Dyna-Mike

8.

March 2001

Stanford University was the pinnacle of my career. Working in Missouri was good, going on digs with Dr. Zarins was better, but being on staff at Stanford was the best. It felt good to be a part of such a fine and famous institution. I had said goodbye to Dr. Zarins in the desert sands of Oman over nine years ago, and had moved to California almost immediately after returning to the United States. Dr. Zarins had gone back to the Arabian Desert, and had remained there for two years. I still saw him being interviewed on television from time to time with his latest discovery. He looked as though he hadn't aged a day. He was still trim, smiled all the time, and had the same old glasses. He had uncovered several more Ubarite fortresses, and was a sough-after speaker worldwide.

I was an anthropology instructor, and most of my classes pertained to ancient Middle Eastern archaeology. I had followed in Dr. Zarins' footsteps, and was rather proud of that fact. It was the last Friday before Spring Break, and I was sitting at my desk grading the midterm examinations I had collected from the last class of the day.

"Professor Weatherspoon? " A young lady's voice interrupted my concentration on the test papers I was grading. I looked up to see the smiling face and uncommonly long, thick black hair of Veronica Munoz, my star pupil, outlined in the classroom doorway. Veronica was a lovely woman, 23 years old, and the young men in my class had a very difficult time paying attention to their studies when she was near. Summers were almost unbearable, because she wore as little as possible in an effort to beat the heat. She had a very sweet disposition, and was extraordinarily beautiful. She supplemented her income by modeling for the art department. When it became known she would be posing, the young men flocked to enroll in art classes, hopeful she would appear to be captured in sketch, sculpture, oil and watercolor. She was quite a phenomenon at Stanford, which had no shortage of young, beautiful and wealthy girls from all over the world.

"Yes, Veronica?" I put my papers down. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to know if you wanted some help grading the exams. I know you want to get an early start on the weekend, weren't you going somewhere?" She sauntered into the room and plopped down on one of the chairs.

Of course I had no plans at all. It was hard to imagine Veronica had no plans either, knowing her social popularity on campus. "It's okay, I think I've got it covered. Besides, I'm not doing anything this weekend."

"Nonsense," she replied.  "I'm helping you, and that's that." She reached up and took a stack of papers and a red pencil from the coffee mug on the corner of the desk. "Where's the key?" she asked.

"Right here," I said, and tossed her the answer page. She smiled, and began grading the papers studiously.

About an hour and a half later, we were finished. I gathered all my things together, and placed them in my briefcase. I stood, and stretched, yawning and cracking my knuckles. "Man," I said, and looked at the clock. It was after 5pm. The campus was quiet, most of the students and faculty had left for their vacations some time ago. Veronica stood up, picked up her purse and book bag, and turned to face me.

"Happy Easter, Professor Weatherspoon!" she said warmly.

"Thank you, Veronica. For everything. You're the best student I've ever had." I was telling the truth. In my nine years teaching at Stanford University, never had I come across a more devoted and intelligent study. Veronica had great things in store ahead of her, it was obvious. She had intelligence, looks, and connections. Her father was a congressman of some notoriety, and she was very close to Chelsea Clinton, former President Clinton's daughter, who had graduated the year before. It was not unusual to see Secret Service men pick Veronica and Chelsea up in long, black limousines after classes together. Being the best friend of the daughter of a President did have its perks.

"Nah, Professor, you're just a good teacher!" she quipped. "Bye!" She trotted out the door. I walked over to the exit myself, and reached up to turn off the lights in the classroom. I noticed my own reflection in the glass display cabinet next to the doorway. The years had not been kind. I was 44 years old, I still wore large, thick glasses, I was moderately overweight, my hair was still unkempt and unmanageable, mostly black, but thinning and turning gray more and more each month. I had very little fashion sense, and wore plain slacks with oxford dress shirts and a mohair blazer year-round. My shoes were casual loafers, somewhat scuffed and in need of a good polishing. I had taken to wearing a London Fog all-weather woven hat to shield my eyes from the sun in the summer and the rain in the winter. I had picked up pipe-smoking as well. It was one of the few pleasures in life I allowed myself. The overall combination gave me a bit of a British appearance, but no 'gentleman's air' whatsoever. I really didn't care. After all, there certainly were no women interested in me. I had never even been on a date. Years ago I had accepted the fact that I was not the kind of guy girls were interested in. My work kept me busy, and that had been good enough my entire life. I stepped outside the classroom, closing the door behind me. The custodians would be by soon to clean up, so I left the door unlocked.

