The book - 1776 - by David McCullough chronicles Washington's mistakes - his defeats and blunders in 1776. And because of that, during the nadir of the revolution, "The Glorious Cause of America" seemed doomed. Most conceded the war was over and the Americans had lost.
But Washington would not give up and would not quit. He knew that liberty was at stake. And at the end of the year, Washington went on the attack and won a great victory at Trenton on Christmas of 1776. The psychological effect of this victory was enormous and marked a turning point in the war.
One of the keynote speakers, Kevin Ikenberry, a retired Army officer, explained his idea for a novel that he had pitched to an agent:
Before the Battle of Treton, George Washington reputedly threw a coin across the river.
What if that coin was a bicentennial quarter ...?
And his idea became an alternate history novel, The Crossing.
Kevin Ikenberry has insight to the workings of the modern army from personal experience as well as knowledge of American history. Thus, he adds authenticity to this tale of what ifs.
It's a good read.
A diverse squad of ROTC cadets, men and women, training at Fort Dix, New Jersey in November 2008 are time slipped days before the Battle of Trenton in 1776.
What could go wrong?
Much.
A couple cadets lose their lives to the fire of enemy as well as an M-16 rifle. If the rifle is reversed engineered, that artifact could change the course of history.
Seeing no way back to the future, the cadets choose to recover the rifle and join Washington's army, while meeting other of America's Founding Fathers.
Dressed in 21st century winter camos, the cadets become known as Washington's ghosts. And they bring a most valuable asset, a knowledge of military history, especially the Battle of Trenton.
These cadets not only make history, but they possibly change history.
Kevin so kindly signed my book with Washington's battle cry --
Victory or Death!
The story and its ending make me wonder if there will be a sequel.
The space shuttle Challenger is up in orbit. The Reagan administration is beefing up defense to fight the Evil Empire of Communism. And the Satellite Tracking Center, known as the S*T*C, is staffing up to meet those challenges.
Then the old boy network finds itself turned upside down when young professional women, such as Samantha Clark and Rosalind Hart, breach the male-dominated mission control teams inside the S*T*C. In the secrecy demanded in the classified world, how do Sam and Roz cope with men behaving badly? Will the women or the old boys break first?
----------------------------
Newcomer Samantha Clark gets her secret clearance and moves over to the F1 shop with other trainees.
October 1984, the new hires experience their first Halloween inside the S*T*C.
----------------------------
The Players:
Planner Analyst Leads...
Dan Brackman: power hungry, money hunger lead of all F1 planner analysts
Virgil explained, “Dan and Jeff invested in oil wells. Got news they made a big windfall profit. And Dan…I heard him say, he just doesn’t want to be well off. He wants to be rich.”
“You mean rich, like Rich Kerry?” Sam returned a sidelong smile.
* * *
The last weeks of October during day shift, TAs and customers flooded into the F1 planning room. Another launch was scheduled after Thanksgiving. That kept the full analysts busy reviewing launch and early orbit command plans.
Virgil met with Dan and expressed his training concerns.
“It took a while to get the first wave of new hires certified. We need to get going on the next wave. Especially with the launch coming up.”
“I’ll be the one to decide who gets certified and when.” Dan fingered a stack of books. “And I’ll get to it as soon as I review these manuals for our latest satellite.”
“Us full analysts can help with the manuals. As well as work with the new people to get them certified.”
Dan glared at Virgil. “I’m the lead in this shop. And you don’t have to be an ass and go over my head to Isidro…like last time.”
“Okay. Okay.” Virgil backed down with his hands up. He had seen this turf war so many times in the Air Force. As a sergeant, he often did what he could to shield his men from the bullshit that came down from the big brass above.
And in the S*T*C, nothing had changed.
* * *
Ivan Frankel was back on days. Around the planning table, he had more tales to tell a fresh audience of newbies.
Except for Chuckles, who was purposely ignoring Ivan.
“I was a pre-med student once,” Ivan said, now the center of attention. “Started dental school before coming to the S*T*C.”
“Really?” Cybele looked up from her manual, half-asleep. She was paying her dues, doing her obligatory time on day shift this week. “And you ended up here. The gods must be crazy.”
“I really wanted to be a dentist.” Ivan twitched his mustache.
Sam piped up, “Can’t image you looking into people’s dirty mouths all day.”
“Now I listen to dirty mouths all day.” Ivan laughed.
Arye Cohen, the walking encyclopedia, added more facts.
