Disaster Among the Heavens by Don E Peavy Sr (electronic book reader txt) 📕

from this clump of death a tale which only dead men can tell. All of this would be to determine the truth so that it could be forever sequestered.
For even now The President was shouting orders to his Chief of Staff to rearrange his afternoon so he could make a personal call on the Director’s wife to deliver to her the sad news before the Press got hold of the story.
However, history was on the side of The President as these were still the years of tranquillity between the Office of President and the Press and great deference was paid to this venerable office even if its occupant was a scoundrel. The Office of President was the symbol of democracy -- no wonder then that its central seat of power was an oval office -- symbolic of the womb that gives birth to humanity. Every four years the United States of America would undergo a rebirth and emerge stronger than before and nearer to her manifest destiny. Of course, there would be times when the Office would suffer a miscarriage and even yield forth a rare stillbirth. But even then, the womb would renew itself in the fires of public discourse and go on without the letting of blood -- that is the genius of the American system of government.
As evening turned to night and the mystic moon peeped over the distant horizon, the people of this city on the Potomac went about their usual affairs oblivious to the storm that now engulfed the executive branch of government. The usual round of State dinners and parties got under way. Secretaries let their hair down as bosses became the bossed. Angels of the day became the devils of night. Merriment was everywhere in the air.
“If only they had known” that “something wicked” their way came and was already there. They did not know. Like so many highway travellers, they moved too fast to read the warning signs along the way. Nor did they sense sudden moisture in the air -- a sure sign that there were climatic changes approaching. For had they so sensed this dampness, they would have taken steps to avert the disaster which was spreading among the heavens.
They did not know. In ignorance they went on. However, The President was denied the bliss of ignorance. He travailed in pain for the wife of the director And the task now before him. He disdained the chore of being a messenger of death to one already in precarious health. And so as his stretched limousine moved ever closer to her house, The President saw the wife’s face in his mind and fumbled for words to comfort her even as he broke her heart. Oh, whatever Gods may be, why can’t we humans be spared such misery?
Why must the fate of the heavens and earth be so intertwined? And why can humans not find ways to solve problems except by resorting to violence?
Pertinent as these questions are, there would be no answers this night nor any of the nights to come. A disaster was brewing among the heavens, and that meant trouble for earth.
. . .


Chapter 4
Shannon McMillan tried to look inconspicuous as he took his seat at a corner table of Skinny Minnie’s Blues Club on Beale Street in Memphis, Tennessee – the namesake of Skinny Minnie, a five-feet-six-inches blues singer who achieved fame and fortune with the blues “crossover” hit, “Big Things Come in Little Packages,” which reached number four on the Billboard Charts in 1954 and helped move the Blues genre into the mainstream of popular music. Less than two years old, the club had already become an American icon and a must visit for anyone coming to Memphis.
Shannon knew this from the briefing he had received when he was given his present assignment upon his return from the Middle East. Thus, he thought he would be able to visit the club without distraction since other visitors would be there, among them whites. However, he was fighting a losing battle. Many of those present took notice of his well groomed dark brown hair which seemed to shine under the fluorescent lights of the club and which he had to constantly brush off his forehead. Although he was in the South where many worked out of doors, his tanned skin and athletic six-foot-seven frame made others take notice of him. His well-tailored blue suit with light blue shirt and golden tie with matching handkerchief added to his attractiveness. Hardly anyone who saw Shannon would have guessed his age at 58 – he looked so much younger.
“What’ll it be, dawlin'?”
Shannon’s concentration was broken by a waitress whom he had not seen approach his table. In her mid-twenties, she was light skinned (what many called “high yellow”) and wore a black short skirt which was longer than a mini skirt but shorter than the length of most skirts (in reflection, Shannon could not recall seeing any skirts in the Middle East). She complimented her skirt with a pink halter top, black stockings and black high heels. Her hair was medium length, dark brown and curly which she teased into a semblance of an Afro.
Without hesitation Shannon answered, “Absinthe on the rocks.”
“Cuse me?” responded the Waitress. She gave Shannon one of those “what the hell” kind of looks as her pen and pad dropped to her sides.
“An Absinthe on the rocks,” repeated Shannon. He continued, “A-b-s-i-n-t-h-e.”
“Fine!” retorted the Waitress. She wrote the word down then disappeared, but not before giving Shannon a questioning look.
