My Only Talent Ch. 37

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Dwight went through the rehearsal with the shooters. It looked like it would work, even if one of the myriad of cameras in the area caught their actions. But he wasn't ready with all his malware misdirection moves yet. One of the other techs had found something strange in the wireless router in the target's apartment. Strange as in unexplained. The firmware showed the a proper, if a little out of date version number, but the file was significantly larger than the download of the same version number available on the manufacturer's website. Something wasn't right. They needed a copy of that firmware file. Someone could perhaps do a sneak and peek to attach a serial cable and hack the router password to get it. But the risk was just too great. They looked for a workaround, but hadn't find one. Yet.

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The next morning, I was up early, energized and happy. I put my cool weather running outfit back on and walked to the recreation ground. I did my sprints and calisthenics almost joyously, pushing myself to the limit and imagining I was straining to penetrate Summer in several masterful ways. What a beautiful morning.

I explored a little bakery closer to both my place and the recreation ground. It smelled wonderful when I walked in the door. But sugary cakes and doughnuts were not all that I needed -- protein was required. Luckily, they had "filled rolls" which was somewhere between a kolache and a sandwich, which included cheese and sausage. I got two and munched happily as I walked back to my place to shower and change. Maybe I could get them started on offering Tex-Mex style breakfast tacos. Very multicultural of me, right?

I showered, and anticipating my tour of the freight yards on the French side today, I wore jeans, sneakers, and a well-worn long-sleeved shirt. The bus was right on time. We started at the Holiday Inn again, but there were only five of us going on the tour to the freight yards, so we took a small van around the service road. It looked like a dozen parallel rail tracks with several switches and sidings and another track to several big buildings. We split up into two groups and each group climbed up into the cab of a separate sleek looking electric powered locomotive to ride to France. The freight yard around us was clean and orderly, but busy with movement everywhere.

The freight cars behind us looked like big ugly rectangular bird cages filled with trucks. Several other trains were made up of what looked like half size chemical tanker cars, and others were what we called 'piggyback' cars with a truck on them instead of containers. The Union Pacific tracks along the Mopac Expressway (so called because they used to be Missouri Pacific tracks) in Austin were often full of piggybacked shipping containers, frames for trucks and SUVs or semi-trailers, and full-sized tanker cars. The civil engineers called them 'multi-modal' trains. The "Chunnel" was really three tunnels: a one way from England to France, another one way the other way, and a service tunnel with crossovers in between the two. That's where I expected to spend my time. There were separate trains designed to carry cargo, automobiles, and passengers (aka Eurostar).

The engineer doubled as our tour guide, narrating our journey. At one point, he said we were about 270 feet below the surface, and traveling at 100 mph, which made me think twice about those chemical cars. He said the pressure waves created by the big trains traveling so fast were significant, requiring pressure vents every couple of hundred meters along each tunnel to equalize the pressure and damp the waves. He also said that the friction between the air molecules and the concrete inner linings of the tunnels would heat the tunnel interior to 140 degrees F if it were not for the cooling and ventilation systems. Suddenly my freshman academic studies of Bernoulli and Carnot seemed very practical. The central tunnel was full of cooling pipes, air vents and valves. It was kept at overpressure compared to the other two tunnels, for several reasons.

The trains were all electric, powered by electrified grids overhead, but the vehicles that passed through the service tunnel had their own engines, so they could operate even during a power failure, which had happened several times. The tunnel complex needed a 100MW+ power plant just for its operation: train power, ventilation, cooling, and lighting. By the time he finished his soliloquy, we were in France. The train yards there were even busier, but not so clean and orderly. Despite the laser detectors, razor wire fences, security guards, and hundreds of cameras; dozens of unauthorized people roamed the parking areas, approach roads, and train yards at any given time. They set fires or put hazards on the road to stop trucks so they could board them and make it to the UK.

We saw several guards struggling to clear some of the migrants from the tracks. "It used to be even worse, before they shut down one of the big migrant camps. The French seem to be happy to let them slip through so they are the UK's problem. Nobody wants to go the other way. They are even talking about setting up more camps."

