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

response – leaving as quickly as she had arrived.
Shannon jumped slightly in his seat then turned to face the waitress as she disappeared. He noticed how shapely she was and how she walked with the grace of a model even though she was wearing high heels. He ate several slices of lime, took another sip of his drink, and returned to his thoughts.
The world was changing. It was no longer the USSR versus the West. A Dragon had raised its wings over the Sun and eclipsed its grandeur. Its influence was already being felt in Korea and Vietnam and the rest of Southeast Asia. For America to try to guide these emerging nations of the desert toward an alignment with the West became a critical task for overseas “operatives” such as Shannon.
Overnight the Old Testament experienced a great revival as it became the best source for information on the history of Persia, Mede, Tyre, and others. New prophets emerged who could read and understand prophecy and read the signs of the times. A plumber in Germany suggested the time was ripe for the return of an alien presence from beyond the second heaven. A writer in America hinted that earth itself was passing away and began to speak of “The Late Great Planet Earth.”
Neither prophet nor historian, Shannon was right in the middle of these new happenings. But, in the words of the Sultan of Blues, “the thrill [was] gone.” Making money is good only to the extent it allows one to do what one loves to do. Shannon was making lots of money but the thrill was gone out of his life. He was not making things happen but participating in what was happening beyond his control.
Thus it was that no persuasion was needed to get him to come home for the sole purpose of tracking down a rogue ex-agent. He was intrigued by this assignment which he considered extremely critical since he was given a private jet and an unlimited budget and was required to answer only to The President.
Consequently, Shannon devoured the voluminous file on the Director’s assistant with eager interest and anticipation. Unlike the director who tended to ridicule and minimize his Former Assistant, Shannon admired this rebel and held him in the same esteem in which he had held Rommel. Underestimating one’s opponent is always dangerous as the fate of Goliath embodies. Ironically, as Shannon was always quick to point out, the thrill of victory is lessened somewhat when one overcomes a lesser opponent. What exhilaration could Goliath have possibly experienced in defeating a little boy with a sling shot and five smooth stones?
But admiration does not equal acceptance. Shannon saw major flaws in the Director’s assistant and for that reason refused to elevate him too high. In fact, Shannon found it strange that the Director’s assistant had gotten as far as he had. Most experts agreed that a violent revolution could not be sustained in America for long, given that there were not many places from which one could launch a strike at night then retreat to at daybreak. There were not enough mountains and caves and other places in which revolutionaries could hide out. Moreover, most apartment complexes and houses were not so designed as to be able to conceal from government radar and spy planes the weaponry needed for such a revolution. However, much of what had been written about domestic terrorism and civil disorder would have to be rewritten in view of the Director’s Assistant’s accomplishments. Of particular interest would be how he was able to amass such fire-power without foreign assistance. So too would textbooks be re-written to explore how a small band of “rioters” could take over a major military installation such as NORAD.
Shannon shifted his focus from the Assistant to the director as he noticed the lights go dim in the club. The director and his Assistant seemed forever linked now and thinking about one almost immediately led to thoughts of the other. It saddened Shannon that he could not attend the funeral of the Director whom he understood had suffered a heart attack.
The President quashed such interest by declaring a state of emergency in terms of Shannon’s mission – not a single moment could be spared. Shannon was directed to proceed with his new mission with “all due speed.”
These were the things that occupied Shannon’s mind. He was brought home to end the career of yet another gadfly in the ointment of the American military machine. Once again, the American government had created its own worst enemy. Now, it was Shannon's mission to locate and neutralize that enemy. He had less than forty-eight hours to accomplish his task.
Consequently, rather than go to his home in Annapolis, Maryland or to Washington, D.C., his plane was diverted to Memphis on orders of The President. Here he was to locate six bail bondsmen to accompany him to Colorado where the Assistant had taken residence at NORAD. He was told that the bail bondsmen he would meet were experts in tracking down and apprehending Negroes. They had a national reputation for being the best in the business. Furthermore, they could be trusted to keep their mouths shut --choosing to open wide their wallets instead. In fact, they had agreed to the mission only after they were promised no bond forfeitures for two years following their completion of the assigned mission.
It was for the arrival of his crew that he now waited. As he waited, Shannon heard the house band take the stage, set up, then play a few notes to tune their instruments. Without hesitation, he shouted, “Yea!” while clapping his hands ferociously.
“Settle down, man. They’re just warming up,” beamed a voice from behind Shannon.
He turned to behold a brown skinned male in his mid-thirties, about five-nine, with short wavy hair. A gold peace medallion dangled over his blue Nehru jacket which covered a completely buttoned white shirt complimented by black slacks. He held a can of Schlitz Malt Liquor.
