 The Ukrainian rout and the fall of Artyomovsk (Bakhmut) are clear evidence of Vladimir Putin’s demise, yessir! Chinese bats balloons cranes are spying on us! This is totally different from, totally worse than the FBI, DHS, CIA, NSA, DIA, etc. spying on us. Who knew Mexico was dangerous for Gringos? The SPLC has rebranded itself as the “SDTC”, the Southern Domestic Terrorism Center. Harry Markle hits the magic ‘shrooms. Republicrats are going to “help” us by, say, banning speech, books, blogs, and thinking, and by carting us off to the gulags. A lot is going on. So let’s forget about all of it and concentrate on something serious. Did you see Shotwell Publishing’s press release last week? There was a blurb at the end. This blurb:
My well-informed suspicion is that the novel is the revised second edition of THE SUBSTITUTE, wherein Tom Ironsides brings plenty of action, and much more. Following last week’s interview with Dr. Ironsides, a social mediate remarked, upon learning the ultimate fictional nature of the affair: “I took it for a real interview! Seems like a great cross between Jack Ryan and James Bond, will definitely read more.” This author certainly hopes so. And the comparison to those two great heroes of page and film couldn’t be more appropriate. Tom is an alpha male’s alpha to break the category. The book has multiple themes. One of them concerns Tom’s return to post-modern American society and his attempt to reconcile both his personal life and his place and role in a society gone utterly mad. To complicate matters, his previous clandestine existence follows him home, doggedly and sometimes violently. As such, the story is pushed along by kinetic energy. However, as the man builds a new life, he finds new love. What’s action without romance anyway? Most interestingly, the world of international espionage and martial adventure he thought he’d successfully retired from, winds up being interwoven with his new exploratory career in the collapsing theater of public education. Tom explores that latter spectacle from end to end in an attempt to understand if any part of it can be saved. Can it? And is he the man for the job? Who, among many challengers, wants him dead? How many crimes can a bureaucracy commit? Who are Dandy and the Bass Slayers? The intrepid reader has much to investigate. To help get the inspection going here follows a portion of Chapter Twelve. Enjoy. THE SUBSTITUTE |
| !!! CD BLK ATTACK WAR !!! … !!! HUNTRESS SCRAM F15 NYC !!! … !!! GIANTKILLER RELAY ADS !!! … !!! NCS RPT LANGLEY !!! |
As he raced towards CIA Headquarters, he tried a talk radio station. Some newsman was laughing about the time a World War Two-era bomber accidentally flew into the Empire State Building. This wasn’t an accident! You guys will know soon, he hastily thought. Just as he switched off the dial, his phone started ringing. He let it ring; he had traffic laws to break.
Ten minutes later he ran into a situation room, already crowded with officers, analysts, assistant directors, and several men in military uniforms, mostly Army. They were whispering if they dared to talk at all. All eyes were on the largest of screens in that room which, from the looks of it, could have launched the Space Shuttle. He joined them in time to see the second plane strike. Reports buzzed about the Pentagon. The FAA ceded aerial control to NORAD. Another screen, live from a satellite, computer-highlighted fighters as they assumed Combat Air Patrol over America’s East Coast. The President was moving. The Capitol was evacuating. South Tower collapsed. North Tower followed. A shocked world watched equally stunned media figures stumble through the reports.
His shock gave way to anger. He recalled, vividly, his meeting, little more than a month earlier, at the White House – his first with President Bush. He’d read aloud the footnotes to his April report on Serbia. He was one of the bold who warned of an imminent attack on the nation. He had stared in disbelief as, first one and then another, idiot neocon rebuffed his advice. Who were those people? Bin Laden was not bluffing to cover for Saddam. There was no need to bomb Iraq again. Shit, the targets were THERE, in the US, at that time! He’d lost it on two of the loudest chickenhawks. And, he almost lost his job as a result. He would have but for a certain respect from the Deputy Director and that, for his faults, Bush seemed to know the value of at least one dissenter. They let him stick around but they didn’t take his advice. Now, this!
Many voices spoke to or at him simultaneously. The Director had found him and was instructing him to ready a direct-action team for deployment, probably to Afghanistan, and probably that night.
Does that mean, ‘you were right?’ he thought coldly. ‘Roger that. I need to get the--’
‘They’re saying Tower Seven is going to fall too!’ The Director’s assistant of something had found her boss, and Tom, and broke in. She seemed terrified.
Tom looked at both of them with a grim, set face. ‘Who are they? And, how do they know?’ he replied. Then, as a horrible thought entered his head, he uttered a single word: ‘Northwoods.’
That afternoon, Elizabeth picked up the kids by herself. Tom went not to the Middle East (not yet) but to Tampa so he could escort a band of Saudis out of the country. Their flight happened at a time when no-one else could fly. Almost no-one. His rival teams were busy shuttling Israelis and others back to their homes, some of them being hastily released from custody for the trip. The rest remained muddled, forgotten, and covered-up history.
Derry, New Hampshire, Thanksgiving Eve, late…
Tom, Larry, Darla, Trey, and Romona sat around Larry’s kitchen table, enjoying drinks and conversation. Everyone had been anxious to probe into Tom’s progress with the schools. His answers, while entertaining, didn’t necessarily inspire confidence, at least not in his own self-critical mind.
