180.
We leave it at that.
I am not one-hundred percent sure what the others assessments are, but the fact that the success of our entire operation rests squarely on the shoulders of a teen-aged computer hacker who once jacked Air Force jets and jammed military and commercial radar, and has a history with a felon doing hard time in a Super Max facility, a place where terrorists go to die, could be considered questionable at best and borderline insane at the worst.
I am on the hot seat here. It was my recommendation, based upon her extraordinary performance in the ad-lib prison breakout and subsequent intense and accelerated training — along with the many hours of philosophical, moral and ethical conversations that led me to believe that she was a perfect fit to become an asset. She again performed admirably during the foiled plot to assassinate the VP. I have no reason to doubt her veracity, courage under fire or loyalty. Still, as every mailman will tell you, once bitten, man’s best friend gets second suspicious looks.
I have a late flight out of Reno, I am flying commercial, and invite Drysdale along for the ride. He has done a terrific job of supporting Davis and Saunders in Vegas and an even better job in his negotiations withe the local ACLU bureau. The slime-ball Senator from South Carolina has all but thrown down with his money-guy, Adelson, making the back-up con game Drysdale was running obsolete and unnecessary. We will make a graceful exit and keep them, the local chapter, at the top of our ‘favor to be named later’ list.
It is a hot night in The Biggest Little City in America and we have a couple of hours before the scheduled flight time. He returns the Honda to the extreme-sports rental center and I do likewise with my Jeep. We decide to meet for a quick dinner downtown. Due to our extremely different preferences, we opt for Mexican.
“Nice work in Vegas,” I begin as the waiter takes our order and hurries away to fetch a pair of Negra Modellos and a bowl of chips.
“Thanks, it was a little tense at first, the slot machine play, but once we were introduced to Adelson things ran pretty smooth. The guy will listen to anyone if he thinks they can make him some tax-free money.”
“And Davis was superb, playing the riverboat gambler role to the hilt. Saunders too, wow, I never knew she had that type of talent. She killed it, you could see Adelson ogle and sweat nines when she talked about the sensuality of gambling and the rush of adrenaline as the game goes down,” he continues.
We are interrupted by the waiter, Miguel his name tag reveals, as he pours our beers into frosty mugs and sets the home-made corn chips at the center of the table. He takes pride, or is it showmanship?, in his placement of the salsa bowls which include a healthy dollop each of avocado and sour cream.
Miguel takes our order, Drysdale the fajitas and a plate of spinach and onion enchiladas for me. I can hear the mariachi band move closer so I lean towards Drysdale to encourage him to continue the accounting as the trumpet player takes off on a wicked solo.
“You guys did a bang-up job on the internet bios, all three of us came out looking exactly as advertised, maybe even better.”
“That was all Julie, Harlan and The Queen. I was dealing with the Warden and Hartaugh during that time. Tell me, since the subject has been breeched, what is your opinion of Her Majesty, your honest and off-record opinion?” I ask as the sextet shuffles ever closer.
He looks around, perhaps a touch unnerved by my cavalier casualness, and leans in, almost directly over the huge wooden bowl of chips and says in a low, serious voice, “She is a diamond in the rough, sir, she is brilliant and I have no reason to doubt that the algorithm she is testing,” he looks at his watch, “right about now, will be equally as incredible as what we witnessed this afternoon.”
He ends this powerful and convincing testimony by sitting back in his chair and starring over my shoulder at the mariachi violinist who is playing what I can only describe as Hendrix with a fiddle.
Sunday, June 28, 2020
Do the Trick
179.
It is the high point of our weekly video conferencing update. Following positive updates from Davis and Saunders, who report that Las Vegas billionaire and staunch Republican supporter Sheldon Aldeson and his nefarious gang of white-collar thugs will be making the final go-no-go decision on Wednesday. In DC, Julie, Harlan and TOM update their status with Senator Hartaugh and Warden Daniels, keeping both occupied, and hence distracted, with a constant stream of thinly veiled propaganda. It is after their briefs that I take center stage to inform the group on the results of the Drone test.
“It was even better than I expected, a complete success. In every phase of the test the device performed above expectation, with two specific functions standing out, the Drones ability to carry a payload and its uncanny ability to add a sophisticated degree of artificial intelligence to the mix, one that makes it virtually impossible for human error to be the cause of failure.”
At this implication, there is a pronounced silence from the panel of eight as the ‘head and shoulders’ aspect ratio captures each in a rare state of shock. Everyone but The Queen. She sits with her pink hair seemingly afire blankly starring into the camera showing the facade of a professional card hack. Everything we have accomplished to date has come from the combination of her dedication and talents, traits I overtly recognize in my short summary. Still she sits in stoic silence.
TOM takes his allotted time to reiterate the need for caution and diligence, lifting a line, interestingly, from Robert Hunter, “When life looks like easy street there is danger at your door.” He cautions us to keep our guards up because, and this comes in the dire tone of an experienced captain of intelligence; “These people, although our every action to date has proven to be effective and well-planned, have achieved their current status not so much because they are lucky, but because they are willing to risk immediate failure for the sake of long-term success. They are willing to lose a battle or two to emerge victorious in the war. Do not underestimate them,” he says.
Again, we sit in muted absorption of his sage counsel. Confidence and preparation are one thing, arrogance and false bravado another altogether.
The Queen is last to speak. She reports that she has managed to get a firm commitment from the security guard at SuperMax Florence and that they have been successful in transmitting the message to Mr Big that he needs to lose fifteen pounds asap. She is complimentary in her address to her older and more experienced teammates, to the extent of refusing to bask in the adulation the small audience has presented, and updating us on the roadblock-like challenge she is currently facing with the ‘Big Board’ code writing. It seems that she may have finally met her match with whatever or whomever wrote this particular piece of legal scamming code. It is, she admits, “fucking brilliant.”
For the third time in the conference, the eight members of this elite group of off-board mercenaries, the last line of defense for a country at war with itself, the fires of which are stoked on a daily basis by the sedition of the POTUS and the complicity of the Senate, are silenced.
Without this final piece of the puzzle, the plan, all their united effort and preparation, the entirety of the operation, will fizzle like a waterlogged cherry-bomb.
Finally she breaks the painful silence.
“But I will be testing a new algorithm tonight, one I am hoping will do the trick.”
It is the high point of our weekly video conferencing update. Following positive updates from Davis and Saunders, who report that Las Vegas billionaire and staunch Republican supporter Sheldon Aldeson and his nefarious gang of white-collar thugs will be making the final go-no-go decision on Wednesday. In DC, Julie, Harlan and TOM update their status with Senator Hartaugh and Warden Daniels, keeping both occupied, and hence distracted, with a constant stream of thinly veiled propaganda. It is after their briefs that I take center stage to inform the group on the results of the Drone test.
“It was even better than I expected, a complete success. In every phase of the test the device performed above expectation, with two specific functions standing out, the Drones ability to carry a payload and its uncanny ability to add a sophisticated degree of artificial intelligence to the mix, one that makes it virtually impossible for human error to be the cause of failure.”
At this implication, there is a pronounced silence from the panel of eight as the ‘head and shoulders’ aspect ratio captures each in a rare state of shock. Everyone but The Queen. She sits with her pink hair seemingly afire blankly starring into the camera showing the facade of a professional card hack. Everything we have accomplished to date has come from the combination of her dedication and talents, traits I overtly recognize in my short summary. Still she sits in stoic silence.
TOM takes his allotted time to reiterate the need for caution and diligence, lifting a line, interestingly, from Robert Hunter, “When life looks like easy street there is danger at your door.” He cautions us to keep our guards up because, and this comes in the dire tone of an experienced captain of intelligence; “These people, although our every action to date has proven to be effective and well-planned, have achieved their current status not so much because they are lucky, but because they are willing to risk immediate failure for the sake of long-term success. They are willing to lose a battle or two to emerge victorious in the war. Do not underestimate them,” he says.
Again, we sit in muted absorption of his sage counsel. Confidence and preparation are one thing, arrogance and false bravado another altogether.
The Queen is last to speak. She reports that she has managed to get a firm commitment from the security guard at SuperMax Florence and that they have been successful in transmitting the message to Mr Big that he needs to lose fifteen pounds asap. She is complimentary in her address to her older and more experienced teammates, to the extent of refusing to bask in the adulation the small audience has presented, and updating us on the roadblock-like challenge she is currently facing with the ‘Big Board’ code writing. It seems that she may have finally met her match with whatever or whomever wrote this particular piece of legal scamming code. It is, she admits, “fucking brilliant.”
