In the desert you can hear the heat. It sounds like a soft breeze or a bit like surf breaking on the shore almost out of earshot. The scorching sun sets and leaves the heat in its wake. It’s 112 degrees here at Shamballa. The animals sleep during the day. I spot a cat that has crawled into a corner outside of the airfield mess hall with its kittens. It’s a stray and it lazily watches the kittens play with a dead leaf as if it were some great toy. Yes, youth still has exuberance in heat. Some more cynical than I, might say it is a lack of wisdom and experience which makes them frolic and expend energy needlessly, but I will grant that sounds like analysis from someone a bit envious of that seemingly limitless energy.

I watch them for a moment before I load up my Marauder with gear. The kittens are true
scaredy-cats and as I walk past them they freeze, with terror in their eyes and then they bolt with clumsy little leaps so typical of kittens. Cute, but I find it strange that I cut such a menacing presence. Not domesticated tabbies that’s for sure.

I stop watching the kitties as I hear Tech7 call out.

“Don’t scare those poor kittens! They’re barely a few weeks old!”

Tech7 walks up, looking more gorgeous than ever. Her eyes lock with mine and I hope that the inner jolt I feel from her is not translated into any visible shudder. She looks me right in the eyes and her gaze doesn’t wander - a trait I admit I find both compelling and unfortunate - if only for the reason that I am drawn to match her gaze and can’t appreciate the rest of her when I do so. Eyes are windows to the soul and when ours lock I feel almost naked - as my inner most feelings are as readable as an open book.

“Yeah like I was scaring the kittens. The little wildcats bolted as I walked past them.”

I am hurt by her accusation, perhaps only mildly but the suggestion that I am out to scare the daylights out of kittens is something akin to saying I like to kick dogs. I don’t like to think she envisions me capable of such stuff.

“I was joking. Relax.”

Damn it. I am emoting louder than the winking-smiley emoticon, broadcasting my emotions like a inner city youth with a pair of 15” subwoofers in his slammed Honda.
It used to be easier to deal with her, but I find myself more and more tongue-tied. I long for the days of our rhetorical chemistry. I know I am suppressing my desires and it’s making our conversations stilted. Next thing you know I’ll be talking with her about the weather or the mess hall food.

“Tech1 we need to talk.”

Oh God. This is it. She’s letting the genie out of the bottle. I’ve been putting off this talk for months. Are we ready for a workplace relationship - or more?

“You’re right...we do need to talk. But is this the right place?”

“Of course it’s the right place, my cousin is visiting from Omaha and you’re assigning our schedules for next week aren’t you?”

I blew it. I really blew it. She’s going to figure out what I meant in just a moment. Why couldn’t I have kept it professional! I can’t help myself though. These thoughts keep racing through my mind and I simply can’t detach myself from them.

“Wait a second...what did you think I wanted to talk about?”

Here we go. Do I deny with a poorly constructed and transparent lie or reveal how hopelessly in love with her I am?

Oh jeez. I can’t do it.

As her superior officer - I simply can’t. It breaks all the rules. I’d risk being a poster child for Tailhook III and possibly ruining whatever friendship we share if she does not feel the same.

“Oh, I thought you wanted to get out of this heat and come to my office, where a mini-fridge with nice cool cans of soda await.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it is kind of hot out here. You aren’t wimping out on me now are you?”

Oh yeah. I’m wimping out - big time. If there’s a bigger weenie on this base it would be leaped on by the Guiness folks for their book or sliced, diced and hawked by Oscar Mayer and served with relish.

She’s rubbing my nose in it, but she’s keeping the game alive. Bless her. I really do love her so!

“Some things get too hot to handle, sometimes it just feels like one has to cool down a bit.”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

She’s good. Real good. She’s a pro.

Du-tah-la-tu-du Du-tah-la-tu-du

My cell phone is a blessing. I retrieve it from my back pocket and flip open the cover in one smooth movement. Kirk could have done no better.

“Tech1 here.”

“It’s me. We need to talk. Urgently. Get on a plane and meet me at Lemuria at 2200 hours.”

The voice is using a scrambler and though it sounds somewhat like Freddy Kreuger, I have a suspicion it is someone who loves to wear gray suits.

“I’m on my way.”

“Tech7, will you join me for a quickie?”

“I’d love to. Where are we off to now?”

“Just another lost continent.”

I grab my bag back out of the Marauder’s trunk. Tech7 effortlessly jogs over to the locker room and I get the control tower on the horn. One of the stick jockeys will be prepping our plane as we change.

When fast arrivals are required we have a certain amount of discretion in the form of transportation used. Normally, this would be a simple flight but we recently received a wonderful new toy, a MIG-31 Foxhound, a two seater. Spoils of the recent Iraq war? A gift from Putin? Perhaps. I can’t confirm or deny anything about this plane except her specifications. Capable of mach 3 unarmed, I am told she is the only bird of her kind flying a US flag in the world. The engines put out as much thrust as our new F-22 Raptors and with some fine work by Tech2 and others - the SDAI team has already eliminated the runaway engines problem which would often burn out when one went faster than mach 2.8. Apparently the limiters were faulty letting pilots kill the engines and do short bursts of up to mach 3.2.

Tech7 returns and we are walking towards the aircraft on the tarmac. It is a beautiful plane. Not a B-58 Hustler, but its angled lines are more attractive than most MIGs. We climb up the ladders. The cockpit is slate gray with a black seat.

“That’s a big stick.” Tech7 says with her double entendre’ not going unobserved.

