go hungry.

He herded us through the throng of Thursday