For the third time in the conference, the eight members of this elite group of off-board mercenaries, the last line of defense for a country at war with itself, the fires of which are stoked on a daily basis by the sedition of the POTUS and the complicity of the Senate, are silenced.
Without this final piece of the puzzle, the plan, all their united effort and preparation, the entirety of the operation, will fizzle like a waterlogged cherry-bomb.
Finally she breaks the painful silence.
“But I will be testing a new algorithm tonight, one I am hoping will do the trick.”
Saturday, June 27, 2020
Sink or Sky
178.
My indoctrination to the Helmet/Glove/Drone trio illuminates the unmistakable reality that I am the weak link of the quartet. In a four-piece ensemble, the places to hide are few. Luckily The Queen had refined the stock GPS programming to include a ‘bailout’ feature where if potentially catastrophic directions were initiated the unit would override them and return the device to its last recorded safe coordinates. If not for this code-red feature, we would be building a new drone to replace the one that I crashed and agonizingly watched burn. However, after a break-in period, the sink or sky experience, I quickly gather confidence and enough piloting skills to attempt a snatch on my own.
Her Majesty keeps one step ahead and instructs that I conduct a dress rehearsal and navigate the Drone as if I was preforming the live demonstration for the Warden, or, as she puts it, “With the game one the line.”
I engage the Verometer and hear the now familiar tone indicating an operation in progress. I have to shake myself into meeting up with this dramatic moment and almost immediately sense a tingling of augmented power. Like, I can imagine, a pauper waking from a dream to remember that he is the Prince. I open the narration that is intentionally scripted to result in a pair of crucial conclusions: The first to overwhelmingly shock the Warden with the awesomeness of the aerial device, and secondly to prod him into wearing the Helmet for himself to test it out firsthand and witness the absolute thrill and ethereal beauty of unmanned flight.
I open the narrative by reciting the lines I have studied like a Shakespearean actor playing Hamlet for the first time. I hear the Vermonter concur with every exaggeration, prompting me to keep the momentum flowing with enthusiasm and flair. It is guiding me musically, as Beethoven might, into seizing the moment, a tone poem ode to the joy of dynamic presence. I find it magical to be conducting both operations; the flight of the Drone and my gaslighting effort, in a simultaneous flow of artistic technology. I bend the drone’s vector in jazzy choreography with dramatic emphasis of the narrative’s key inflections. I steer the Drone to the hover and snatch position and lower the cable. Drysdale’s bike makes another ascent and lands safely about one hundred meters from us.
I am dancing with fireflies and thunderbolts in the painted desert when I hear the warning sound.
The Verometer makes an instant segue from benevolent mentor to highest ranking officer in a series of short beeps followed by the command-voice announcement that we are running on less than ten percent remaining battery power and that emergency landing operations will be automatically initiated in ten seconds if I do not override.
I look at The Queen and she gives me the ‘you are the pilot and must respond to this’ look. I pause the narrative and address the current situation. I need to set the Drone down now. I audibly request available flight time and the distance from current position to the make-shift landing pad. I am told that the distance is too far for a conventional landing.
In the heads-up display of the Helmet I see the flight path back to our location. I immediately point to the spot with the glove and set a horizontal approach. I hear that battery power is at one percent. I look again at The Queen for either instruction or support and get neither. I steer the Drone directly overhead but it is still over four hundred feet up. I hear the dismal report that power will fail in ten seconds, nine, eight……
The drone gets to one hundred feet elevation and runs dry, its eight propellers suddenly still and silent. An alarm sounds in the helmet. On the heads-up display I see a two-word, full-caps question flash: ENGAGE PARACHUTE?
She is dropping fast, I shout ‘ENGAGE PARACHUTE’ into the Helmet and a stealthy chute flies open and gently sets the Drone at our feet a few inches from its take-off spot.
My heart is pounding. I pull off the Helmet and bark at The Queen. “Why didn’t you tell me about the chute function?”
“There might be a time when we need to ditch the Drone to keep it from enemy hands. In that case the default is to do nothing, if you are still at the controls you have the option of a safe assisted landing or a ditch. It was a last minute addition.”
I recover from my momentary loss of control, take a deep breath and humbly agree.
“Right.”
My indoctrination to the Helmet/Glove/Drone trio illuminates the unmistakable reality that I am the weak link of the quartet. In a four-piece ensemble, the places to hide are few. Luckily The Queen had refined the stock GPS programming to include a ‘bailout’ feature where if potentially catastrophic directions were initiated the unit would override them and return the device to its last recorded safe coordinates. If not for this code-red feature, we would be building a new drone to replace the one that I crashed and agonizingly watched burn. However, after a break-in period, the sink or sky experience, I quickly gather confidence and enough piloting skills to attempt a snatch on my own.
Her Majesty keeps one step ahead and instructs that I conduct a dress rehearsal and navigate the Drone as if I was preforming the live demonstration for the Warden, or, as she puts it, “With the game one the line.”
I engage the Verometer and hear the now familiar tone indicating an operation in progress. I have to shake myself into meeting up with this dramatic moment and almost immediately sense a tingling of augmented power. Like, I can imagine, a pauper waking from a dream to remember that he is the Prince. I open the narration that is intentionally scripted to result in a pair of crucial conclusions: The first to overwhelmingly shock the Warden with the awesomeness of the aerial device, and secondly to prod him into wearing the Helmet for himself to test it out firsthand and witness the absolute thrill and ethereal beauty of unmanned flight.
I open the narrative by reciting the lines I have studied like a Shakespearean actor playing Hamlet for the first time. I hear the Vermonter concur with every exaggeration, prompting me to keep the momentum flowing with enthusiasm and flair. It is guiding me musically, as Beethoven might, into seizing the moment, a tone poem ode to the joy of dynamic presence. I find it magical to be conducting both operations; the flight of the Drone and my gaslighting effort, in a simultaneous flow of artistic technology. I bend the drone’s vector in jazzy choreography with dramatic emphasis of the narrative’s key inflections. I steer the Drone to the hover and snatch position and lower the cable. Drysdale’s bike makes another ascent and lands safely about one hundred meters from us.
I am dancing with fireflies and thunderbolts in the painted desert when I hear the warning sound.
The Verometer makes an instant segue from benevolent mentor to highest ranking officer in a series of short beeps followed by the command-voice announcement that we are running on less than ten percent remaining battery power and that emergency landing operations will be automatically initiated in ten seconds if I do not override.
I look at The Queen and she gives me the ‘you are the pilot and must respond to this’ look. I pause the narrative and address the current situation. I need to set the Drone down now. I audibly request available flight time and the distance from current position to the make-shift landing pad. I am told that the distance is too far for a conventional landing.
In the heads-up display of the Helmet I see the flight path back to our location. I immediately point to the spot with the glove and set a horizontal approach. I hear that battery power is at one percent. I look again at The Queen for either instruction or support and get neither. I steer the Drone directly overhead but it is still over four hundred feet up. I hear the dismal report that power will fail in ten seconds, nine, eight……
The drone gets to one hundred feet elevation and runs dry, its eight propellers suddenly still and silent. An alarm sounds in the helmet. On the heads-up display I see a two-word, full-caps question flash: ENGAGE PARACHUTE?
She is dropping fast, I shout ‘ENGAGE PARACHUTE’ into the Helmet and a stealthy chute flies open and gently sets the Drone at our feet a few inches from its take-off spot.
My heart is pounding. I pull off the Helmet and bark at The Queen. “Why didn’t you tell me about the chute function?”
“There might be a time when we need to ditch the Drone to keep it from enemy hands. In that case the default is to do nothing, if you are still at the controls you have the option of a safe assisted landing or a ditch. It was a last minute addition.”
I recover from my momentary loss of control, take a deep breath and humbly agree.
“Right.”
I Am Speechless
177.
I am the first one there. It is thirty minutes before our scheduled meet time so I have an opportunity to walk a bit, stretch my back and scout the location. It is just as I remember, red rock mountains of the moon. The only signs of life are the occasional passing of an RV and a floating of unhurried black prehistoric birds contrasted against the bright blue cloudless backdrop. If I had the time I am confident I could investigate deeper into the landscape and discover another layer of abundant flora and fauna but as I consider this anthropology I hear another Jeep approach.
I watch closely as the Jeep four-wheels over the crushed rock path leading to the established GPS coordinates and stop two feet from where I have parked. I surveil The Queen and her assistant, whom I immediately recognize as her former, and perhaps current, boyfriend, Cyrus. It has been three weeks since our last face-to-face and I am surprised to see her hair now shaded a hue of frozen pink. She is sporting huge leopard-skin sun glasses and wearing an Army surplus flight suit. Her footwear could be standard Army issue or Doc Martens, either way more utility than fashion. She indicates to Cyrus that the cargo is to be off-loaded and placed in the direction of her finger point. As he begins his manual labor we both turn to see what, and whose, machine is creating the internal combustion whine.