“And statistics show that dentists are at the top of the list of professions that result in suicides. Up to six times higher than any other.”
“Suicides? Really?” Ivan grinned at Arye. “Maybe that’s why I was so attracted to dentistry. That and inflicting pain.”
“Sounds like you’d fit in very well on graves,” Cybele said.
“Usually, we got the worst specimens of humanity.” Ivan’s eyes lit up. “Like alcoholics. They often sell their bodies to medical schools for booze money. And they’re usually very fat.”
Sam looked at Ivan askance.
“This one woman we dissected had tons of flab on her jelly belly. To get to her vital organs, we had to dip our hands into a sea of lard. And when we got to them, they were all shriveled up—especially her liver.
“And that was not the worst of it. When closed her back up, we could not fit all the flab and organs back inside her. And we couldn’t even close the drawer, where we pulled her out of.”
“What’d you do?” Arye asked.
“We scooped out two buckets of fat. When we closed her back up, her boobs crossed.” Then Ivan got his laugh engine going again. “Only then, she’d fit back inside the drawer.”
“It’s like getting stuff back into boxes you buy at the store,” Sam said. “They never quite fit when you try to put the pieces back in again.”
“Anybody ready for more coffee?” Arye lifted his empty cup.
* * *
Cybele looked beat. Everyone did coming off of graves.
“Need some coffee?” Sam offered. “Arye’s going to make a run for us at the Satellite Dish.”
During a briefing, the crew learned that one of their satellites had gone deaf. The receivers seemed broken. The satellite was not responding to any commands from earth.
The Tiger Team was brainstorming this anomaly. On passes with the deaf bird, the crew sent commands. Just in case something would get through to command back on any of the uplink receivers.
Cybele approached Rich after hearing this problem. “I can help.”
Rich looked skeptical, but Cybele explained, “I’m psychic, Rich. I may be able to make contact with the deaf bird. She may tell me what’s wrong with her.”
“’Kay,” Rich said carefully.
Cybele sensed he was an unbeliever. But Enrique took her aside. “I’d like to see you do that.”
“Halloween on graves,” she nodded, “when the veil to the other side is thin.”
* * *
When Arye was back on days, Virgil and Ivan confided to Sam of a game they liked to play with Mr. Know-It-All.
Virgil glanced at Arye. “This guy can be really funny.”
Ivan took it from there. “So, we talk about a science topic. Like black holes or relativity or something Carl Sagan would say Then we set our watches to see how long it takes for boy genius here to get drawn in and start lecturing us about it.”
“Before that,” Virgil continued, “we guess our times. And the loser buys coffee at the Satellite Dish.”
“Are you in?” Ivan looked at Sam.
“Sure.” Sam gave them her time, which Virgil wrote down on a small memo pad. “I did a paper on black holes in college you know.”
“Perfect. You start the ball rolling, physics girl,” Ivan said.
The three analysts synchronized their watches as Arye came within earshot.
“On my mark.” Ivan lifted a finger.
Sam began, “It’s not true, Virgil, that everything that goes into a black hole never comes out, again.”
Virgil asked, “And why’s that?”
“It violates the third law of thermodynamics that nothing reaches absolute zero. Since the black hole’s not absolute zero, it must radiate something. Since E equals m c squared, it eventually evaporates—”
Arye interrupted, “Is that the case for a static black hole or a spinning black hole?”
“Seventeen seconds.” Ivan looked at his watch.
Virgil looked at his list. “You lose, Sam.”
“Oh, darn,” Sam said. “How do you like ’em?”
Virgil said, “I take mine black.”
“Me, too,” Ivan said.
“I thought you guys were talking about black holes?” Arye asked.
Ivan shrugged. “Black holes. Black coffee. Whatever.”
As Arye shook his head, Sam commented, “You look like a walking example of the second law of thermodynamics, Arye. And I’ve just increased the chaos inside your brain.”
Then Arye grew a wide smile as he shook a finger. “You guys got me. And Sam, I see you know more than you let on.”
Sam smiled back, as Arye really did have a sense of humor about himself. But Arye got in the last factoid.
“And that radiation from black holes? It’s called Hawking radiation. After Dr. Stephen Hawking—the man in the wheelchair.”
Last days of October, Sam and Holly rotated onto swings.
And Enrique eagerly followed. Holly Watson, that is.
In the mission control room, Enrique chatted it up with this beauty-in-training. Near the end of their satellite pass, Holly snapped her gum, rolled back her chair as she flung her big hair behind her.