At the moment, he was the only white person present in a place that was filling rapidly with people anxious to see Bobby Blue Bland, who was making the first live appearance of an entertainer on Beale Street since the start of the revolution.
Shannon glanced around the small intimate setting. Were it not for its noisiness, it would have reminded him of the many exotic locations he visited during his recent tour of duty in the Middle East -- one of his many rewards for having ended the career of Rommel in Africa during World War II.
This was his first excursion south of the Mason-Dixon Line. His only knowledge of the South was what he had read in history books and seen on the NBC White Papers television news series. Shannon was born and raised in the East and the private schools he attended always had a few people of color among its students--though most of them were the children of diplomats. Search as he may through the recesses of his mind, he could not recall any noticeable tension between the races during his childhood and his parents did not make any references to people by the color of their skin. Thus, he was indifferent, though not callous, towards the plight of race relations in America – choosing instead to focus on doing the job he was paid to do.
“We don’t have that, whatever you call it,” said the Waitress. She startled Shannon as she approached his table from the side and being deep in thoughts he did not see her until after she spoke.
“Okay, give me Vodka on the rocks with a twist of lime,” smiled Shannon, hoping to make it easy on the Waitress who was not wearing a name tag. She wrote the information down and disappeared. Shannon did not watch her as she left, choosing instead to return to his thoughts.
Shannon had been offered the directorship of the CIA which he turned down saying it was too confining and he “Did not want to live in a fish bowl.”
He was 58 and had given the military thirty years of service. Fearing being stuck behind a desk – even if it was one as plush as that of the director of the CIA, Shannon shocked The President and his family and friends when he declined the directorship.
Another factor arguing against his accepting the position was his awareness of the changing climate of Washington, D.C. He could sense restlessness among the Press Corps and saw its members becoming more hostile toward government officials. Life in the Capitol City was becoming like living in a fish bowl. He wanted no part of a glass menagerie.
Neither did he want any part of a family; so not only had he refused to marry, he opted out of the developing trend of cohabitation. Freedom and excitement were what motivated Shannon. Allegiance to those values sparked his retirement from the Army as a major general and his acceptance of the newly created position of Special Envoy for Middle Eastern Protocol with the CIA. It was this latter assignment which brought him to Skinny Minnie’s Blues Club.
“Here ya go,” said the Waitress. This time Shannon noticed her approach. She walked defiantly – much like one who is committed to doing what one is doing even though one does not want to do it. Like the soldier drafted into the Marine Corps who seeks to excel, the Waitress seemed to be living beneath her dreams but determined to make the best of a bad situation.
After the Waitress sat the drink on the table in front of him, he took a quick sip from it and let out a deep ah-hhhhhhhhhh. As he did so, the quarter lime slice which had been forced on the side of the glass fell to the floor.
“Sorry about that,” said Shannon. He was about to pick up the lime when the Waitress scooped it up.
“That'll be three dollars,” she snorted.
Shannon extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet which he removed from his inner breast pocket and handed it to the Waitress. “Keep the change,” he said as the Waitress took the bill.
“Why, thanks,” she whispered, smiling for the first time during her encounter with Shannon. She moved quickly away from the table but with some pep in her step.
Again, Shannon took a sip of the beverage and returned to his musings. Though he had carte blanche to move among the nouveau rich of the Middle East who were covered in the unlimited wealth brought about by the ever increasing discoveries of oil, Shannon grew tired of watching people get wealthy instead of watching them vie for power.
Overnight once so-called backwards countries became rich and focused on building buildings rather than kingdoms. This sudden shift brought with it the need for protection. Money can bring power but seldom protection. It was here that Shannon and former military officers like him, became the experts of choice for sultans and kings. Red Adair, the world’s master at putting out fires, was the other one. And so, Shannon was very wealthy but bored. He longed for action. Shannon became the top advisor on security and national defence for the emerging governments of the Middle East, especially as these new nations began to break away from the fundamentalist restraints of Islam and to take on more Western ways.
He was also America’s top spy charged with the awesome task of keeping an ever increasing paranoid government aware of possible communist leanings of these most recent players on the world’s stage. Of course, America had nothing to worry about in this latter regard. The kings and sultans had no use for communism. They were the first and last word of the script of life in their countries, and so they had no use for modern theories. The old ones suited them just fine.
“Here, hope this helps.” The Waitress returned with a small plate of limes cut in small slices and a shaker of salt. She did not wait for a