Slightly unnerved, I stifle a patronizing grin at the sight of Drysdale side standing his dirt bike and removing his helmet. He greets Her Majesty with a bow and fist bumps Cyrus who drops a huge Pelican case to accommodate the welcoming gesture. From behind a huge boulder I smile at the blatant camaraderie displayed by the assembled team and leave my cover to meet and greet.
“Glad you could make it,” I sarcastically open, looking at my watch.
Simultaneously they glance at their own chronometers and laugh at the inside joke, it officially being ten minutes prior to the etched in stone show time.
We all shake hands and I propose that we use our time wisely and begin the flight test. All agree.
Cyrus picks a flat spot in the center of a growth of tumbleweeds and cactus. He flips the six latches on the Pelican case and gently removes the Drone, placing it on the sun-soaked prehistoric gravel. He quickly adds the titanium propellers and installs the four battery packs. As he puts the finishing touches to the device, The Queen prepares the Helmet, appropriately painted in desert cammo.
In less than the time it would take to change a tire, she has pulled the Helmet over her pink hair and adjusted the shoulder padding. She ceremoniously nods her head like a welder about to strike a torch and the face mask responds by snugly closing with a snap. She adds the glove attachment to her right hand, looks around in a three-hundred-sixty degree scan and then at me.
I do likewise and give my non-verbal approval and good-to-go sign.
The Drone comes to life with a swoosh sending dirt and loose debris flying away from its calibrated high-pitch monotone. The Queen points at it and it follows her finger upwards in a smooth, controlled lift. She performs a series of maneuvers including spins, dives, holds and the most impression move, a tumble and turn inverted ascent to an elevation nearing invisibility.
I stand and watch the demo as I see her look at me, and from behind the tinted face mask I can almost see her expression saying, ‘watch this’. The Drone initiates a sudden kamikaze dive directly towards us. I want to run for cover but trust that the Queen has this under control. Amazed and awed by the in-flight capabilities of this device I watch agog as a thin high-tension cable unrolls from the unit’s fuselage and grips Drysdale’s Honda CRF150R dirt bike with a pair of hooks and lifts it into the air with ease.
I look at Drysdale to gauge his reaction but he is gone. The Queen pilots the Drone behind the boulder I had used for cover and I watch as it lowers the flying moto. In less than sixty-seconds the Drone has recoiled the cable and is dancing a thermal gig overhead.
Drysdale rides up on the Honda grinning like high-school kid on his first date.
They are all glaring at me waiting for my reaction.
For the first time in a very long while, I am speechless.
I am the first one there. It is thirty minutes before our scheduled meet time so I have an opportunity to walk a bit, stretch my back and scout the location. It is just as I remember, red rock mountains of the moon. The only signs of life are the occasional passing of an RV and a floating of unhurried black prehistoric birds contrasted against the bright blue cloudless backdrop. If I had the time I am confident I could investigate deeper into the landscape and discover another layer of abundant flora and fauna but as I consider this anthropology I hear another Jeep approach.
I watch closely as the Jeep four-wheels over the crushed rock path leading to the established GPS coordinates and stop two feet from where I have parked. I surveil The Queen and her assistant, whom I immediately recognize as her former, and perhaps current, boyfriend, Cyrus. It has been three weeks since our last face-to-face and I am surprised to see her hair now shaded a hue of frozen pink. She is sporting huge leopard-skin sun glasses and wearing an Army surplus flight suit. Her footwear could be standard Army issue or Doc Martens, either way more utility than fashion. She indicates to Cyrus that the cargo is to be off-loaded and placed in the direction of her finger point. As he begins his manual labor we both turn to see what, and whose, machine is creating the internal combustion whine.
Slightly unnerved, I stifle a patronizing grin at the sight of Drysdale side standing his dirt bike and removing his helmet. He greets Her Majesty with a bow and fist bumps Cyrus who drops a huge Pelican case to accommodate the welcoming gesture. From behind a huge boulder I smile at the blatant camaraderie displayed by the assembled team and leave my cover to meet and greet.
“Glad you could make it,” I sarcastically open, looking at my watch.
Simultaneously they glance at their own chronometers and laugh at the inside joke, it officially being ten minutes prior to the etched in stone show time.
We all shake hands and I propose that we use our time wisely and begin the flight test. All agree.
Cyrus picks a flat spot in the center of a growth of tumbleweeds and cactus. He flips the six latches on the Pelican case and gently removes the Drone, placing it on the sun-soaked prehistoric gravel. He quickly adds the titanium propellers and installs the four battery packs. As he puts the finishing touches to the device, The Queen prepares the Helmet, appropriately painted in desert cammo.
In less than the time it would take to change a tire, she has pulled the Helmet over her pink hair and adjusted the shoulder padding. She ceremoniously nods her head like a welder about to strike a torch and the face mask responds by snugly closing with a snap. She adds the glove attachment to her right hand, looks around in a three-hundred-sixty degree scan and then at me.
I do likewise and give my non-verbal approval and good-to-go sign.
The Drone comes to life with a swoosh sending dirt and loose debris flying away from its calibrated high-pitch monotone. The Queen points at it and it follows her finger upwards in a smooth, controlled lift. She performs a series of maneuvers including spins, dives, holds and the most impression move, a tumble and turn inverted ascent to an elevation nearing invisibility.
I stand and watch the demo as I see her look at me, and from behind the tinted face mask I can almost see her expression saying, ‘watch this’. The Drone initiates a sudden kamikaze dive directly towards us. I want to run for cover but trust that the Queen has this under control. Amazed and awed by the in-flight capabilities of this device I watch agog as a thin high-tension cable unrolls from the unit’s fuselage and grips Drysdale’s Honda CRF150R dirt bike with a pair of hooks and lifts it into the air with ease.
I look at Drysdale to gauge his reaction but he is gone. The Queen pilots the Drone behind the boulder I had used for cover and I watch as it lowers the flying moto. In less than sixty-seconds the Drone has recoiled the cable and is dancing a thermal gig overhead.
Drysdale rides up on the Honda grinning like high-school kid on his first date.
They are all glaring at me waiting for my reaction.
For the first time in a very long while, I am speechless.
Friday, June 26, 2020
Book of Rules
176.
While the common people like you and me
we'll be builders for eternity.
Each is given a bag of tools,
a shapeless mass and a book of rules.
The key elements of the Heptones seemingly fatalistic rock-reggae tune plays in my mind as I make the hour drive from Reno to Fallon. I consider the authors intent on his poetic celebration of the obvious and its possible message of hope to those willing to risk failure and experiment. We are all common people, regardless of stature, position, rank, privilege or pedigree, as we will build for the eternal satisfaction of meeting our spiritual obligation for the creative imperative.
I set the cruise control for seventy and adjust the seat. The rental car, this time a Jeep, has a decent audio system and with a few adjustments to the spatial EQ, I relax and enjoy the tune as the hot winds rush past.
In complete appreciation of the combined relevance of lyrics and a foot tapping back-beat, I am led down the rabbit hole of introspective analysis. I have been here before. It is the musical/historical deja vu of a thousand visits to the challenge of life. It is the film score of my personal journey, the soundtrack of my path to self realization. The things I see, feel and act upon automatically create an accompanying surround sound multi-track relentlessly playing underneath the chaos and cacophony of my life in the lane of speed. There is always a destination, a map pin on the Mercator Projection indicating that a fire, an uprising, an atrocity or a threat to our way of life needs to be hosed down. I have learned over the many years acting as fire marshal proxy that one needs to balance the heat with chill whenever the opportunity exists. This very moment is one of those.
I consider my bag of tools. From the destructive nature of my Glock to the creative potential of the Drone we will be testing later this afternoon, the framers of the tune most likely were thinking of hammers and saws. I chuckle at the irony of the comparison and tackle the last line of the chorus, the book of rules.
Is it a good book as the Bible is often called? Are we, according to the powerful ability of music to guide us, being asked to put more weight into the words of others, rather than those of our own? Or are these rules more like an instruction manual or users guide offering the step-by-step procedures required for assembly? Or both? Or a combination of the best of the rest. What are the implications to a society given free will? Surely the book, as our guiding document, needs constant revision to reflect the changing times, attitudes, technologies and ecologies? Does this book offer the freedom for additions, deletions and corrections? What would an amendment to the 'good book' mean to the separation of Church and State?