The driver sounded bitter, and scared. "Sometimes they try to throw Molotov cocktails on the trains so they burn in the tunnel. Sometimes, they wait and rush the guards in groups, overwhelm them with numbers so that some of them get through. My wife worries herself sick every night until I get home."

We turned around via a loop on the French side. The driver said the trains run both ways to even out the wear on wheels and tracks, which were wider gauge than the regular railroads that carried goods to and from the tunnel. I couldn't stop thinking about the mass and speed of those trains. Mass of 15 thousand tons for even a small train, speed 100 mph, the potential energy was scary huge. How about a power failure, collision and subsequent fire while you were midway along the route? I was very relieved when we emerged back into the sunlight near Folkestone.

We had the same cheesy sandwich buffet (which led me to conclude that cheese was cheaper than meat, but with some different lunch meat, at least) for lunch.

The HR guy called the roll again, handed out some schedule sheets to most of the people there, and bid farewell to everyone but me and a young guy with thick glasses and a beard named Drummond McFadden, who had been sitting in the back row. He said we should wait in the conference room for some further training. Drummond moved up to the vacant seat next to mine.

"Guess we must be the engineering contingent, in for a little extra training, aye Roberts? You're not from around here, I'll wager."

I smiled. "No, but actually my father's people are originally from Aberdeen. How about yours?"

"Oban, the shining jewel of the Firth of Lorn. How about your mother's people, eh? And where were you born?"

"My mother's people are from all over, including some Karankawa Indians, but I was born in Dallas."

"How did you ever get hired onto this little traveling show?"

"It's a summer internship. Ends in August. Then back to school at ESU in Austin."

"Just graduated from Strathclyde in Glasgow myself, mechanical engineering, with a heavy leavening of civil and naval architecture. The Chunnel just became profitable. If they build that planned second tunnel complex, I'll have a job here for the next 50 years! I plan to be running the entire operation in less than 20!"

So, he's a man with a plan. I thought I had one, too, a few weeks ago. What's that old saying? No plan survives contact with the enemy. My plan might not survive loss of contact with Suzanne. At this point a very dour and prematurely grey guy in his fifties, with an amazingly bulbous nose, marched in. "Roberts, and McFadden, is it? I am Oliver Hastings Harrison. I hope you were paying attention in your classes. I'm going to give you two snotties a first cruise you will never forget. You two may take off early for your weekend. Tomorrow is the last time you'll be off on a weekday for at least 60 days, and get braced for lots of overtime! No extra pay, though. Report to the surgeon bright and early Monday morning, and then to my office, or turn in your resignation if you don't think you can cut it!" With that he turned on his heels and marched out.

"Wow. Who was that?"

Drummond laughed. "That was a pissed off forcibly retired Admiral. He thought he was about to be promoted to Admiral of the Fleet, like his father, grandfather, and great grandfather before him. But instead, when he turned 55 they cashiered him outright". We began to walk toward the front drive where the bus would pick us up.

"He was brought in here to clean house, and he has turned things upside down in engineering. He was a nuclear submarine power plant officer, then captain, then admiral. He knows his stuff and he is tough as nails, and incorruptible, if a little eccentric. We are fortunate he is training us himself."

I wondered. "It might be good for you if you want to be here long term. I'm not so sure about me."

"He may kill us with work and study, but at least we won't be bored. If I meet his expectations it could advance me very quickly."

"Why did he call us snotty? What does that mean? Where is the surgeon's office?" He showed me on Google maps.

"A snotty is navy slang for a midshipman: newly trained officer candidates on their first sea cruise. See you Monday at 0730?"

"I ride the bus in from Wingham. Not sure exactly what time the first one gets here."

"Make it happen, Roberts. You don't want a Hastings Harrison on your ass!"

I walked over to locate the surgeon's office and Hastings Harrison's - better safe than sorry. I still waited a while for the first afternoon bus back to Wingham to pick me up. The driver assured me that early bus Monday morning would get me there by 0730.

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I got back to Wingham with lots of time to get ready for the 8 pm pickup. I made another trek to the recreation grounds and sprinted even harder, doubling my count of sit-ups and pushups. Visualizing being with Summer was a very effective motivator. My stomach suddenly realized that I might not get any actual food until 10 PM tonight, and signaled its displeasure. I stopped at the Indian place and got some lamb and rice, and the newsagents for some hard candy to tide me over.