It was like a dominatrix cracking her whip.
Whoa!
The final snapshot of vital statistics rolled down the screen. Many lines of critical data were missing. And Enrique didn’t even notice it.
The satellite pass ended. But not Enrique’s pass with Holly.
* * *
“Holly, it’s for you,” Mike Bonacelli said wearily.
Holly bustled to the black phone. “Hi, Ben my man. Whatcha been doing?” And Holly chatted away, twirling the phone cord as well as the curls in her big hair.
Mike looked at JC, who was keeping score on the white board.
“That makes eight…eight personal calls,” said Mike. “And the night’s still young. Holly really needs her own line.”
JC made the latest hatch mark. “She should get her own 900 number. Charge for each call. Make a shit full of cash.”
“I’ll check the post-pass data.” Mike volunteered, seeing JC was getting into some good reading material.
Popping two Fig Newtons into his mouth, JC looked through the November issue of Penthouse.
“Fuuuuuck!” JC heard Mike bellow from across the hall.
JC raised his eyebrows. How’d Mike know what I was thinking?
* * *
Mike called Enrique over to the planning table and flung at him the telemetry printout of the last state-of-health snapshot.
“What the hell is this?” Mike asked.
Enrique swallowed. “Looks like plain old telemetry to me.”
“Look closer, junior.” Mike held the computer printout.
Enrique gulped, again. “Looks like some data may be missing?”
“And you didn’t even notice that, you dumb fuck, when you’re with Holly on the pass?” Mike asked. “And you’re the certified analyst.”
Then JC got up and went to the schedule. “Okay, junior. You’re doing all the remaining passes tonight. And nothing better be missing.”
“But I had plans for dinner—”
“Yeah, with Barbie doll over there.” JC jerked his head toward Holly, who was still on the phone. “Next time I’ll call her hunk of a boyfriend in MCC-A. And tell him you’ve been hitting on her. Then call your girlfriend and tell her that you’ve been drooling like a love sick puppy—”
“Please! Don’t! We’re just friends.” Then Enrique looked toward Holly, who was still on the phone.
“Holly. Save me.” JC mocked in a falsetto.
“We’re up to twelve, JC.” Mike shook his head. “Chalk up twelve personal calls for Holly this evening. A new record.”
* * *
After a tour on swings, Sam had more fodder for her latest cartoons. She sketched Holly and Enrique together on the console with the captain:
How much power does it take to screw up a pass?
Punch line: One Watt, son. (Holly’s last name was Watson.)
Then Sam licked her pencil and sketched another strip.
Enrique on a pass. First frame showed Enrique flirting with Holly while missing the final snapshot. The next frame an enraged Mike exclaiming to an embarrassed Enrique: Wrong pass, Enrique!
A third strip followed, a big haired Holly chatting on the phone to one of her numerous suitors, while an irritated JC kept score. A cross Mike instructed a forlorn Enrique, looking at Holly: Take a number, junior.
So, three more episodes were added to the continuing drama, As the Satellite Turns.
* * *
After swing shift, some of the boys left with Holly for their safety meeting. They had asked Sam. Once. But she had declined.
“My husband’s waiting up for me at home,” she had explained.
“That’s why I’m glad I’m not hitched and on a leash like you,” JC had answered her back.
That night, JC and Mike met Holly and her boyfriend Big Ben at the Crow’s Nest. Holly played with the slice of lime in her drink.
“So, this is really part of work, boys?” she asked.
“Yup.” Mike took a gulp of beer. “We discuss lots of work-related things here.”
“Like safety?” Holly shifted on her bar stool. “And it’s okay to charge the company for it and stuff?”
JC grinned. “We’re most concerned about our safety…like coming down this mountain in one piece.”
Holly shrugged as she sidled up to her boyfriend. It was best to go with flow. And the boys did enjoy her company.
* * *
Wednesday evening was Halloween.
Enrique stayed after the shift briefing to rendezvous with Cybele in the breakroom.
Cybele turned off the overhead lights and sat down with Enrique at the small table by the vending machines. The room glowed with an eerie red from the light of the soda pop dispenser. Perfect.
Cybele took a deep breath. “The veil is very thin tonight, darling.”
“So, Cybele, you can get through to our sick satellite?” Enrique asked.
“Please. Call me Tatiana.” Then Cybele got somber. “And yes. I hear her…I feel her calling me.”