I ponder the synergy of my personal tools and their potential as might be laid out in a rule book.
Don't shoot first.
Don't bring a pocket-knife to a firefight.
Do your homework.
Never sit with your back to the door.
Always keep calm.
Always keep your word.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Use your head before your fists.
Respect others as you respect yourself.
Be humble.
Be kind. Be generous. Be happy.
Commit to the long game.
Live fully, love passionately and learn relentlessly.
Heed the lessons of the past and intend on success in the future, but…. above all other rules,
Be here now.
The song ends in perfect harmony with my internal soliloquy. The slate black Jeep hums along the desert highway like a hungry carbon-fiber rhino.
With these clever tools and our current book of rules, we are builders for eternity; The endless chore of defining this barren and bleak shapeless mass.
While the common people like you and me
we'll be builders for eternity.
Each is given a bag of tools,
a shapeless mass and a book of rules.
The key elements of the Heptones seemingly fatalistic rock-reggae tune plays in my mind as I make the hour drive from Reno to Fallon. I consider the authors intent on his poetic celebration of the obvious and its possible message of hope to those willing to risk failure and experiment. We are all common people, regardless of stature, position, rank, privilege or pedigree, as we will build for the eternal satisfaction of meeting our spiritual obligation for the creative imperative.
I set the cruise control for seventy and adjust the seat. The rental car, this time a Jeep, has a decent audio system and with a few adjustments to the spatial EQ, I relax and enjoy the tune as the hot winds rush past.
In complete appreciation of the combined relevance of lyrics and a foot tapping back-beat, I am led down the rabbit hole of introspective analysis. I have been here before. It is the musical/historical deja vu of a thousand visits to the challenge of life. It is the film score of my personal journey, the soundtrack of my path to self realization. The things I see, feel and act upon automatically create an accompanying surround sound multi-track relentlessly playing underneath the chaos and cacophony of my life in the lane of speed. There is always a destination, a map pin on the Mercator Projection indicating that a fire, an uprising, an atrocity or a threat to our way of life needs to be hosed down. I have learned over the many years acting as fire marshal proxy that one needs to balance the heat with chill whenever the opportunity exists. This very moment is one of those.
I consider my bag of tools. From the destructive nature of my Glock to the creative potential of the Drone we will be testing later this afternoon, the framers of the tune most likely were thinking of hammers and saws. I chuckle at the irony of the comparison and tackle the last line of the chorus, the book of rules.
Is it a good book as the Bible is often called? Are we, according to the powerful ability of music to guide us, being asked to put more weight into the words of others, rather than those of our own? Or are these rules more like an instruction manual or users guide offering the step-by-step procedures required for assembly? Or both? Or a combination of the best of the rest. What are the implications to a society given free will? Surely the book, as our guiding document, needs constant revision to reflect the changing times, attitudes, technologies and ecologies? Does this book offer the freedom for additions, deletions and corrections? What would an amendment to the 'good book' mean to the separation of Church and State?
I ponder the synergy of my personal tools and their potential as might be laid out in a rule book.
Don't shoot first.
Don't bring a pocket-knife to a firefight.
Do your homework.
Never sit with your back to the door.
Always keep calm.
Always keep your word.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Use your head before your fists.
Respect others as you respect yourself.
Be humble.
Be kind. Be generous. Be happy.
Commit to the long game.
Live fully, love passionately and learn relentlessly.
Heed the lessons of the past and intend on success in the future, but…. above all other rules,
Be here now.
The song ends in perfect harmony with my internal soliloquy. The slate black Jeep hums along the desert highway like a hungry carbon-fiber rhino.
With these clever tools and our current book of rules, we are builders for eternity; The endless chore of defining this barren and bleak shapeless mass.
Will This Work?
175.
By any measure my testing indicates success. I am amazed that something closely resembling the football helmet we wore in college is today a high-tech, crime-fighting tool of unlimited potential. To have this prototype at our disposal, designed, created and freely offered to us by a girl not yet legally able to order a cocktail in a restaurant, I find to be astounding. Tomorrow afternoon we are scheduled to conduct a live test using the Helmet’s original purpose, flight navigation and control of the drone, in the Nevada desert, a rather infamous stretch of stiflingly hot wasteland bordering on Area 51. The last time I was through this barren, moon-like terrain was on a fixed-gear bike trying my best to stay hydrated and avoid a plague of Mormon crickets that painted the hot asphalt a deep scarlet red with their blood and body parts. I can still hear the deadly crunch as our wheels rode over them at twenty-five miles per hour as we desperately made our escape from the hellish landscape. Hopefully my return will result a less dramatic visit.
Together the Helmet and the Drone constitute the most important pair of weapons in our mission’s arsenal. Both serving dual purposes and each with their own unique capabilities, they combine to allow us to do the impossible. Or, properly put, to do something that no-one has done before us. It isn’t impossible and with the tools at our disposal, might be considered routine - but - all this is on paper and as many times as I have reviewed the details of the scheme, there always exists the distinct possibility of error, human error being the most common. As the infamous bumper sticker proclaimed in the seventies: Shit happens.
It is my job, as protagonist in this drama, to ensure that we play an error free game. I am the lead, I wear the Helmet and my mission, a tightly scripted improvisation, prompted and assisted by the real time utility known as the Verometer, an embedded computer program keeping dialogue focused along the statistical path of best chance probability during the one-time faux demonstration of the Drone. My audience will be Warden Daniels, one of his most trusted lieutenants and my ‘assistant', most likely Drysdale who has been under-cover in Vegas working the ACLU angle for several weeks. He is close, capable and a perfect fit for this pivotal scene.
The test will be run by The Queen and one of her assistants, making the total number of people in attendance four, large enough to conduct the test yet small enough to contain it. We will meet in the small oasis outpost of Fallon, caravan almost one hundred miles south-east on Highway 50, and then four-wheel to the test site. In just under two hours we should have the answer to the biggest question facing us to date:
Will this work?
By any measure my testing indicates success. I am amazed that something closely resembling the football helmet we wore in college is today a high-tech, crime-fighting tool of unlimited potential. To have this prototype at our disposal, designed, created and freely offered to us by a girl not yet legally able to order a cocktail in a restaurant, I find to be astounding. Tomorrow afternoon we are scheduled to conduct a live test using the Helmet’s original purpose, flight navigation and control of the drone, in the Nevada desert, a rather infamous stretch of stiflingly hot wasteland bordering on Area 51. The last time I was through this barren, moon-like terrain was on a fixed-gear bike trying my best to stay hydrated and avoid a plague of Mormon crickets that painted the hot asphalt a deep scarlet red with their blood and body parts. I can still hear the deadly crunch as our wheels rode over them at twenty-five miles per hour as we desperately made our escape from the hellish landscape. Hopefully my return will result a less dramatic visit.
Together the Helmet and the Drone constitute the most important pair of weapons in our mission’s arsenal. Both serving dual purposes and each with their own unique capabilities, they combine to allow us to do the impossible. Or, properly put, to do something that no-one has done before us. It isn’t impossible and with the tools at our disposal, might be considered routine - but - all this is on paper and as many times as I have reviewed the details of the scheme, there always exists the distinct possibility of error, human error being the most common. As the infamous bumper sticker proclaimed in the seventies: Shit happens.
It is my job, as protagonist in this drama, to ensure that we play an error free game. I am the lead, I wear the Helmet and my mission, a tightly scripted improvisation, prompted and assisted by the real time utility known as the Verometer, an embedded computer program keeping dialogue focused along the statistical path of best chance probability during the one-time faux demonstration of the Drone. My audience will be Warden Daniels, one of his most trusted lieutenants and my ‘assistant', most likely Drysdale who has been under-cover in Vegas working the ACLU angle for several weeks. He is close, capable and a perfect fit for this pivotal scene.
The test will be run by The Queen and one of her assistants, making the total number of people in attendance four, large enough to conduct the test yet small enough to contain it. We will meet in the small oasis outpost of Fallon, caravan almost one hundred miles south-east on Highway 50, and then four-wheel to the test site. In just under two hours we should have the answer to the biggest question facing us to date:
Will this work?
Thursday, June 25, 2020
Two for Two
174.
Using a familiar statistic, the batting average, I admit that my testing to date is hitting a thousand, two for two. This afternoon's at bat will test the true ability of the Verometer function of The Helmet, as perhaps only a wicked curve-ball can.
So far we have tested the program's ability to discern good poetics from bad, admirable policies from profiteering ones, popular culture trivia (that road in Rome offering myriad destinations) and several minor tangential aspects linking them.
