Rossini

110.

We hit cruising altitude in an impressive crescendo of speed and level off. LA, the local analyst turned field agent, reports that Muscles and Cy have arrived at a warehouse in the East Vegas industrial section of town. TOM informs us that MBI has a Senator who sits on the Armed Services Committee on their payroll, an arrangement solidified by generous annual campaign contributions. Further, there seems to be a dead-end when tracking the flow of cash and no recorded oversight. These are the times that I, however briefly, consider that I am playing on the wrong team. I make a mental note of the circumstance and commit the Senators name to the memory file labeled ‘Senatorial Slime-balls.’ 

Drysdale provides updated GPS data, it was confirmed that the industrial noise from the indoor construction area was of sufficient frequency modulation and intensity to interfere with our signal, something I ask Drysdale to make a note of. I check in with Davis and Saunders in Colorado and suggest that they go to code amber readiness protocol. 

Satisfied with the movement and actions of the team after the latest high-speed turn of events, I head to the cockpit to instruct the pilot on our in-flight tail strategy. I remember him from a series of International flights several years ago, those New York to Bahrain runs where we lift in the freezing rain and land twelve and change later in a desert oven. We greet each other with respectful remembrance and get to business. 

I ask first about radar capabilities of the MBI jet and if we can set our course to present the appearance of a well-traveled business route, keeping out of range but capable of quick adjustments to any change of their vectors. 

“You bet,” he answers, “we call the maneuver a sub super-sonic shadow, or as they say in the music world, allegro non tropo.” 

He notices my expression of consideration as I try to translate the Italian to English and make sense of the linguistic riddle.

“Fast - but not too fast,” he finally answers.

With this I recall that he, in what limited spare time is available to a pilot working an ‘always on call’ shift has, plays a very decent French Horn, many times with the renown Navy Jazz Band. 

“Tell me again, William,” I quip, suddenly remembering the classical pun and our shared joy in its perfectly timed usage.

“Rossini.” 

For the first time in three days I smile.