Norcross, GA Sol III

1447 EDT March 16, 2001 ad

Michael O'Neal was a junior associate web consultant with an Atlanta web-page design firm. What this meant in practice was that he worked eight to twelve hours a day with HTML, Java and Perl. When the associate account executives or the account executives needed somebody along who really understood what the system was doing, when, for example, the client group included an engineer or computer geek, he would be invited to the meeting to sit there and be quiet until they hit a snag. Then he opened his mouth to spit out a bare minimum of technobabble. This indicated to the customer that there was at least one guy working on their site who had more going for him than good hair and a low golf score. Then the sales consultant would take the client to lunch while Mike went back to his office.

While Mike had fine hair, he played neither golf nor tennis, was ugly as a troll and short as an elf. Despite these handicaps he was working himself steadily up the corporate ladder. He had recently gotten an unasked-for raise in lieu of promotion, which surprised the hell out of him, and other rattling noises had been heard that indicated the possibility of further upward mobility.

The office he moved into was not much; there was barely room to turn his swivel chair, it was right next to the break room so several times a day it was overwhelmed by the smell of popcorn, and he had to install a hanging book rack for his references. But it was an office, and in a time of cube farms that meant everything. Someone in the background was grooming him for something and he just hoped it was not a guillotine. Unlikely—he was the kind of aggressive pain in the ass every company secretly needed.

He was currently in a mood to kill. The overblown applets on the newest client's site were slowing their page to a crawl. Unfortunately, the client insisted on the "little" pieces of code that were taking up so much of their bandwidth, so it was up to him to figure out how to reduce it.

He sat with his feet propped on his overloaded desk, gripping and releasing a torsional hand exerciser as he stared up at the "Tick" poster on his ceiling and thought about his next vacation. Two more weeks and then it would be blue surf, cold beer and coral reefs. I should have gone SEAL, he thought, his face fixed in a perpetual frown from weight lifting, and become a surfing instructor. Sharon looks good in a bikini.

He had just taken a sip of stale, cold coffee, thinking blue thoughts of Java surgery, when his phone rang.

"Michael O'Neal, Pre-Publish Design, how can I help you?" The phone snag and stock answer were performed before his forebrain kicked in. Then he nearly spit out his coffee when he recognized the voice.

"Hi, Mike, it's Jack."

His feet slammed to the floor with a crash and XML for Dummies followed it. "Good morning, sir, how are you?" He had not talked to his former boss in nearly two years.

"Good enough. Mike, I need you down at McPherson on Monday morning."

Whaaa? "Sir, it's been eight years. I'm not in the Army market anymore." By nearly Pavlovian response, he started to catalog everything he would need to take.

"I just got finished talking to your company's president. This is not, currently, an official recall . . ."

I like that little hidden threat boss, Mike thought.

"But I pointed out that whether it was or not, you would be eligible to return under the Soldiers and Sailors Act . . ."

Yup, that's Jack. Thanks a million, ole boss o' mine.

"That didn't seem to be a problem. He seemed to be kind of upset at losing you right now. Apparently they just got a new contract he really wanted you to work on . . ."

Yes! Mike chortled silently.We got the First Onion upgrade! The site was a plum job the company had been chasing for nearly a year. The account would guarantee at least a solid two years of lucrative business.

"But I convinced him it would be for the best," the general continued. Mike could hear other conversations in the background, some argumentative, some subdued. It seemed almost like the general was calling from a telephone solicitation company. Or several of his cohorts were making the same calls. Some of the muted voices in the background seemed almost desperate.

"What's this about, sir?"

The answer was met by silence. In the background a male voice started shouting, apparently displeased with the answer he was getting on his own call.

"Let me guess, OPSEC?" Any answer to the question would violate operational security directives. Mike scratched at a spot of ink on the varnished desktop then started working the gripper again. Blood pressure. . . . It was security and dominance games like this that had partially driven him away from the military. He had no intention of being sucked back in.

"Be there, Mike. The SigInt building attached to FORCECOM."

"Airborne, General, sir." He paused for a moment, then continued dryly. "Sharon is going to go ballistic."

* * *

Mike was cleaning broccoli when he heard the car pull up. He wiped his hands and opened the door to the carport so the kids could get in, waved and went back to the sink.

Cally, the four-year-old, made it through the door first and got a big, wet hug from daddy.

"Daddy! You got me all wet!"

"Big, wet daddy hugs! Arrrh!" He gestured at her with soapy hands as she went shrieking towards her room.

In the meantime Michelle, the two-year-old, had toddled in and handed him her latest creation from preschool. She got a big, wet daddy hug, too.

"And what is this masterpiece?¬ He looked at the scrawl of green, blue and red and flashed a quick helpless glance at his wife, just coming through the door.

"Cow!" she mouthed.

"Well, Michelle, that's a very nice cow!"

"Mooo!"

"Yes, mooo!"

"Juice!"

"Okay, can my big girl say please?" Mike asked with a smile, already headed for the refrigerator.

"P'ease," she answered, mildly.

"Okay," he reached into the fridge and extracted the cup. "No spill."

"Mess!" she countered, clutching the no-spill cup to her chest.

"No mess."

She carried the cup into the living room for her afternoon video. "Pooh!"

"Cinderella!"

" 'Rella!"

He heard the video player start, courtesy of the older girl as his wife walked back into the kitchen after a quick change. Slim and tall with long raven black hair and high, firm breasts, even after two pregnancies she still moved with the grace of the dancer she was when they first met. She'd joined the club he worked at to improve her muscle tone. He was the best in the club at muscle management schemes so he got assigned to her, naturally. One thing led to another and here they were eight years later. Sometimes Mike wondered what kept her around. On the other hand it would take a crowbar to separate him from her. Or, at least, the hand of duty.

"Your agent called me at work," she said, "he said you weren't in."

"Oh?" he said, noncommittally he hoped. His stomach had already started to churn. He pulled a bottle of domestic Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and began hunting for the corkscrew.

"He says he needs another rewrite, but Dunn may be interested." She leaned back against the counter, watching him carefully. He was giving off all the wrong vibes.

"Oh. Good."

"You're home early," she continued, crossing her arms. "What's wrong? You should be excited."

"Umm." He bought time by wrenching out the cork and pouring her a glass of wine.

"What?" She looked at the Chardonnay suspiciously, as if wondering if it were poisoned. After six years of marriage there was not much he could get past her. She might not know exactly what was coming, but she could tell it was nasty.