I turned and walked towards the parking area. A van full of reveling boys and girls careened past, waving and hooting as though it were New Years Day. Vacation was a pretty big deal to students. Little did they know they would have precious few of them as they grew older and settled in to life. "Good for them," I thought. "Let them enjoy their youth. It only comes once." I reflected on my youth for a moment, started feeling depressed, and shook the feeling off. "No time for that," I said to myself. "Got work to do". I stepped into the parking area, my loafers crunching on the gravel that lined the entire area.

I walked up to the huge motor home parked there, a gargantuan monolith standing alone in the deserted parking lot. After years of living in a cheap, broken down motor home in Chicago and Missouri, then enduring months in primitive tents in the Arabian Desert, I saw no reason the make a change. But I had developed a taste for a bit of luxury, so I had purchased the best coach I could find, and that was my home. It was a far cry from the old Winnebago in Chicago; which seldom had hot water, and never any heat. No, this was a state-of-the-art luxury residential bus, with all the amenities of an opulent hotel room. Nearby was a quiet RV park, where I lived. I drove the coach to work because I never knew how late I'd be working. I spend many nights on campus.

As I clicked the remote, the front doors swooshed open, and the stairs extended to greet me. I loved walking into my RV, it always amazed me the things the manufacturers had thought of. Since it had become obvious to me many years ago that I would go through life without a mate, I felt this lifestyle was perfect for me.

As I entered, I admired the plush recliners in front by the windshield. These two chairs swiveled around to become passenger seats while the vehicle was stationary. Immediately to the left, there was a large living room, thanks to slide-out technology, which allowed a portion of the room to extend on hydraulics far out from the side of the coach, creating lots of floor space. Luxurious leather couches and a large dinette were on either side of the room. Further down was the kitchen, sparkling with custom hand finished oak, custom-cut crystal, brass fittings and fixtures, and hand-painted ceramic tile. Even the hinges of the solid cabinets were delicately decorated with machined scrollwork. The cabinet knobs were hand-crafted porcelain from Italy. The paneling was imported from Honduras. The mirrors along the hallways were lined with beveled crystal. The bathroom had a full-sized marble-lined Jacuzzi bathtub-shower, with twelve water jets that shot water from all directions to provide a full body massage whether standing or reclining. Down further was my bedroom, which had an oversized queen bed topped with a featherbed coverlet, 450 count Egyptian cotton sheets, a hand-made silk comforter from Afghanistan, and a switch that activated the massage unit built into the frame. Oversized pillows abounded, because I spent many hours reading in bed.

The entertainment system was impressive. There was a built-in high fidelity stereo system installed throughout the vehicle, so each room was able to control the sound individually. A roving satellite on the roof kept me hooked up to television and the Internet at broadband speeds while parked and in motion. A panel rose when the switch was flipped to reveal a home theatre complete with surround-sound and large-screen display. It was home, and I liked it. Power came from a super-silent and efficient generator, which could operate for two full days and nights if necessary. It seldom was necessary, because I rarely used anything requiring 110 volts. If the weather became unbearably hot in the summer, I could rely on the silent central heat and air conditioning unit, which kept me as comfortable as royalty. Despite the entertainment and amenities, I rarely did more then eat and read in the RV, which was accomplished by a small reading lamp powered by the coach's rack of deep-cycle batteries.

On this particular evening, I was not in a hurry to do anything or go anywhere. I stepped in, touching a switch that caused the doors to swish shut behind me. I sat on the couch, looking out the windows at the campus I had called home for almost ten years. I sat there thinking for a while.

            "Tweet….tweeeeeeet…..tweeeeeeeet!" bleated my cell phone. I fumbled through the various devices hanging on my belt, and finally found the cellular.

            "Hello?" I answered.

            "Mr. Weatherspoon? Mr. Samual Weatherspoon?" the unfamiliar voice asked.