“Yes it goes right between your legs.”

She laughs. I place my helmet on and get ready to apply the unparalleled thrust.
To my right is a series of white toggle switches and in front of me is the “Flash Dance” radar array and another twelve white sensors. After getting used to the new 8 screen tiered LCD displays in the F-22 stealth fighter, this appears old-fashioned, almost archaic.

The noise is deafening as the two 35,000 pounds of thrust engines come to life. If it weren’t for the specially designed flight helmets, it would be unbearable, as it is it is simply very annoying. Taxiing toward the runway is not hard at all and the plane is making all the right moves. They have been kind enough in maintenance to re-label all the important gauges and controls. To the left is all the familiar and important instruments and it takes only a glance to check all of them quickly.

“Santa Maria 478 you have clearance for take off.”

I rev the engines to speed. I grit my teeth, turn on to the runway and get aligned. With an application of throttle we are traveling fast and we hit Vs quickly. In a moment we are aloft and the sense of power one can feel in these engines is indeed heady and intoxicating.

“Ahhhhh. Russian technology at it’s finest.”

“Seems to me you were a bit unsure of yourself.”

“It’s new territory for me...I suppose one could say it’s virgin territory. Russian vacuum tubes and I are not that familiar yet.”

The desert looks like a bunch of rocks and sand from this height. Shamballa is completely invisible and one would practically have to use GPS to try and find the runway.

We hit mach 1 and then mach 2 and I know someone, somewhere down there is going to be complaining. I throttle back at mach 2.6 because the vibrations are unfamiliar and it feels like there’s a harmonic resonance issue at various points above mach 2.

Lemuria is a high security compound and Presidential retreat all rolled into one. Ever since Mount Weather was abandoned various crisis and rally points throughout the US were developed. Lemuria is somewhere west of Texas and East of Hawaii.

“That was fast. Boy when you said quickie...you meant quickie. I thought this would last a bit longer.”

“This was just a warm-up. The real excitement will begin after we land.”

“This bird is just for play, eh?”

“You could say that.”

I have to smile to myself. Tech7 is an expert at the verbal sparring and she is laying it on thick after I practically wore my heart on my sleeve for her to play with.

I land on the carefully prepared tarmac that looks for all intents and purposes like a road in the middle of nowhere. The runway is twice regulation length for this type of bird and I can land casually without concern about running out of runway. In a moment, I spot 6 or so security vehicles converging on our plane. Suburbans, Hummers and Excursions of various degrees of serious modification and weaponry are tracking us. I realize now that perhaps flying a MIG to Lemuria was not exactly kosher and glance to the panel to make sure our ‘aftermarket’ ID beacon and transponder are working and transmitting.

“I turn off the runway and into a large disguised hangar. One of the Excursions is leading the way. Radio silence is observed so as not to provide any information for increasingly sophisticated scanners. Scanners and operators which, when teamed up to measure signal strength, can pinpoint busy locations even if they cannot unscramble messages.

I release the hatch and it slides back. The MIG has definitely gotten us here in short order and in one piece to boot.

Tech7 is already climbing down as I am removing my harness. A Lemuria security team surrounds the plane and is wielding serious firepower. I also recognize some of the combat suits we tested a few months ago with new red, white and blue shoulder patches being the only distinguishing difference.

One of the security team scans our retinas on the spot with a portable high speed scanner.
“Your identification appears to be in order. Welcome to Lemuria Tech’s 1 and 7. Please take the elevator to your left.“

“You heard the man Tech7...An elevator awaits.”

The elevator is one of those with a slightly too fast descent. After the rapid altitude ascents and descents of the MIG though - it seems barely noteworthy.

Another security guard greets us as the doors open and leads us down a long featureless hall. The bank vault silence is disrupted only by the clicking of shoe heels on the polished floors.

A hundred yards later a sliding doorway opens to our left as the security guard slides his cardkey through the nearby wall scanner.

“The man sitting at a desk needs no introductions, but I wanted to give Tech7 time for her to collect her jaw.

“Tech7, I would like you to meet the President of the United States. Mr. President, this is Tech7.”

“It’s an honor to meet you sir.”

“The honor is all mine. I have read of your accomplishments and achievements - this country owes you a thank you and I get the privilege of extending that Thank you personally.”

Bush extends his hand and Tech7 takes it and curtsies. She is on auto-charm mode.

“Now if you don’t mind waiting here for about twenty minutes - I am going to pester your boss for awhile.”

I knew she was not on the invitation list, but brought her nevertheless. It is my way of rewarding her for her recent undercover mission. She holds enough clearances and so I don’t think a federal case will emerge out of it.

I follow the President into the adjoining room and see that a small desk has been set up with a cornucopia of gadgets a leader of the free world might like to have handy.

“You make a cute couple.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Give me some credit - I can spot two dreamy eyed lovers when I see them.”

“Well...”

“Well nothing. She’s exactly the sort of woman you need. Someone who you can share things with and not worry about who will hear them.”

Leftfield. Completely. I didn’t expect this from him. It is hard to know what to say.

“Thank you for your advice. I agree she is very special. However, like other soft and delicate creatures if you look as if you are after them - they bolt.”

Bush sits down at his desk. His right boot goes up on the desk and then the other rises up and crosses it as he leans back in his chair.

"Well then your approach is all wrong. Always let the soft and delicate creatures come to you. You'll find that thay stay longer.

Now let’s talk about a special mission...shall we?”