Today's testing trifecta concludes with another scantily concealed attempt at trickery; The philosophical. Thee premise being that should the Verometer be capable of differentiation in a category renown for subjectivity, we might be on to something. I suppose next I will ask if there is a God, and if so, what she was thinking when she created man and his eventual evolution into metaphysical thought. I am confident that one of the reasons was NOT so she could be entertained by men hitting (or attempting to hit) a small sphere hurled from sixty feet and six inches away.
I need to be careful with this one because the very nature of our jobs consists of violating, on necessary occasions, several commandments, tenants, rules, paths, philosophies, cultural mandates and laws. It is, as a footnote, our sworn duty to use this power for the sole purple of enforcing our own guiding text known as the Constitution. With this oath in mind I set abut to author the language of today's test. Adding another layer of subtlety, I try the first person narrative format.
"It is imperative that during the process of this investigation that my methodology presents a non-threatening and sophisticated appearance to the persons or persons being investigated. I need to be smart, talented, street-wise and connected in matters above and well beyond the average. I need to be a walking encyclopedia and a talking Google machine, capable of philosophical exchange, political commentary and popular culture familiarity. I must be competent in math, science, physics and art. I must be fluent in major religions as well as special weapons and tactics. Two commonly misunderstood concepts offer important clues in the search for meaning, and hence the answers to a thousand years of introspective analysis. They are:
Karma.
Forgiveness.
It is said that Karma is about intent, not about doing. This explains why the solder is innocent of murder, but the politician who ordered it, guilty.
We forgive not to grant the perpetrator absolution but to rid ourselves of the weight of carrying the immense emotional burden of holding the verdict in our hearts until time when the the confession is complete. It is more for us than for them.
With this in mind I submit that the meaning of life is to find happiness and that our mission, especially in regard to the current assignment, is in keeping with the intent of all non-violent philosophical doctrines and universal laws."
Again I place the digital recorder's external speaker into the Helmet and gently tap the play icon. I listen to the treatise and upon completion wait the obligatory two seconds for the response from the program.
"Base hit. Continue Your Practice."
Using a familiar statistic, the batting average, I admit that my testing to date is hitting a thousand, two for two. This afternoon's at bat will test the true ability of the Verometer function of The Helmet, as perhaps only a wicked curve-ball can.
So far we have tested the program's ability to discern good poetics from bad, admirable policies from profiteering ones, popular culture trivia (that road in Rome offering myriad destinations) and several minor tangential aspects linking them.
Today's testing trifecta concludes with another scantily concealed attempt at trickery; The philosophical. Thee premise being that should the Verometer be capable of differentiation in a category renown for subjectivity, we might be on to something. I suppose next I will ask if there is a God, and if so, what she was thinking when she created man and his eventual evolution into metaphysical thought. I am confident that one of the reasons was NOT so she could be entertained by men hitting (or attempting to hit) a small sphere hurled from sixty feet and six inches away.
I need to be careful with this one because the very nature of our jobs consists of violating, on necessary occasions, several commandments, tenants, rules, paths, philosophies, cultural mandates and laws. It is, as a footnote, our sworn duty to use this power for the sole purple of enforcing our own guiding text known as the Constitution. With this oath in mind I set abut to author the language of today's test. Adding another layer of subtlety, I try the first person narrative format.
"It is imperative that during the process of this investigation that my methodology presents a non-threatening and sophisticated appearance to the persons or persons being investigated. I need to be smart, talented, street-wise and connected in matters above and well beyond the average. I need to be a walking encyclopedia and a talking Google machine, capable of philosophical exchange, political commentary and popular culture familiarity. I must be competent in math, science, physics and art. I must be fluent in major religions as well as special weapons and tactics. Two commonly misunderstood concepts offer important clues in the search for meaning, and hence the answers to a thousand years of introspective analysis. They are:
Karma.
Forgiveness.
It is said that Karma is about intent, not about doing. This explains why the solder is innocent of murder, but the politician who ordered it, guilty.
We forgive not to grant the perpetrator absolution but to rid ourselves of the weight of carrying the immense emotional burden of holding the verdict in our hearts until time when the the confession is complete. It is more for us than for them.
With this in mind I submit that the meaning of life is to find happiness and that our mission, especially in regard to the current assignment, is in keeping with the intent of all non-violent philosophical doctrines and universal laws."
Again I place the digital recorder's external speaker into the Helmet and gently tap the play icon. I listen to the treatise and upon completion wait the obligatory two seconds for the response from the program.
"Base hit. Continue Your Practice."
Who is Jack Kerouac
173.
Pleased with the results of round one, the long game test, I change direction and step into the unknown topography of the 'meandering.' I decide to be coy in my attempt to 'prove' that a computer based artificial intelligence algorithm is incapable of delivering qualitative, subjective opinion that satisfies a 'popular culture' inquiry. Such issues often arise during the investigative stages of operations, and as my current mission is to familiarize myself with the apparatus, its use and its potential - its strengths and weakness' - I consider this perhaps an even better criteria than the first. I envision this round as something in a Jeopardy style game, where the contestant, in this case The Helmet, must correctly answer my question with one of its own.
"This writer effectively bridged the cultural gap between the beatniks of the 50's and the hippies of the 60's. His celebrated works documented the cross-country travels of a handful of intrepid adventurers determined to eschew material-based consumerism, traditional capitalistic ideologies and middle class values, to celebrate with Zen-like mindfulness the ever present here and now."
In quick recall of specific fact, I see cowboy Neal at the wheel of a bus to never-never land. I also recognize that by intentional mimicking or subliminal transmission, many of my most honored personal characteristics are those more historically attributed to the main character of this authors most popular work. Risking the show of age, this work was first published was I was seven years old. Risking the show of inexperience, it took me another fifteen-years to add this tome to my list of books read.
How this fits into the current assignment, Operation Firecracker, is a matter of detail. We are testing a new technology, several, that could have direct implication on the success of the mission, and, one could argue, establish new procedural protocols in the never ending battle for truth, justice and the democratic way. Inside this grossly exaggerated synopsis is my work today in testing the brain-child of our woman-child plant inside a terrorist cell.
I carefully record the question in my best Art Flemming voice and place the tennis-ball sized speaker inside the Helmet. Remotely I press the play icon. I listen as the digital recording plays, satisfied with my impersonation. It takes exactly two seconds after the tape ends for the Verometer to answer, amazingly and with the requisite precise formatting, the question to the question:
"Who is Jack Kerouac?"
Pleased with the results of round one, the long game test, I change direction and step into the unknown topography of the 'meandering.' I decide to be coy in my attempt to 'prove' that a computer based artificial intelligence algorithm is incapable of delivering qualitative, subjective opinion that satisfies a 'popular culture' inquiry. Such issues often arise during the investigative stages of operations, and as my current mission is to familiarize myself with the apparatus, its use and its potential - its strengths and weakness' - I consider this perhaps an even better criteria than the first. I envision this round as something in a Jeopardy style game, where the contestant, in this case The Helmet, must correctly answer my question with one of its own.
"This writer effectively bridged the cultural gap between the beatniks of the 50's and the hippies of the 60's. His celebrated works documented the cross-country travels of a handful of intrepid adventurers determined to eschew material-based consumerism, traditional capitalistic ideologies and middle class values, to celebrate with Zen-like mindfulness the ever present here and now."
In quick recall of specific fact, I see cowboy Neal at the wheel of a bus to never-never land. I also recognize that by intentional mimicking or subliminal transmission, many of my most honored personal characteristics are those more historically attributed to the main character of this authors most popular work. Risking the show of age, this work was first published was I was seven years old. Risking the show of inexperience, it took me another fifteen-years to add this tome to my list of books read.
How this fits into the current assignment, Operation Firecracker, is a matter of detail. We are testing a new technology, several, that could have direct implication on the success of the mission, and, one could argue, establish new procedural protocols in the never ending battle for truth, justice and the democratic way. Inside this grossly exaggerated synopsis is my work today in testing the brain-child of our woman-child plant inside a terrorist cell.
I carefully record the question in my best Art Flemming voice and place the tennis-ball sized speaker inside the Helmet. Remotely I press the play icon. I listen as the digital recording plays, satisfied with my impersonation. It takes exactly two seconds after the tape ends for the Verometer to answer, amazingly and with the requisite precise formatting, the question to the question:
"Who is Jack Kerouac?"
Wednesday, June 24, 2020
Music to My Pointy Ears
172.
“If by being liberal they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights and their civil liberties — someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our polices abroad, if that is what they mean by being a “Liberal”, then I am proud to say I am a “Liberal.”
It has always been my contention that any new technology requires relentless testing. The Helmet is the technology and my latest test is regarding its uncanny and brilliant feature that The Queen has programmed to act as its ‘soul.’