            "Yes, this is Samual Weatherspoon," I responded.

            "Mr. Weatherspoon, this is Doctor Gould at Fairfax Community Memorial Hospital. I don't know how to tell you this, Mr. Weatherspoon, so I'll just come right out and say it. Your mother has suffered a massive stroke. Her heart is very weak as well, and she's in a coma. She's here in the hospital, and is not expected to survive through the night." The voice fell silent.

            I went deaf for a moment. I felt dizzy. I was confused, disoriented. "When?" I stammered.

            "This afternoon. She was at home watching television as far as we can tell, and it, well it just happened. Her neighbor came over to watch "Oprah" with her and found her slumped over in her chair. We found your phone number and name in her personal effects."

            "Okay. Okay, I'll come right away. It'll take me several hours to get there, but I'll get there right away." I was in a state of shock.

            "Mr. Weatherspoon?" the doctor asked.

            "Yes?" I responded.

            "You'd better hurry." There was silence.

            "Okay." I hung up the phone.

* * *

My coach pulled into the parking lot of the Fairfax hospital about six hours later. It was nearly midnight, and the place was still. I parked in the far corner of the parking lot, to allow room to leave when the time came. I rushed into the lobby, and saw the security guard sitting at the front desk.

"May I direct you, Sir?" she asked pleasantly.

"Weatherspoon. Mrs. Weatherspoon, please. I was told she was here after suffering a stroke." I was sweating, nervous, and my throat was dry.

"Right down that hallway, follow the green stripe o the floor to Intensive Care. Check with the charge nurse when you arrive." She smiled again, and returned to her paperwork.

I walked as fast as I could, with a foul cramp in my stomach. The green line was easy to follow, it was painted right along the center of the hall. It was accompanied by several other lines of various colors, presumably designed to lead visitors to different departments without the aid of maps or guides.

I turned the last corner, and collided abruptly with an obviously exhausted, young hispanic family coming towards me.

"Jeeze, dude, watch where you're going!" the young man complained.

"I'm very sorry, I'm really distracted" I offered lamely. The family shook their heads and stepped out of the way. I slowed down, and approached the nurse's station a few feet in front of me.

I arrived, and two nurses were conversing behind the counter. I cleared my throat, and the eldest woman, presumably the charge nurse, looked up from her conversation.

"Yes, Sir, may I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

"I'm here to see my mother, Mrs. Weatherspoon?" I asked hesitantly.

She looked sidelong at the younger nurse. They both appeared suddenly very uncomfortable.

"Mr. Weatherspoon, if you could just have a seat in the waiting area, Dr. Gould is here and he'd like to speak to you," spoke the charge nurse. Here eyes were filled with compassion, and it was obvious she wanted to say more, but couldn't. I feared the worst.

A few minutes later a short, portly doctor approached me wearing a consultation jacket with several pens protruding from the upper pocket. He was mostly bald, and had a quick gait. He purposely strode up to me, thrust his hand forward, and introduced himself.

"Mr. Weatherspoon, I'm Dr. Gould. I'm your mother's physician."

I shook his hand lamely, awaiting his next words.

"Why don't we sit down for a moment" he said. I perched on the end of one of the  waiting room chairs expectantly.

"What's going on, Doctor?" I asked.

"Mr. Weatherspoon, your mother passed away a few minutes ago. There was nothing we could do." He looked at me, giving me a moment to absorb the news. I could feel myself withdrawing, pulling away from the world as the words echoed inside my head. I felt like I was falling, and began to shake ever so slightly. I made a conscience effort to pull myself together. Dr. Gould patiently waited while I composed myself. It took several minutes to accomplish this. Finally I asked in a shaky voice,

"Tell me what happened."

The doctor began immediately. "Your mother was quite sedentary in her lifestyle, Samual. She had a diet rich in meats, fried foods, fats and sugars; she smoked for years, and she shunned any form of exercise. I tried for years to encourage her to take better care of herself, but she laughed it off, telling me that life without flavor was not life at all. She told me she preferred to live heartily, even if it meant she died sooner. Her cholesterol was extremely high, and her heart was working awfully hard to keep her going for many years. Her arteries were quite hard, and the blood flow just wasn't very efficient. She made it to 72 years of age living the way she wanted. Then she suffered a massive stroke, entered into a coma, and passed away shortly thereafterwards. That's basically the whole story." Dr. Gould waited while I absorbed the information.