“But it’s a piece of space junk…not a living thing.”
“What makes you think she’s not living?” Cybele asked. “She has a soul, darling.”
“And I get what you’re saying about having a soul,” said Enrique. “I watch the Star Trek reruns all the time. Seen all the movies. But I never thought of a satellite as a she before.”
“Why not? Captain Kirk calls his starship a she. And she senses us, darling,” Cybele said. “Even though she’s 20,000 miles away.”
Cybele took his hand. They closed their eyes. They chanted.
Then Cybele shook and spoke in an altered voice. “This is Stella. I’m the one you’ve been trying to reach. And I’ve been reaching out to you, sympathetic souls. I’ve seen many things, too terrible to tell.”
Enrique squeezed Cybele’s hand as she continued channeling.
“If you saw the sadness and tragedy I’ve seen, you’d go insane with grief. Your mortal senses could not bear it. Humans bent on self-destruction like no other creature in this vast universe. That’s why I’ve gone deaf. I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to see anymore. I don’t want to speak anymore…”
Finally, the trance was broken. Cybele’s orange head scarf looked damp with perspiration.
“Why happened?” she asked.
Enrique trembled. “To sum it up, she’s had it with us humans. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil.”
“Then it’s settled.” Cybele nodded. “All our plans to command her receivers back on will fail.”
“Right, Cybele…er, Tatiana. And you got the gift.”
Cybele lifted her long skirt and showed her withered leg.
“Since I was young, I thought of the illness that had atrophied my muscles and deformed my leg. I wished so hard for a fairy queen to come and make me normal like the rest of the kids. But I heard voices say that my suffering would develop my other senses.”
“I’ll say.” Enrique’s mouth was agape. “You contacted that satellite much like Dave talking to HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. And 2010 is coming to the theaters in December. Can’t wait to see it—”
Here's a short read (it's clean) all about the F-Word. It's a fine, not foul, fable finessed from F words: nouns, verbs, prepositions, adjectives. Glossary included.
Finn French Fish Feud: The F-Word Story
by Kenneth John Anderson
This fun F-Word story was quite an exercise for the author, one of my brother's good friends and classmates from high school.
Women breaking into aerospace in the 1980s meet men behaving badly.
The action starts in February 1984, as the winter Olympics begin in the former Yugoslavia.
-----------------
-----------------
Chapter 2
Samantha
Matijevic Clark signed in at the S*T*C lobby.
Portraits
of President Ronald Reagan and Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger
hung above the reception desk, flanked by the American flag and the
Great Bear of the Republic of California.
The
guard handed Sam a lime green sticker badge with large letters:
ESCORT
REQUIRED
“Now
sit down, hon.” He pointed to the couches and chairs in the corner.
“And wait with the rest of the guys.”
“Hon?”
Sam fingered her long brunette braid.
He
waved her off and made the call to her new supervisor.
Sam
found a spot, sinking into an old gray chair. She tugged her tan
skirt down over her knees. She peeled off the backing of her lime
green badge, then stuck it on the right side of her maroon turtleneck
sweater. Then she felt overdressed as she eyed many civilian
contractors walking by her in blue jeans and T-shirts.
Her
new coworkers—John McHenry, Tan Ho, Enrique Rodriguez—sat on the
couch canted at a right angle to her chair. She had first met them
Monday, three days ago, during their orientation at the Celestia
Space Corporation (known as CSC) main office in San Matias.
John
McHenry scratched his scruffy brown beard, which mirrored his fluffy
hair. He squirmed in his blue jacket. It smelled like moth balls.
“Well,
I’ll be.” John chuckled and pointed to a boxy looking thing in
space with solar panel wings. “There’s NAGS-1.”
Tan
Ho gave John a puzzled look. “Nag…what?”
“NAGS,”
John said. “It’s a satellite.”
“What
you mean…nags a satellite?”
“N-A-G-S.
Stands for North American Geological Survey. That was their first
satellite. Went up in the 60s.”
“How
you know that?”
“I
used to work for the geological survey,” John said. “But the
recession hit. Then I lost my job.”
“I
was engineer when I lost job. Two years ago.” Tan nodded. “Had to
work for uncle as bus boy in Chinese restaurant.”
John
shrugged. “At least you had a job. Unemployment doesn’t go far
when you’ve a wife and two kids to feed.”
“Man.”
Enrique Rodriguez shook his head. “I’ve been looking for work
since I graduated last spring. Things really sucked in ’83.”