“Who are you?” asked a startled Shannon.
“I’m ya man, Detective Rodney Simmons of the Memphis PD Special Crimes Unit,” Rodney answered. He extended his right hand as he sat down next to Shannon so they could both have a clear view of the stage.
“Didn’t know I had a man or needed one,” replied Shannon in a bit of sarcasm.
Rodney took a long gulp from his drink, set it down on the table, then rubbed his left hand over his wavy hair which he kept cut within the inch recommended by Murray’s Hair Pomade.
He smiled as he turned slightly in his chair to face Shannon. “Chill dude, my captain was alerted by the FBI of your arrival and suggested we give you some assistance. Captain thought me the man for the job so here I be.”
“Here you be for what?” asked Shannon. He downed the remainder of his drink followed by several more lime slices then caught the eye of the Waitress to signal he needed another drink.
“Here to help you. To make sure we get to Colorado right away.”
“We? What we? Sorry, dude, I work alone.” Shannon tried to mimic Rodney by emphasizing the word dude but failed to do it justice.
“Can I help you?” asked the Waitress. She forced a smile.
“Another round,” ordered Shannon.
“Sure,” replied the Waitress. She gave each of the men a quick glance, wrote down their drink order then disappeared.
“Look man, don’t give me that high and mighty shit. You ain’t Bond, dig it? I’ve peeped your game, man. You been out of action too long and you are gonna need my help. Get off that high horse before you get knocked off!”
“By whom? You?” Shannon stood up. He felt insulted by Rodney.
“Cool it, man. You wanna make a scene and blow your cover? Like I said, I’m here to help.”
Shannon reclaimed his seat.
“C’mon man, you know you need my help. You don’t have to ask for it. I’m offering it to you. Sorry if I hit you too strong. But Captain ordered me to accompany you on urgent business affecting National Security. When Captain speaks, we peons obey. Okay?”
Rodney extended his right hand to Shannon who looked at it, then into Rodney’s eyes, then repeated this ritual several times before he took the hand and shook it. He was about to speak when the Waitress returned with their drinks and set them down on the table.
“That’ll be four-fifty. You wanna run a tab?”
“No, here you go. Keep the change,” answered Shannon as he handed her a five dollar bill which she accepted and disappeared.
“That is one fine hamma! You agree?” Rodney observed as he watched the Waitress leave.
Shannon did not reply immediately. He took a quick drink, paused a few minutes, then said, “Yes, she has some powerful assets.”
Both men laughed. For the first time since they met, they relaxed and began to enjoy each other’s company.
Rodney broke the silence. “Man, I am so glad to finally get some action other than busting prostitutes and weed heads.”
Shannon did not answer immediately. Rodney continued, “It is so cool to be back on Beale Street. They closed it expecting some shit to happen but nothing came but boredom.”
“What exactly were you expecting?” Shannon asked.
“Not sure,” Rodney said. “At first it was a riot, then someone mentioned revolution. Finally, Captain just said some wild shit from Chicago. Even had the National Guard here on Beale.”
Beale Street had been a bristling part of the social life of Blacks since the early 1900s. Most of the shops and bars and other businesses were owned by Blacks. It had become a major entertainment Mecca for Black entertainers – many of whom could not play at white establishments and almost all of whom could not go to white establishments to be entertained. Segregation had given rise to this sprawling portion of the City of Memphis and many a career had been incubated if not born here.
In recent years, Beale Street had fallen on hard times thanks to the oppressive reign of terror against Black businesses by E.H. “Boss” Crump who had a vision of buying these properties cheap and then developing them into business parks and the new development called strip shopping centers. Beale Street reflected an increasing national phenomenon that saw few and fewer Black businesses survive desegregation. The NAACP’s Legal Defense Fund had been successful in a series of landmark Supreme Court decisions that stripped segregation of the imprimatur of the law. Unfortunately, liberated Blacks took advantage of the situation by immigrating to the north, where the Harlem Renaissance had given birth to a hunger for Black literature, art, and music. Shop owners closed their shops and headed north. Black entertainers followed them. Customers did likewise.
There was also the unintended turning away of Blacks from Black-owned businesses to white businesses whose doors had been closed to them for too long. Freedom to choose brought with it economic bondage. The opening of doors to white businesses resulted in the closing of doors to Black businesses. Those doors would remain closed until opened by immigrants from afar armed with earnings from American soldiers and black gold from the Middle East.
The revolution caused Beale Street further decline as whites refused to enter the “colored district” at night and Blacks feared being victims of bullets and bombs meant for whites. It was the revolution that brought martial law and tanks and personnel carriers to a street once busied with Cadillacs and Lincolns.
Hence the bravery