"What triggered the stroke?" I asked. "Do we know?"

"Your mother evidently opened and read a letter with some unexpected news inside. The shock was so great, it literally killed her. Her companion found her still clutching the note, barely breathing, and completely incoherent."

"What was in the note?" I asked.

"It was in her hands when the ambulance arrived with her. We put it in the drawer next to her hospital bed with the rest of her personal possessions she had on her person when she arrived." Dr. Gould was silent.

"Mr. Weatherspoon?" he asked.

I shook myself out of deep thought to answer, "What?"

"I'm very sorry about your loss." He smiled compassionately. I actually believed he was sorry.

"Thank you." "May I see her now?" I asked.

"Yes. This way." He led me down a short hall, past several rooms with patients ranging from restless to sleeping comfortably. We entered, and he pulled the curtain open to reveal my mother lying still on her bed. Her skin was pale, almost gray. It was obvious she was dead. I gasped and grabbed the doorframe to steady myself.

"Are you all right, Mr. Weatherspoon?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, just a bit overwhelmed," I replied. "Could I be alone for a few minutes?"

"Certainly. Just let me know when you're finished here," the doctor said as he slipped out quietly, closing the door behind him.

I stood there, looking at my mother's body, realizing I really didn't know her very well at all. In my youth she seemed preoccupied with the business of supporting a kid as a single mom, and never really paid much attention to me. She tended to complain, and I seldom felt I really measured up to her standards, although she had never specifically made any comments that would lead me to come to that conclusion. It was just a general feeling of disconnection; I never was able to understand it, and it was that way for as long as I could remember.

But now she was dead, and the time for understanding had passed. I was distressed that I didn't get to say good-bye to her, but life oftentimes has a way of wryly reminding us what we "should" have done or "could" have done. There was no sense in beating myself up over it.

"Goodbye, Mom. I love you," I whispered softly as my eyes began to fill with tears. I stood beside her body for what seemed like a very long time, staring at her in the still of the night and the silence of the hospital. I began to fatigue after a time, and sat in the chair next to her bed. Memories floated into my consciousness and out again in random order as I reflected on the my life and my mother whom I barely knew. I sat there into the wee hours of the morning, and eventually fell asleep.

"Professor Weatherspoon?" a quiet lady's voice softly asked.

"Yes?" I mumbled, pulling myself out of a dead slumber. My neck ached terribly, I had fallen asleep in the most uncomfortable of positions. The nap in the tortuous hospital chair had left me bent and stiff all over.

"We have to move your mother now, Sir." I looked up and a young nurse was standing there with a couple of orderlies. "Did you want to get her things out of the drawer first?"

"Okay," I said, and stood slowly. I looked down at the empty shell that had once held my mother. It wasn't her any more. It didn't even look like her. It was a bit horrifying, to see this grayed and motionless likeness of her, and the unreality of it struck me like a dark demonic chord of discomfort. I turned away, and stretched, my arms reaching high over my head. Then I turned to face the small cabinet beside the hospital bed.

It was made of beige sheet metal, completely without personality or ambience, and it stood on four wheels for easy relocation. I opened the drawer, and it screeched softly as it pulled against its worn and unlubricated stainless steel tracks. Inside I saw a pair of reading glasses, a crumpled piece of official-looking paper, a pack of "More" menthol cigarettes, a hair comb, and a book of matches. The stark simplicity was ironic. After 72 years, this is all she had with her at the end.

"She was holding this when they brought her in," the young nurse said, pointing at the crushed letter. I picked it up and tried to straighten it out so I could examine it. The room was too dark to see the characters on the page, so I folded it as best as I could, and dropped it into my shirt pocket.

"Thank you for everything," I told the nurse.

"No problem, Sir, I'm very sorry about your loss" she replies sweetly.

I left the room and began to walk back down the hallway, faithfully following the green stripe in the middle of the path back to the entrance of the building. The security guard looked up from her desk and smiled at me.