After a shower and a change of clothes (same old blazer but new shirt and slacks, courtesy of my mother's Christmas largess) I texted Summer at the number she had given me: "I now have Friday off so can start working your party as early as need be."

She texted back almost instantly: "Huzzah! I now have two of my regular helpers out sick so need the extra time. Pick you up at noon tomorrow?"

"I'll be ready my pet."

"As will I."

Smile, Robbie.

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I took a nap, expecting I would be up well past my normal bedtime. My phone beeped its alarm just a few minutes before the driver called. He was in a nice new Audi sedan, with the steering wheel on the wrong side. It seemed to fit the road well, though, and he made good progress, taking the A2 to the M2 and using the toll lanes. He made a strange circle near Canary Wharf and got up on an elevated roadway, then into a tunnel.

Another damn tunnel. When we finally emerged, I saw the Tower of London. We then whipped around some very busy streets and stopped in an area with a surprising number of trees. He sent me downstairs near a window filled with split logs.

The place was called Temper, and it was sure a lot fancier than any BBQ joint in Austin. But they did have a big fire pit with a massive ventilation hood above it, some meat on racks, and a sign that said they sold meat by the pound. It did smell sort of like barbecue, and I detected the faint odor of roasting jalapeno peppers. That was encouraging, but that's about as far as the similarity went.

Tessa was ensconced in a booth for six that decorated in green and raw wood. I realized it looked like the old Black's BBQ in Lockhart, but gentrified and gilded. There were four people with her and one seat open, presumably for me. Tessa gestured to the middle seat across from her, and I took it. She began the introductions with the guy in the corner of the booth just to her right.

"Robbie Roberts, this is Jeremy Mignot, who makes his mark as an investor, mostly tech venture capital, but also invests in restaurants, including this one." Jeremy looked like Gene Wilder made up for that Willie Wonka movie. He was what they call here a full-on ginger, but his hair was much subdued compared to Red Tappert. He wore what I am sure is a very expensive custom suit: rich looking pinstripe fabric with a paisley vest and matching paisley tie. There was probably a matching (or more likely contrasting) pocket square, but I couldn't see it right now. He had sparkling intelligent eyes, the kind I like to see on a woman, but I also detected a mild Suzie signal, male signaling for male, for me! That was most disconcerting. But he was also signaling strong desire for Tessa. He also was too young and too white for her, unless she had a special place for a guy who was bi.

"Very pleased to meet you, Robbie!" Unfortunately, that was all too true. At least he was across the table from me.

Tessa went counterclockwise around the table to the other back corner, the person to my left. "This is Hogan Allen, one of the top solicitors in the UK, specializing in estates, trusts, and international banking law."

I nodded. I bet he'd like to have Sapiento's private mobile number. He looked quite bright, and reassuringly was signaling only for the woman on my right, who was the next to be introduced.

Tessa gestured toward her. "Rachel Park, fashion designer extraordinaire and of necessity due to the popularity of her designs, also an active investor. Unfortunately for Hogan Allen, Rachel was not signaling for him, nor for anyone at the table, including me. She was stunning, though short and very thin.

Finally, Tessa indicated the other woman at the table, in one of the outside seats. "This is Abagail Clayton Bowles, my protégé' and fellow Tattler journalist". Abagail was signaling for me, but I detected a distinctly pecuniary overtone. She couldn't possibly see me as wealthy, but perhaps as a gossip source, who might reveal something if she could engage in pillow talk with me? She was very flirty at this point.

No menus were offered, but dishes just began to arrive, presumably at the behest of Jeremy Mignot, as part owner. They called them tacos, but based on their form factor, I would call them chalupas: flat circles of carbs with stuff on top. But not exactly traditional taco toppings: crab, scallops, mushrooms, and some other stuff I couldn't identify even when I tasted it. They called the round things on the bottom tortillas, and at least they were made of corn, not flour. The hot sauce was even wimpier than at a Whataburger -- no kick at all.