The artificial intelligence most common to modern computer applications contains the DNA bias of the programmer. It can be rigidly binary in strict observance of objectivity, or subliminally ‘suggest’ certain modalities as ‘better than others.’ Depending on the desired outcome of the program, this allows for a virtually unlimited opportunity to steer the vehicle towards the desired destination. You might call it a digital map. The Queen has taken it a step further through the tried and true methodology of starting from the conclusion and working backwards, a device frequently employed by writers, especially those in the science fiction genre.
It works on the premise that the desired result has several roads leading to it; The long game, the meandering, and the path of least resistance. Frodo Baggins played the long game, Jack Kerouac the meandering and Siddhartha Gautama walked the path of instant enlightenment. The AI code embedded into the utility of the Helmet works as a real-time navigational function that provides continual prompts alerting the 'pilot’ to the best choices in any given circumstance. If, as an example, the Helmet, using its weather forecasting capability, notices a turn by the Pilot into the path of a pending hail storm, a tone is delivered to advise another tact. The Queen also claims that a similar function works with verbal interactions as well. If, as she has painstakingly outlined in the users manual, one was engaged in a debate that has direct consequence to the mission's success, a ‘good, better, best” series of tones would ensure that the Pilot stays on tack and on topic. This feature she calls the ‘Verometer’: vero meaning truth and meter its volume, with the pronunciation emphasis on the second syllable.
This is the feature I am interested in testing today.
The ways and means of my test consists of recording three short quotes from three diverse authors. I then place a small speaker inside the Helmet and play the tape, all the while monitoring the programs response by listening to the subsequent tones, each a perfectly suited pitch and frequency; Good is a pleasant Chopin-ish note implying harmony, not-so-good is indicated by a discordant and abrupt atonal clang and bad is a solid thud. After a period of time in adjustment and adaption, this rather Pavlovian process actually alters one’s methodology and reasoning. It is, she argues, as close to installing a heart and soul into a computer program as technology has achieved in the seventy years of its fledgling existence. She goes as far as to add that even Mr Spock would appreciate its emotional relevancy.
I am genuinely encouraged and more than a touch surprised to hear a series of pleasant sounding harmonic tones during the test recording of JFK’s brilliant observation on liberalism.
It is music to my pointy ears.
“If by being liberal they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights and their civil liberties — someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our polices abroad, if that is what they mean by being a “Liberal”, then I am proud to say I am a “Liberal.”
It has always been my contention that any new technology requires relentless testing. The Helmet is the technology and my latest test is regarding its uncanny and brilliant feature that The Queen has programmed to act as its ‘soul.’
The artificial intelligence most common to modern computer applications contains the DNA bias of the programmer. It can be rigidly binary in strict observance of objectivity, or subliminally ‘suggest’ certain modalities as ‘better than others.’ Depending on the desired outcome of the program, this allows for a virtually unlimited opportunity to steer the vehicle towards the desired destination. You might call it a digital map. The Queen has taken it a step further through the tried and true methodology of starting from the conclusion and working backwards, a device frequently employed by writers, especially those in the science fiction genre.
It works on the premise that the desired result has several roads leading to it; The long game, the meandering, and the path of least resistance. Frodo Baggins played the long game, Jack Kerouac the meandering and Siddhartha Gautama walked the path of instant enlightenment. The AI code embedded into the utility of the Helmet works as a real-time navigational function that provides continual prompts alerting the 'pilot’ to the best choices in any given circumstance. If, as an example, the Helmet, using its weather forecasting capability, notices a turn by the Pilot into the path of a pending hail storm, a tone is delivered to advise another tact. The Queen also claims that a similar function works with verbal interactions as well. If, as she has painstakingly outlined in the users manual, one was engaged in a debate that has direct consequence to the mission's success, a ‘good, better, best” series of tones would ensure that the Pilot stays on tack and on topic. This feature she calls the ‘Verometer’: vero meaning truth and meter its volume, with the pronunciation emphasis on the second syllable.
This is the feature I am interested in testing today.
The ways and means of my test consists of recording three short quotes from three diverse authors. I then place a small speaker inside the Helmet and play the tape, all the while monitoring the programs response by listening to the subsequent tones, each a perfectly suited pitch and frequency; Good is a pleasant Chopin-ish note implying harmony, not-so-good is indicated by a discordant and abrupt atonal clang and bad is a solid thud. After a period of time in adjustment and adaption, this rather Pavlovian process actually alters one’s methodology and reasoning. It is, she argues, as close to installing a heart and soul into a computer program as technology has achieved in the seventy years of its fledgling existence. She goes as far as to add that even Mr Spock would appreciate its emotional relevancy.
I am genuinely encouraged and more than a touch surprised to hear a series of pleasant sounding harmonic tones during the test recording of JFK’s brilliant observation on liberalism.
It is music to my pointy ears.
Sunday, June 21, 2020
Somewhere in the Vicinity of Emotion
171.
Per TOM’s scribbled memo, I call Warden Daniels.
“Good afternoon Warden, hope you are enjoying a pleasant Colorado afternoon.”
“Colonel Mason, good day to you sir. What can I do for you?” He says without a trace of good humor.
“I was just in a meeting, chaired by the Senator, where we received updates on the program. In his brief the Senator mentioned that the two of you had a productive conversation, so I am following up to ensure all systems are a solid go for next week.”
“Yes, well, the Senator called a few days ago to address a concern or two I had regarding the logistics of the test. I suppose you could say that it was productive in as much as we agreed to terms. That’s about all.”
“I trust that you have reviewed the timeline we sent. Are there any logistical issues I can help with?”
“Yes, I have thoroughly reviewed the schedule of operations. There are a couple of minor security issues, house rules, that we need to implement, but nothing we can’t clarify before your arrival,” he states still feeling his way around the rare situation of his being ordered into action instead the other way around, “but we will be ready and prepared for your visit to our facility.”
“Could you clarify the house rules that refer to security for me please, should I need to address them prior to the test.”
“The most important being the number of staff you are planning on bringing. The directive states yourself and a small staff, we need to run background checks on whomever you are traveling with. I trust you understand the requirement for this,” he offers in a distant monotone.
“At this time it will be myself and one other, our Director of Operations, Mr. Fieldstone, a GS15 civilian with top level security clearance. There is still the possibility that one other will be joining us, but her availability is subject to other pressing concerns in the Middle-East. I will advise you on any changes to this as intel comes available. Also I trust it clear that the actual demonstration will be witnessed by yourself and two of your staff. We, as you, are committed to the highest levels of security, we need to keep this as controlled as possible. Please ensure that the two of your staffers are one-hundred percent trustworthy for this sensitive assignment. This cannot leak. I am sure we agree on this.”
“We do,” confirms the Warden instinctively.
“Outstanding, I will keep you updated on the staffing. Thank you and I look forward to meeting you and conducting what I am sure you will find to be a most dramatic demonstration of modern military technology. You will be in for a wild ride into the history books, sir, I guarantee.”
“Likewise, good day then,” he closes with a tone somewhere in the vicinity of honest emotion.
One Line
170.
I have always appreciated the nuanced similarity connecting actors with athletes. The actor, be they on stage or on set, portray another person who’s characteristics, mannerisms, attitudes and actions create a story line. The athlete, who thrives in real time surrounded by near constant danger, portrays her best self in the heat of battle. They each must adapt to changing circumstance, call upon their experience and training, inspire and lead others into and out of violent confrontations with their opponents and find a sense of dynamic flow in their quest for victory. The only difference between the two is that the athlete must adhere to a strict set of rules and play in front of the watchful eyes of a referee, umpire or official. The actor, as suggested by the script writer and instructed by the director, is unencumbered by such rules.
It is with this socio-philosophical backdrop that we use our individual gifts, physical and intellectual, to achieve the common goals of each discipline: The creation of good art. Without hesitation I can recreate hundreds of special moments from my athletic past, the perfectly placed spiral hitting the target in stride forty yards downfield, a dramatic twisting, spinning, dodging, starting and stopping run to daylight. To me there is little difference between the long hours of practice required of a successful athlete and the physical demands of the endurance athlete, where the only question is how long the time separating the opening gun from the closing curtain. Likewise, the many dramatic, frightening and joyful moments on stage in front of a live audience, who’s only demands are to share instant emotion, are equally vibrant in the library of my random access memory. There are themes, experiences, lessons and magic moments from each with which we may call upon when the situation requires improvisation.
This is one of those moments, or rather this is the moment I practice and prepare for that moment.