"Good morning, Sir," she said. I looked out the front door and saw that the sun had risen. It was still very early, and the city had not yet awoken. I walked out to the parking lot to my RV. As I approached I touched the remote, and the doors opened as the steps silently extended to greet me. I entered, hitting the switch so the apparatus would retract behind me. I walked to the rear of the bus to the sleeping quarters, and plopped down on the bed. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

****

I heard singing. It was unlike a song as I knew it, and I was unable to understand the words. But it made me feel good, as if I hadn't a care in the world. I could feel myself smiling in my repose. I reached out to pull myself up on the bed, but my hand met with thin air. I opened my eyes, and there before my eyes was the fairy-like face of Gabrielae, beaming at me with a twinkle in her smile. The now familiar miniscule rainbows peeked in and out of her unbelievably long snow-white hair, and there were hints of voices giggling and singing lightly in the luminescent and swirling background. I made no effort to ascertain my surroundings, having learned long ago I had no control in this domain.

"Gabrielae!" I said warmly, and smiled from deep within my soul. "I was wondering when you would materialize again."

"Samual, I have always been with you!" her musical voice replied, soothing my spirit. Her "I have watched with pride as you have grown wiser and older. I have wept as you have lived a life of loneliness and solitude, without any true companionship. And I have seen as you have pursued your Quest. You have done well, Samual."

"Not as well as you think. I have done much research, and I think I know where to look for the Garden, but I still have no idea what to do next. I've just been living my life, and hoping the next move would make itself known when the time was right." I sighed. All the pain and loneliness of my life just faded away in her presence.

"Samual, your life will soon again change. All that you require to pursue the Quest will come your way, but at the same time new and unforeseen difficulties will arise against you. Your world is about to change as well, dear Samual. There will be wars, and fear here and abroad, and suspicion will rule the hearts of men in time. Many lives will be lost, for your people are nearing the vortex of your destiny as a civilization. The future depends on the outcome of this convergence of worldwide conflict. But for better or worse, you will never be the same again. The days of change are upon you. You will receive great things, but the cost will be very high. You will grow in stature among other men, but you will lose much in the process. There will be much pain and much pleasure. But above all, now, more than ever, you must press forward with the Quest, for if you tarry too long, you will fail, and your world with you." She looked at me seriously, and all became deathly still. "Press on, Samual, for the time is near." She smiled again at me. "I have chosen well," she said, and reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingers trailed the outline of my face, and my senses thrilled to her touch, electrifying me throughout. She withdrew, and spoke again. "Soon, Samual, very soon…." And then she was gone. She gradually faded from my view, and the gay sounds surrounding her faded with her. The mists grew slowly darker, until I was alone in the darkness. I heard a thumping in the distance, growing in intensity until the beats were loud and startling. I looked around to see what I could see, but it was useless, the beating continued.

"Thump, thump, thump……thump, thump, thump," came the steady rhythmic  sound. I leaned towards the noise, and suddenly my head struck something hard. I closed my eyes as I winced, grabbing the injured spot on the upper right side of my forehead. I opened my eyes, and saw I had fallen out of bed onto the RV flooring, striking my head on the corner of the door. Someone was knocking loudly on the door, so I shook off the pain, and struggled to my feet. I padded down the hall, and saw through the window aa security guard was peering in through the same window. He was unable to see anything, due to the unidirectional coating on the glass. I flicked the switch, and the doors swooshed open efficiently.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Sir, you'll have to move this thing. People need the parking places," the annoyed man said.

"No problem, just give me a minute. I've been up most of the night. My mother died here early this morning." I responded. His demeanor softened visibly.

"I'm sorry, Sir. If you could just move it as soon as possible, that would be great. I'm very sorry about your loss," he added, and sheepishly walked back towards the hospital entrance. I was hearing that phrase an awful lot lately. You'd think there was more than one sentence to use when somebody dies, but I was at a loss to come up with one at the moment.

I walked back to the bedroom to straighten up, and noticed my mother's letter had fallen on the floor during my sleep. I stooped to pick it up, and sat down on the couch to read it. I reached up and turned on the reading lamp, then unfolded the disheveled document. Holding it up, I began to read.