Things improved slightly when they served each of us a little bowl of chili that was actually pretty good, if bland and a strange color. The next thing, that featured grilled fish laying naked on the tortillas did not seem right -- it should be wrapped in banana leaves or something. Jeremy asked if I had any requests, and I sincerely hoped he meant food, so I asked for cabrito with habanero salsa. He smiled and a few minutes later, 'smoked goat' (age unknown) arrived with what I would call habanero jam -- it had the color but not the kick. They took the seeds out for sure. Everyone ordered another round of drinks and I got a sparkling water. Then they brought out a single little dish for everyone that looked like a plop of mozzarella whipped with lime gratings and topped with little slices of the least zesty jalapenos I had ever encountered. Even the seeds had no kick. They must have been grown in an English fog rather than the sun-drenched South of Spain.

Another round of drinks followed. I stuck with the water. Tessa started a conversation, and I inferred it would take some time for the next course to arrive.

"So, you all knew of Robbie before you were introduced to him, and you have all seen him, too, but wouldn't recognize him."

They looked interested. Tessa knew her audience.

"Do you recall the tennis parties that Belinda Hatch Peters used to have?"

I noticed that she was watching carefully for their reactions. Hogan Allen looked like he had just been kicked in the balls. Maybe he had some memories from one of those parties that he didn't want to share? Rachel Park sported a Cheshire Cat grin.

Jeremy Mignot broke into a wide and happy smile. "It was a shame they stopped hosting those". He laughed. "It was a unique environment that made for some unique experiences." Some stories you want to hear, some you don't.

Abagail looked expectantly at Tessa. Perhaps this was a juicy story she hadn't shared? Tessa smiled.

"Do you recall hearing about young Chasemore Gardiner Betts losing a tennis match last January? It was Robbie who bested him."

"Good on ya'!" exclaimed Hogan Allen, perhaps relieved to have someone else to talk about. "That bespawling quisby should have been drowned at birth. "

Jeremy laughed so hard that he had trouble breathing, then launched into a story on his own. "His bride to be finally slipped from his grasp, I hear."

That got my attention. I remembered her shrill and grating Suzie signal laced with fear and loathing when she looked at Chasemore.

"She finally exhausted all her options that were decent and above board, and then she got down and dirty. There are apparently some bedrooms in Abelard's big old castle that have peepholes in the walls."

I knew that to be true, thanks to the two voyeuristic teenage tennis twins watching Peggy and me. The story was getting interesting.

"So, she arranged to seduce his best friend, and further arranged to have Chasemore watch, though one of those peepholes. She did things for his chum she had pointedly refused to offer young Chasemore, even hypothetically after the marriage, all the while loudly praising the friend's skills as a lover. She expected Chasemore to run screaming through the castle, proclaiming that he would never marry such a slut.

But..." he smiled evilly, "He had exactly the opposite reaction. He told her he had never realized how beautiful and desirable she was, and how lucky he was to have her. He wanted to marry her more than ever."

Rachel leaned forward. "So how did she get rid of him?"

Jeremy grinned. "She ramped up the humiliation, using one of the tennis parties to do it."

"How?" Rachel demanded.

"She arranged to go dogging, which apparently was something that happened on those weekends, and she further arranged for it to be videotaped. Very professionally, too, with two cameras."

Rachel was beside herself with excitement. "Go on!"

"She borrowed Chasemore's own Range Rover went to a car park nearby and picked up a dozen so called admirers. She then stripped and offered herself up through the rear window, taking them all on serially, doggie style. One camera filmed the action directly from the outside, and one inside the car filmed her facial expressions. It was HD quality video -- her face would be recognizable to hundreds of people in Hertfordshire alone. They were edited together on a split screen, and then she posted it on revenge porn site, something like "my eXXX girlfriend" and had someone send Chasemore the link anonymously, after it had been up for two weeks."

Rachel spoke rapidly "But that just turned him on even more, didn't it?" Her eyes were flashing, but no Suzie emerged from her.

Jeremy looked uncomfortable. "He wanted to be in the next video with her, to hold her hand while she did it all over again. Now she was even more thoroughly disgusted with him. She considered suicide, but someone stepped in to help. I suspect it was Abelard Peters, but I don't know. A shell corporation formed by a group of developers bought half of her family's land, after the fix was in for the local government to issue development permits, obviating the need for the marriage and the promised inverse dowry to clear her family's debts. She was free of Chasemore."