I will need to be both actor and athlete. I will need sharp wit, stage presence, a command of the material and the ability to follow the lead of the person who holds no understanding of the line, page or act. I will be acting with a non-actor. This is like dancing with a pine tree or batting practice with a pitching machine, the interaction all one-sided, a soliloquy of solitude.
The character I will portray is a retired Marine Colonel who now heads a clandestine defense contractor operation loosely affiliated with NASA, McDonnell Douglass and a startup civilian company called Oculus Rift. He is also the liaison between the Department of Defense who funds the operation and the amalgamation of private and military contractors. His persona is charismatically professional, profoundly confident, energetic and, in a chivalrous way, both classic and modern. He appreciates the difference between talent and luck, noise and music, victory and defeat. He loves a good Cuban cigar and a formidable challenge.
The Queen has authored a line by line script that is a brilliant forecast of the critical time we, Warden Daniels and myself as Col Mason, stand admiring the silent maneuverability of the secret drone in a test at the epicenter of the highly secure exercise yard in the frozen vortex of the most escape-proof maximum security prison in the United States.
I have a single line of dialogue to deliver that is the culmination of all our efforts to arrive at these precise coordinates and with the target personnel. The line must achieve the desired result.
One line.
Saturday, June 20, 2020
In Rehearsal
169.
Of all the applications, codes, algorithms, devices and their resulting utilities, none are more impressive than The Helmet. The Queen of Hearts has put special emphasis into its design and prototype manufacturing. By leveraging her many contacts in the fledgling world of virtual reality she has mashed-up a device that might be the modern day equivalent to the technological inflection point rushed into reality in 1945 by a small group of the worlds best and brightest. Robert Oppenheimer was nicknamed the American Prometheus for his genius engineering and hurried development of the first atomic weapon, saving — by force — perhaps millions of human lives through the ultimate shock and awe destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Of course that was the spin put on it by the Department of War, later to become the softer sounding Department of Defense. Harry Truman knew full well this was his only chance of a favorable review in the history books after that infamous August day. However devastating Fat Man and Little Boy were to Japan, The Helmet held the potential to impose another type of justice upon the criminally unjust. In both cases it is vital to see the wisdom behind the chilling warning, ’when used for peacekeeping purposes.’
The Helmet, part Robocop, part Terminator and part Spielberg, is a wearable combination that augments sight, sound, touch and smell if you so desired. In the latter olfactory category, The Queen insisted that there are medical applications that have, to date, gone unexplored. The helmet itself looks like the modern headwear used by jet fighter pilots with a painted dome, heads-up display face mask and an assortment of wires, hoses, sensors and a pair of matching antennae. Because of its weight it sits atop a padded neck and shoulder brace. That is the upper portion of the apparatus. The lower part is what the design team calls the Iron Fist. The fist is connected by Blue-tooth technology to the helmet allowing motion control with similar maneuverability as a gaming joystick. The combination the two gives the operator control over whatever objects are connected via 5G wireless technology. In this specific case The Queen has successfully paired the Helmet with the drone. All the operator, called the Pilot, needs to do is see, feel, hear, point, lean and direct the drone in much the same way that one operates a flight simulator. With these basic operating functions the drone can maneuver into and out of situations previously considered impossible. The myriad functions of this technology is, in the opinion of those desperately trying to patent its power potential, profoundly robust.
As always, Queen has other plans. Anybody can build something and sell it, license it or mass manufacture it, but to her way of thinking, a style that I have quickly learned to respect and appreciate, the true test is in its application.
At this point in the history of The Helmet fate has intervened.
A series of ‘what if’ questions has led us to the formulation of the foundational strategy holding Operation Firecracker together like C-clamped flat-iron pressing a thousand pounds of torque.
It is this crucial bit of technology that gives us the plan. With it, we live to fight other days, without it we are dead in the water.
The Queen has provided me with a script. My role as Colonel Mason, is to demonstrate the superior firepower capabilities of this revolutionary new device, one that could have similar impact on society as Oppenheimer’s, to Warden Daniels.
That is the easy part. There is another, altogether more complex and vitally important component to the operation that hinges on my sales performance.
The script calls for me to goad the Warden into trying out The Helmet for himself as the drone hovers one-hundred feet above his SuperMax prison facility on the evening of the test.
Today I am in rehearsal.
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
The Mad Conductor
168.
The four of us sit in the DC war room. Paradoxically, the largess of our current mission is in sharp contrast to the tiny office space we call HQ. Six computer screens have replaced traditional wall coverings and the space is constantly abuzz with the static of an operation in progress. Julie and Harlan sit at their consuls, TOM and I behind them on a slight riser that provides a better viewing angle. The additional eight or so inches of elevation also gives us the slight advantage of seemingly owing the higher ground. It is the first time that I have been invited to sit in this lofty position alongside TOM and I can see that Julie is enjoying my metaphorical first day on the job uncomfortability.
Harlan is monitoring intelligence chatter on two fronts, one is the paranoia coming from Warden Daniels as he tries to validate the drone test and its briefcase full of inconsistencies. The second is the meeting in Vegas between Drysdale and the local NAACP bureau chief. They are in their third day of talks, the subject matter so sensitive that it might be impossible to contain, let alone control. On both of these integral snapshots of the bigger picture, TOM jots notes and silently passes them to me.
Have Col Mason call the Warden again asking about his conversation with the Senator, and suggesting we consider upping the ante in Drysdale’s poker game.
I silently nod my head in agreement as Julie creates a model on the probabilities of mission success.
Davis and Saunders seem to be establishing a positive relationship with Adleson, especially after his background check on the pair turned up the fake bios we planted. Wildly successful international financial entrepreneurs and retired stock market wizards.
But the big news of the day comes from The Queen. Sequestered in her office, under the guise of working on a plan to spring the boss from SuperMax Florence by tossing a million dollars at lawyers, with bribes and around crooked judges, she has actually been perfecting the programs that will actually do just that. It is a cyber double-cross known only to her and the four people sitting in this room. I am constantly amazed by the talent that this young girl, not yet twenty, exhibits in the neo-craft of computer hacking. The best programmers, security experts, computer science nerds and the entire intelligence community, backed by all the money that Fort Knox could guarantee, is no match for her genius. When her time comes, and it is coming soon, there will be a host of ref-faced officials wanting quick answers to hot questions.
Still, she has a way to go. We are banking on the fact that she will have the programs up and running at the precise time necessary. We are setting the stage, working acts one and two, creating a backdrop of colossal drama. Once we have built the requisite tension and arranged for all the bad guys, the antagonists of a thousand nightmares, to gather in one place at one time, our titular operation needs to explode much like Francis Scott Key’s bombs bursting in air.
In this comparison, the orchestra has taken the stage and is tuning up as the auditorium fills to capacity.
The only thing missing is the mad conductor and her sheet music.
Monday, June 15, 2020
Cancel Our T-Time
167.
Davis is enjoying his role as entrepreneurial mobster. He sits at the table with Saunders, also slightly overplaying her role, the pair of high-level managers and what appears to be the business legal counsel for Adelson’s gaming operations in Las Vegas. They are waiting for the boss to arrive. Davis can see his reflection in the highly polished Brazilian cherrywood tabletop, indicating, to him, that despite the environmental tone deafness of the furniture's owner, it probably is oblivious to someone who could buy the Amazon rainforest should he desire.
They sit silent, game faces on.
From a hidden door behind them Aldelson enters the meeting room, walks to his place at the head of the table and sits. He scans the table’s attendees and, apparently satisfied, opens the dialogue,”Well good afternoon everyone, I understand that we have a proposal to hear from this talented pair of, what, businessmen?” he looks at Saunders and condescendingly adds “and business women?” Davis internally recoils at his gross sexism, but shows no external indication that he really wants to shoot the prick in the face with the concealed derringer in his right snakeskin boot.
Everyone nobs a terse ‘good afternoon’ in response.
“So let’s get to the heart of the matter. We have you on surveillance video using a gaming device to manipulate the outcome of our slot machines, an outcome that we pay a premium to ensure is impossible. You may begin your presentation by stating why we shouldn’t simply arrest you on the spot and, meeting adjourned, spend the rest of this glorious day golfing. If we find your opening argument satisfactory, you may continue, if not, we have a tee time in one hour. Please begin.”
Davis clears his dry throat and opens his prepared oration with as much bravado and falsified confidence as he is able to invoke.
“Thanks you for seeing us. The demonstration was due to the timeliness of the situation. Had we of gone through standard channels the odds of this meeting happening would have been much too late to leverage the opportunity at hand. We simply felt that by proving our capabilities, knowing full well we were on camera, would speed the process of getting to, well, this. We fully intend to reimburse every penny of the illicit payout once we have an arrangement in place.”