"Hawethorne and Cogger, a Law Firm, 12 Bonny Doon Lane, Derbyshire, UK. Dear Ms. Weatherspoon. It is with great regret that we must inform you that your great-uncle the Most Excellent Lord Weatherspoon of Derbyshire, Great Britain has passed away. He left two sons and a daughter, but they were not on speaking terms with him for the last twenty years of his life. After months of research and several court battles with his disowned sons and daughter, we, his legal counsel, have established that you are his sole remaining heir. Thus we hereby inform you that Lord Weatherspoon's entire estate having been legally dispositioned by due process belongs to you. We have established direct deposits to your bank account, and by the time you receive this communication, your first dividend will have been received. Since the estate is managed by our firm, should you have any questions regarding your holdings, please contact us at any time. Lord Weatherspoon's investments in oil, petroleum and electric companies throughout the world were very lucrative, and continue to generate substantial earnings annually. Your estate's net worth is currently (in American dollars) approximately $1,956,000,000 (one billion, nine hundred fifty-six million dollars), and your annual dividend is approximately five percent of the net value, or $97,800,000 (ninety-seven million, eight hundred thousand dollars). This is the amount of your first installment, which you should have already received. Below is the number of our American offices, who can assist you with tax and financial management. One last note, your sole son, one Samual Weatherspoon is named as your only survivor. Should anything happen to you, this estate will revert to him in entirety. Our sincere condolences on your loss. Sincerely; Artemis Cogger AAL."

I sat, staring at the letter, completely dumbfounded. So this is what had killed my mother. After a lifetime of struggling, she died rich without ever having seen a penny of her sudden fortune. Astonishing. And now it was all mine. Unbelievable. I rose, walked to the galley, folded the letter and put it in a drawer, and returned to the couch. I sat slowly as the reality of the past 24 hours began to sink in. The confusion of emotions colliding within my mind was disconcerting, and it was some time before I was able to think clearly again.

***

            A couple of weeks later I returned to Stanford. I had buried my mother in a quiet, private ceremony, and I had dispositioned her estate rather quickly. Having no interest in her possessions, I instructed the attorneys to donate her house and furnishings to charity. Her personal effects I gave to the neighbor who had found her that fateful afternoon; she seemed to have loved her very much.

Since my mother had already added me to her bank accounts decades earlier to make access to lunch money and groceries easier while in college, I had no need to move her cash assets to my private accounts. I thought it ironic that I had untold wealth, but needed nothing. I decided to continue to live on my Professor's salary, and leave the inheritance stipend alone until I decided what to do with it. I instructed the lawyers to take care of the taxes, and signed proxy authorization over to the law firm, knowing nothing about business or high finance. When it was all said and done, I had over $50 million dollars left over, and that was the first installment. There would be a new dividend each year as long as the companies continued to generate a profit. Fifty million dollars! I couldn't even comprehend such a sum. I had thought $250,000 was a king's ransom when I purchased my luxury motorhome. I supposed it didn't matter when it was all said and done. The money had killed my mother, and I was determined that it would never get a grip on me.

Five months came and went, and life proceeded rather routinely. My 45^th birthday came and went without incident. Then one morning my world changed forever.

* * *

I was on my way to work on a cold and overcast Tuesday. I remember the date and time clearly; it was September 11^th, 2001, just a little past 6am California time. It was a gray autumn morning, and the clouds were obscuring most of the sky as the sun struggled to break through. It was windy in the Bay Area that day, and I could feel the RV swaying as I maneuvered it through the strong breezes. I happened to be listening to a public radio station, as I had done every morning since my early college days. As I pulled into the faculty parking lot, I heard the announcer interrupt the programming with the mind-numbing announcement that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City a few moments earlier. He was apparently on the phone with a local New York correspondent who was unclear what the actual details were. A few minutes later, the announcer said a second plane had crashed into the other tower, and both were aflame. Not long afterwards, there was another bulletin describing the crash of an airliner into the Pentagon, and finally a report of a plane crash in rural Pennsylvania. Within the hour, it had been concluded that a massive terrorist attack had been perpetrated against the United States. By the time I arrived on campus, the administration had already decided to cancel all classes for the day. I returned to my RV, and opened the entertainment system. I spent the rest of the day and night watching news reports and updates. Before long, the name of Osama Bin Laden had become a part of American vocabulary for all time. The horrific images of the World Trade Center towers collapsing onto themselves before crashing to the ground was burned indelibly into the memory of every American from coast to coast. For the first time in my adult life, my country was at war. I somehow sensed that life would never be the same again.