Trey kept the process in motion: ‘Sounds like you’re learning a lot, Dad. Do you think you like teaching at that, at those levels?’
Tom had been thinking the same thing lately. He was learning, though not everything he learned made him happy. Things were bad, terminally-bad even, but he still wanted to help. The question was, did anyone else want help? He had a strange feeling that, just as his predictions and assessments were ignored before 9/11, so now they would be dismissed by the academy. ‘The Curse of Cassandra,’ he said.
‘The curse of who, now?’ Romona inquired.
Tom explained, ‘Cassandra was the Priestess of Apollo at Troy. A foresight was on her but she was cursed. No matter how many times she was right about things, no one ever took her seriously. It ended up costing Troy the war. That’s how I feel sometimes in this new profession.’
‘Is that the soldier in you? Do you see it as a war?’ Larry wanted to know, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
He did, Tom confirmed: ‘It’s the Marine and the scientist and the moralist in me, yes. And, this most certainly is a war. Not just for the minds of the children, but for the soul of the Nation, of the West itself. We’re losing.’
… [Continued in print]
Ten minutes later he ran into a situation room, already crowded with officers, analysts, assistant directors, and several men in military uniforms, mostly Army. They were whispering if they dared to talk at all. All eyes were on the largest of screens in that room which, from the looks of it, could have launched the Space Shuttle. He joined them in time to see the second plane strike. Reports buzzed about the Pentagon. The FAA ceded aerial control to NORAD. Another screen, live from a satellite, computer-highlighted fighters as they assumed Combat Air Patrol over America’s East Coast. The President was moving. The Capitol was evacuating. South Tower collapsed. North Tower followed. A shocked world watched equally stunned media figures stumble through the reports.
His shock gave way to anger. He recalled, vividly, his meeting, little more than a month earlier, at the White House – his first with President Bush. He’d read aloud the footnotes to his April report on Serbia. He was one of the bold who warned of an imminent attack on the nation. He had stared in disbelief as, first one and then another, idiot neocon rebuffed his advice. Who were those people? Bin Laden was not bluffing to cover for Saddam. There was no need to bomb Iraq again. Shit, the targets were THERE, in the US, at that time! He’d lost it on two of the loudest chickenhawks. And, he almost lost his job as a result. He would have but for a certain respect from the Deputy Director and that, for his faults, Bush seemed to know the value of at least one dissenter. They let him stick around but they didn’t take his advice. Now, this!
Many voices spoke to or at him simultaneously. The Director had found him and was instructing him to ready a direct-action team for deployment, probably to Afghanistan, and probably that night.
Does that mean, ‘you were right?’ he thought coldly. ‘Roger that. I need to get the--’
‘They’re saying Tower Seven is going to fall too!’ The Director’s assistant of something had found her boss, and Tom, and broke in. She seemed terrified.
Tom looked at both of them with a grim, set face. ‘Who are they? And, how do they know?’ he replied. Then, as a horrible thought entered his head, he uttered a single word: ‘Northwoods.’
That afternoon, Elizabeth picked up the kids by herself. Tom went not to the Middle East (not yet) but to Tampa so he could escort a band of Saudis out of the country. Their flight happened at a time when no-one else could fly. Almost no-one. His rival teams were busy shuttling Israelis and others back to their homes, some of them being hastily released from custody for the trip. The rest remained muddled, forgotten, and covered-up history.
Derry, New Hampshire, Thanksgiving Eve, late…
Tom, Larry, Darla, Trey, and Romona sat around Larry’s kitchen table, enjoying drinks and conversation. Everyone had been anxious to probe into Tom’s progress with the schools. His answers, while entertaining, didn’t necessarily inspire confidence, at least not in his own self-critical mind.
Trey kept the process in motion: ‘Sounds like you’re learning a lot, Dad. Do you think you like teaching at that, at those levels?’
Tom had been thinking the same thing lately. He was learning, though not everything he learned made him happy. Things were bad, terminally-bad even, but he still wanted to help. The question was, did anyone else want help? He had a strange feeling that, just as his predictions and assessments were ignored before 9/11, so now they would be dismissed by the academy. ‘The Curse of Cassandra,’ he said.
‘The curse of who, now?’ Romona inquired.
Tom explained, ‘Cassandra was the Priestess of Apollo at Troy. A foresight was on her but she was cursed. No matter how many times she was right about things, no one ever took her seriously. It ended up costing Troy the war. That’s how I feel sometimes in this new profession.’
‘Is that the soldier in you? Do you see it as a war?’ Larry wanted to know, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
He did, Tom confirmed: ‘It’s the Marine and the scientist and the moralist in me, yes. And, this most certainly is a war. Not just for the minds of the children, but for the soul of the Nation, of the West itself. We’re losing.’
… [Continued in print]
 | The rest of the story will be available very soon from Shotwell, Amazon, and wherever better novels are sold. This article was originally published by Perrin Lovett on March 8, 2023. |
1 Comment
Perrin Lovett
3/14/2023 01:56:56 pm
The Book is live now!
https://shotwellpublishing.com/the-substitute/