Adelson raises one eyebrow significantly higher than the other and cocks his head approvingly.
“But that is small potatoes,” Davis says, gaining momentum, “Compared to the bigger picture opportunity we offer to you in good faith.”
Even Saunders is impressed by the performance.
Davis powerfully pauses for effect, re-establishing eye contact with the others at the table before proceeding.
“The gaming device is not the end game, it is the opening move of a pawn in a chess game. We have the technology to silently and efficiently manipulate Wall Street and put the gutless and greedy bastards in check with one decisive move. Call it a Queen-Bishop diagonal assault.” The looks on every face in the room are similar versions of disbelief and doubt.
Davis yields to Saunders for the closing salvo.
She stands.
“We have the tools, the technology and the motivation to make this the biggest score in the history of organized gaming. And I am sure you all agree that to be the actual business designation of the stock market. We can set up and create a shadow corporation, manipulate its standing, rating and value, leverage its portfolio and, when the moment is maximized, sell the stocks we digitally and virtually created from scratch. It is genius, foolproof and guaranteed.”
Even the fly on the wall is silent with the ramification of this bombshell.
“Why me? What is this to me? We run a legal operation from top to bottom,” falsifies Adelson.
“We need someone with your clout to bankroll the operation.”
“Payout?”
“Put up ten get one hundred.”
“We talking millions?”
“We’re talking billions.”
One of the execs snorts and is immediately silenced by a devastatingly sinister glare from the boss.
Aldelson sits with his chin on the knuckles of his interlaced hands looking alternately at Davis and then Saunders.
He looks menacingly at the underling who voiced the audible response to the dollar amounts. He looks like he could use a shower.
Adleson says to him with deadly calm, “Call and cancel our tee-time.”
Click
166.
Senator Jefferson Hartaugh (R) South Carolina, has taken the bait with a bite so hard it breaks a tooth. Hooked by the allure of bringing another district into the political fold of corruption, racism and xenophobia, and snared by yet another opportunity to inflict punishment on what he refers to as the ‘dark demographic,’ he calls the Warden as a political favor to TOM. His motto has always been to do as little as possible for the greatest amount of gain, personal, political or professional, making this one a no-brainer.
He has an aid set up the call and keeps the Warden on hold for several minutes to showcase his importance and demanding work-load.
“This is Senator Hartaugh, good day to you sir,” he begins the charade.
“Good afternoon Senator, a pleasure as always speaking with you,” The Warden says.
“I have a long afternoon of meetings scheduled sir, so please accept my apologies up front if I get right to the point without the usual pleasantries and small-talk.”
“Quite all right sir, its about this drone testing event scheduled for next week, and I was……”
He is rudely cut off by Hartaugh who’s sole purpose is to blow smoke and shine mirrors in the Wardens direction with as little debate as possible.
“The reason security is so tight with this is to ensure that the technology we have created stays where it belongs and doesn’t find its way into the wrong hands sir. I trust that you can understand this extra precaution, so it was with great internal debate that I intentionally kept the circle small, for which I apologize to you for exclusion in the process. We need to test the apparatus and your facility is the tightest and safest anywhere making it ideal for both the test and subsequent analysis. If we tried this test almost anywhere else this side of Elmendorf, the media would sniff it out like a coonhound. Once we have proof of concept, the results of the test, we will roll out phase two and thank those involved with the project in appropriate ways. In your case that means praise, gratitude and a substantial bonus when your contract is up for renewal, which I believe is next March is it not?”
“Yes, March,” The Warden says in a warming tone.
“Please provide your assistance and complete cooperation to Col Mason and his staff, and if you have any additional questions, we will have to address them tomorrow as I have just been called into a meeting with the Joint-Chiefs,” Hartaugh lies.
“No sir, that is it, I simply wanted to make sure this thing is on the up and up, thank you for your time, sir.”
“We’ll come out a play a round of gold when this is done, thank you again.”
Click.
Hang in There
165.
Managing multiple protocols is the term. It is not unlike the modern, hands-on CEO who insists on a supervisory role in every department, from research and development to final-mile fulfillment. Operation Firecracker meets this definition to the proverbial T. We are the cat hanging onto the bamboo pole determined to endure.
If any one of the four separate but connected parts fail, or is forced to traverse too far off the initial path, the whole plan dies a painful and ignoble death. It is my job to manage this colossal, chaotic and potentially catastrophic real-time operation. The wheels spin, the players play, the dogs bark and the operation moves intrepidly along.
On every front line there is the possibility of error. Human error being the most common. As we have seen on innumerable occasions, the progeny of fatigue is the problem child. Overwhelmed and undernourished, the emotional and physical toll a 24/7 watch takes on a length of chain eventually reveals its weakest link. Mistakes are a thousandfold more likely when fatigue is stacked atop fatigue.
We practice this. Endurance cardio training is one way to adapt the body’s reaction to dealing with extreme stress, as meditation is to the emotional and cerebral. We have found that the key is to develop the ability to remain centered in the present moment. No matter the situation, no matter how far the goal line truly is, keeping present one yard at a time is the solution. There must be flow, we breathe, we relax and we call upon our innate understanding that we will survive. Because this is the good fight, we are on the side of truth, beauty, justice and higher consciousness. We have a clear mission and a reason for this challenge and suffering. We endure, we resist, and we are willing to make sacrifice within this most noble of life callings. This mantra must be a truth at the cellular level. We must believe. There must be hope. If we can sustain this dynamic flow, even as there is flow in the most demanding, uncomfortable and challenging situations, we push the agenda closer and closer to its intended conclusion.
Today we have confrontation and disaster potential on two of the four fronts.
The warden is one phone call away from blowing the whistle on the phony drone test and Davis and Saunders are about to meet with Adleman in Vegas to present the ‘business opportunity of a lifetime’ proposal. Both are vital parts of the operation as an engine and transmission are to an automobile, lose one and you aren’t going anywhere. Still our practice says tells us that 'If the horse don't pull you got to carry the load.' And we improvise, keep moving, do what it takes.
There are several options, any one of which present other counter-options, playing out in real time. It is the classic ‘If so-and-so does such-and-such’, we respond as best our experience and training dictates. When these situations pop up on multiple timelines, the responses from the field operatives make or break the overall strategy. Make it and we live to fight another day, break it and we are done. Done being a metaphor for dead.
I hear my inner coach voice the common motivational adage I in turn so often use with my team:
“Hang in there.”
Saturday, June 13, 2020
The Fourth Wall
164.
AUTHORS NOTE:
In a complete dismissal of the respect due to the fourth wall, I am speaking as writer, sometimes editor, constant blogger and creator of this site and the Assignment 2020 story. There is good news and bad today. The good is, IMHO, we have been in free-fall exploration of the creative joy of stream of consciousness prose for almost six months, about half way to the target. The goal was, way back before COVID -19 and the GOP insistence on sedition, to script a story at the rate of 500 words per day, for 366 days. While the 163 pages to date may not be of Nobel prize quality, is was, again from my perspective, a noble effort.
And now for the not-so-good news. One morning back in February, I woke up with zero cash flow. Literally overnight I lost six gigs, all indoor cycling related, and/or house and dog sitting. No one was spinning, training, vacationing or, as you know, even leaving home. Something had to be done. And it was.
Since March I have been delivering parcels for the USPS. You can imagine the spike in volume as Amazon.com quickly became the nation’s shopping mall. This week alone I just passed the 80 hour mark. I thought that I could persevere and work through it, but the accumulated fatigue makes it difficult to do anything other than work and sleep. I have tried. But the physical and emotional stress has taken its toll. Bent but not broken and looking for the inflection point of adaptation, I try to Zen it out and stay true to the present moment and its myriad challenges. But I have to take some RnR and allow the process to naturally occur.
All meaning that I am suspending the initial format (and challenge) of writing a new page every day. I will continue as best I can, my next scheduled off-day is Monday, but I wanted to fess-up and be honest about my needing more sleep and fewer literary plot twists.
Up until today it has been a wild ride. I thoroughly enjoy the discipline and practice of the gig. I love my characters, Bogart, the vision of my ultimate best self, and Julie both have real world history. While flawed and sometimes trite, every other page or so offers that rare sentence or turn of phrase that makes me want to continue to dig. As with playing my guitar, I don’t do this because I am good at it, I do it because I like it.
Thanks for spending a few minutes of each day with us. We shall return, and hopefully when we have some of the pressing issues of the day contained, controlled and changed, we can resume the regular formatting.
Until that time, continue your practice.
Love.
KML
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