***

Time went on, as it always does. Soon the end of November 2001 arrived, and life was distinctly different now. I spent most of my time on campus, and rarely drove the RV back to my trailer park any more. Every day and night the news was full of reports about anthrax-laced letters popping up all over the place, presumably sent by unknown terrorists or sympathizers. The United States had responded swiftly to the terrorist attacks on American soil by wiping out the Afghani government, with the assistance of indigenous anti-Taliban rebels. However, the ongoing failure to capture the fugitive terrorist Osama bin Ladin had been an ongoing embarrassment to the entire military effort. To date he was nowhere to be found. The American military base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba was filling up with the captured Afghani terrorists. Human rights organizations were starting to howl over the indefinite holding of uncharged prisoners who the government refused to classify as POW's, thus exempting them from the protection of the Geneva Conventions rules governing the treatment of war prisoners. Israel and Palestine hostilities ramped up, and the entire Middle East appeared on the brink of total destabilization.

As for myself, I had thrown myself into my work with renewed vigor, in an attempt to drown out the constant barrage of bad news. I rarely watched television at all any more, and seldom turned on the radio, even to listen to my favorite shows. I happened to be going over some of my student's test papers when the phone rang about 4pm one overcast and breezy afternoon.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Dr. Weatherspoon? Dr. Samual Weatherspoon?" the voice asked.

"This is he," I replied.

"Doctor, this is Mrs. Porter, assistant to Congressman Munoz in Washington DC. The Congressman would like to speak to you right away."

"Um, okay," I answered. I remembered the Senator was the father of Veronica Munoz, my star pupil.

"If you'll hold, Sir, I'll put the Congressman on now," There were a few minutes of silence, then Congressman Munoz's powerful voice filled the receiver.

"Professor Weatherspoon?" he boomed.

"Yes, Congressman," I answered.

"Professor, your country needs you." He spoke directly. "I'm on a special task force commissioned by President Bush and Congress to gather historical information on the Middle East, with special concentration on Saudi Arabia and the surrounding area. Your work with Dr. Zarins some years ago has brought you to our attention, not to mention the fact that my daughter swears you're the best man for the job, so, what do you say?" Congressman Munoz was equally as forceful and direct as his daughter Veronica, my former student. The fruit certainly didn't fall far from the tree.

"Don't I need some kind of security clearance?" I asked.

"Doctor, you've already had one," he laughed. " The Secret Service checked you out rather intensively as soon as Veronica started staying late after class grading papers with you. As close as Veronica is to Chelsea Clinton, they wanted to know everything about the people Veronica spends time with. You already have a top level clearance, I've seen to that!" The congressman was quite well connected, even more so than I had imagined. "Doctor, the arrangements have already been made. Your substitute has been arranged, and the long-term storage and maintenance of your motorhome is taken care of. For the time being, you'll be staying at the Swissotel Washington, formerly the Watergate Hotel. We have an operative who will be contacting you very shortly, his name you are already well familiar with. It is Kareem al Abin, a Stanford alumnus and former student of yours. He is on my staff, and is an integral part of this task force as well. Kareem will be your partner. Stay put, and he'll be by to brief you further. You'll be leaving for Moffet Field Naval Air Station in Mountain View, CA early tomorrow to catch a military transport to the Capitol. After Kareem gets you settled, we'll meet. Any questions?"

"Wh…, I…., th….., this, this is awfully rushed, isn't it?" I stammered. "I was so overwhelmed I was reeling, still trying to absorb the intense blast of information and instructions from Senator Munoz.

"Doctor, like I said, your country needs you. There's no time to waste. I'll see you soon." He fell silent.

"All right," I said quietly. The line fell silent.

"Good. Wait there. Kareem will be by soon."