Tan
and Enrique had many common features. Straight black hair. Brown
eyes. Olive colored skin. They even dressed alike. Brown coats and
ties with dark pants.
There
were some differences, too. Enrique was stocky, Hispanic. Tan was
slight of build, Asian descent.
John
seemed to be the oldest. He was pondering the dirt under his
fingernails. Tan’s dark eyes focused on the foggy sky beyond the
big lobby windows. Enrique was thumbing through a movie critic’s
magazine.
Sam
glanced at military and astronaut memorabilia in the showcase for the
Pacifica
Air Force Station.
Home of the S*T*C, The
Satellite Tracking Center.
Then she looked up at the TV in the lobby, tuned to CNN.
The
sound was muted, but she could see game highlights. The 1984 Winter
Olympics had opened in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia, two days ago. John, Tan,
and Enrique were now chatting about those games.
Sighing,
Sam took out a pad of paper from her black tote bag, dotted with
pastel-colored hearts, and started sketching cartoons. She had taken
up drawing to keep her hands busy and stop herself from fidgeting.
In
the middle of a stroke, she heard a man loudly clear his throat. The
khaki clad guard glared at her from the entrance and pointed a sharp
finger to the sign:
NO
CAMERAS, NO RECORDERS.
Sam
shrunk into the chair. She put her pad of paper back into her tote
bag. Apparently, it also meant:
NO
SKETCHING.
-----------------
-----------------
Sam makes it through her first day at the S*T*C, then reflects about it on her drive home.
-----------------
-----------------
Chapter 17
Sam
drove down Mt.
Nauseous
in her small tan pickup truck.
Concentrate
on the vanishing point in the road ahead.
That
was the advice that Jim had given her to negotiate the many twists
and turns on the mountain road. Soon, she was back in the valley.
Then onto the freeway, heading for Santa Vittoria.
When
the traffic slowed, Sam looked up at the S*T*C, perched on the
coastal mountain range in the shape of its moniker—the Pyramid. It
was not easy to see. Painted blue, it blended into the sky. Large
white satellite dishes clustered nearby. Most denizens had assumed
they were for tele-communications: phone, cable services, radar,
whatever.
Sam
turned on the radio for news about the Winter Olympics. Instead, a
funeral dirge was broadcast. Then the lead story: Soviet leader, Yuri
Andropov, had died. He had only served a little more than a year
after succeeding Leonid Brezhnev.
There
goes another one of the old guard from “The Evil Empire.”
Sam’s
thoughts wandered to President Ronald Reagan as she
turned off the freeway onto one of the roads into Santa Vittoria.
When Reagan had used the term, Evil
Empire,
in a speech a couple years ago, he had gotten much flak from the
press.
But
Reagan’s defense build up to defeat communism was one of the
reasons Sam had secured a job at the S*T*C.
-----------------
-----------------
Sam makes it to that summer of 1984 when the Olympics come to Los Angelas as well as the coast of California.
-----------------
-----------------
Chapter 41
By
the end of July, the nude pictures of Miss America 1984 were all over
the news. Now, the first African American Miss America, Vanessa
Williams, had made another first. The first Miss America to resign,
less than a week before the 1984 Olympic Games came to Los Angeles.
“Hmmm.”
JC perused his newspaper. “Vanessa, the Undresser.”
He
raised his thick brown eyebrows as he surveyed his crew. “Now,
that’s something I’d love to see, boys. A naked Miss America.”
Ivan,
working swings the next few weeks, looked over JC’s newspaper
article and shrugged. “But you’ll have to wait for the September
issue of Penthouse
to
see her with her clothes off.”
“Well
worth the wait.” JC leered. “God bless America.”
*
* *
Four
years ago, President Jimmy Carter had pulled the Americans out of the
1980 summer Olympics in Moscow in reaction to the Russians invading
Afghanistan.
Tit
for Tat. The Russians had backed out of the 1984 summer games in the
United States. For safety reasons, they said.
Though
Los Angeles was the venue of the finals, some preliminary games were
scheduled along the West Coast. And some were in the valley.
NADS
senior analysts, mostly Jeff Ritter, Virgil Kingman, and Rich Kerry,
had rounded up some tickets for the crew—for the Olympic soccer
quarter-finals.
Sam
wanted to go with them. So, she struck a deal and offered her pickup
truck to carpool from work to the games.
*
* *
After
CSC had offered Sam a job last winter, she and Jim could not easily
get by with just one vehicle. She needed the pickup truck to get to
the S*T*C on the mountain. Therefore, Jim had gotten an old gas
guzzler, dirt cheap, for himself. But the other day, he bought a used
1976 Honda motorcycle for a cheaper and more fun commute.
“You’re
not coming with us?” Sam frowned at Jim the evening before the big
game. “These are the Olympics, for cat’s sake.”
“I
don’t like big crowds.” Jim was firm. “But feel free to see
your silly game with your coworkers.”
“And
I will.” Sam squinted at him. “But what will you do?”
“I’ll
go for a nice little ride on my new motorcycle.” And he was itching
to try this baby out.
*
* *
Some
F1 analysts gathered in the S*T*C parking lot after day shift.
Sam
looked at Enrique. “So, you’d rather see Revenge
of the Nerds instead
of the Olympics? Which comes once in a lifetime?”
“Sorry
guys.” Enrique shook his head. “Already got the tickets for me
and my girl, Diane. I’d never hear the end of it if I stood her
up.”
The
guys returned catcalls.
Then
Jeff said to Sam, “Let the nerd be with the nerds.”
Sam’s
pickup could fit many in her truck bed. But she didn’t know how to
get to the outdoor college stadium where the games would be held. So,
she asked Virgil to drive. He knew the way.
Virgil
at the wheel, Sam rode shotgun. Rich, Tan, Jeff, Austin, and others
piled in the back. They picked up some sandwiches for dinner and
souvenirs from the vendors. Sam bought a red, white, and blue
headband with stars shooting out on springs.
Jeff
laughed as she put it on her head. “You look like the Statue of
Liberty. Just need that Olympic torch and toga, girl.”
The
soccer match pitted Egypt against the United States. After the crew
settled down in their seats, officials announced the start of the
game, then a tape of the Olympic
Anthem blared
over the loud speakers.
Most
cheered for the home team. When the crowd did an Audience
Wave
for the USA, the small piece of pie that did not stand was Egypt
fans.
But
the Egyptians showed much spirit. Across the stadium, all could hear
their cheers between the blowing of ancient horns:
“Egypt!”
Toot!
Toot!
“Egypt!” Toot!
Toot!
...
Sam
spied the Egyptian flags striped with red, white, and black, centered
with the golden eagle of Saladin. And other banners as well:
The
Pyramids. Sphinxes. Mummies. The Nile.
“Shouldn’t
we be cheering for Egypt?” she teased. “We work in the Pyramid.
And our call is NILE.”
Jeff
shook his head. “Don’t even think about it, little lady.”
“But
hey. I’ve got the truck.” Sam smiled.
Virgil
said to Jeff, “She’s got you there, JR.”
Rich
Kerry chuckled. “Coming over here, I saw a bumper sticker on a
convertible, driven by a cute girl. It said, If
you’re RICH, I’m single.”
Then Rich grew a grin. “I wanted to shout to her, I’m
RICH.”
Virgil
sniggered. “While riding in the back of a borrowed pickup truck?
That’ll impress her.”
The
crew from F Troop watched the game go on and on and on. There was a
lot of running. Finally, both sides scored one point each. They ran
and ran and ran until they ran out the clock. The game ended in a
draw.
But
it was the Olympics. It was 1984. Something Sam could talk to her
mother about over the phone.
*
* *
While
his wife was at the Olympic soccer game, Jim Clark took off on his
motorcycle for the Pacifica Mountains. His bike handled the curves up
Mt.
Nauseous
very well.
But
he was passed by another biker in black leather. A guy on a Harley,
who rode like Evel
Knievel.
Jim
was too faint of heart to ride like that. He cared too much about his
life and limbs and his wife and his cat. And he was over thirty.
*
* *
Ivan
the Terrible passed some nerd on a Honda as he wound up Mt.
Nauseous.
He was working swings and had been taking a long break in the valley,
having dinner with his wife.
Then
JC called Ivan. Their manager, Ed Pennington, had paid them a
surprise visit in the S*T*C. JC told Ed that Ivan was working out
during his dinner break. Then JC pretended to call the gym and called
Ivan at home, while assuring Ed that Ivan would come up after he had
showered and changed.
JC
is a son of bitch.
But
he covered my ass and bought me some time.
No
one liked a snitch.
-----------------
-----------------
And that's the way it was back in 1984.
To learn more about a day in the life of a mission control team in the 1980s, please feel free to check out:
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