"Very well," I replied, and hung up the phone.

***

I sat at my desk in a daze. I got up, and walked slowly to the window overlooking the faculty parking lot. I gazed at my RV, and watched complacently as three shiny, black cars pulled alongside it. Several men in dark suits exited the vehicles, and one of them had a walkie-talkie in his hand. The rest of the men formed a perimeter around my motorhome. The apparent leader was speaking to someone on the radio, but it was impossible to know what was being discussed. I heard a growing rumbling in the distance, and as it grew louder I noticed a massive tow-truck pulling around the corner. The "suits" guided it over to the RV, and the driver got out with a clipboard in his hand and started talking to them. A few minutes later, a fourth car arrived, just as nondescript as the previous ones. A small man got out and was joined by three others who had already arrived. As he came closer, I noticed it was my former student, Kareem al Abin. He was pointing at my window, and the others seemed to be acknowledging him. The group walked briskly towards my building, two of them holding their hands up to the almost invisible earphones they were wearing, each with a thin transparent wire coiling down under the collars of their dark jackets. The group walked around the corner of the building, no longer in my line of sight. A moment later there was a knock at the classroom door.

I turned my back to the window and faced the door on the opposite side of the room.

"Yes?" I answered" The door opened slightly, and Kareem's young head popped inside.

"Professor Weatherspoon?" he inquired.

"Yes, Kareem. Come in," I replied. The dark young twenty-something man entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Sir, it's time to go," Kareem said gently.

"How did you ever get involved in this cloak and dagger stuff, Kareem? You were always the bookworm, the pacifist. I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised to see you here like this." I smiled at him.

"Well, sir, it's like this. They came to me. Perhaps it's my Saudi background, after all that's where my father is from. You know he's well connected with both the Saudi monarchy as well as the Secret Service. Or perhaps it's my command of Arabic. Or maybe all the Middle Eastern research I conducted in your classes, hmm?!" Kareem smiled back. "But it doesn't matter, sir, because now we're going to be working together once again."

I marveled at the way things had changed. "Well, Kareem, it looks like you're going to be the teacher for awhile," I said quietly.

He nodded in my direction with a compassionate smile. "Yes, Sir…it does look that way." He was quiet for a moment. He walked to the window behind me and looked out at the tow truck pulling away with my motorhome attached. "Don't worry, Sir. Everything will be transferred to your hotel suite in Washington DC before you get there. We'd better get going now." He looked a bit sad as he regarded me. "Don't worry, sir, I'll take care of you for a change." He smiled again, then walked over to the door and opened it.

 On each side of the door stood a man in a black suit scanning the area. A third man was farther down the corridor looking toward us, then back at the parking lot.

"Good grief," I said, and followed Kareem out the door. Immediately two of the men began to flank us on either side, and a fourth came up a few paces behind. The man down the hall took the lead. As we drew closer I recognized him as the driver of the limousine Veronica Munoz and Chelsea Clinton used to ride in. And so, surrounded by Secret Service men, I walked out of my classroom to an unknown future.

***

As I approached the sleek, dark government automobiles in the faculty parking lot escorted by government agents on all sides, a man jumped out of the passenger seat of the largest limousine. He opened the rear door for me, and Kareem nodded as I stepped inside. I found myself in a large seating area with plush leather seats and luxurious carpeting. There was a fully stocked alcohol and snack bar on the left side, and an entertainment center towards the front. Kareem slid in beside me, and the man shut the door behind us and got back into the front seat. The driver started the vehicle, and it eased away from the campus quickly as the sun began to set in the rear window.

About thirty minutes later we arrived at Moffet Field Naval Air Station, a military base very near the Lockheed Aerospace campus where the United States Space program had been developed many years earlier.

A crisp and stern marine guard held out his hand, and the driver slowed to a halt and rolled his window down. He presented some documents to the guard, who scanned them, handed them back, stiffly saluted, and opened the gate. We pulled inside and the gate quickly closed behind us.

We cruised around the facility until we came to the airfield. There was a massive hangar, the largest I had ever seen. I was easily ten or fifteen stories tall, and filled the sky as we drew near. I looked at Kareem and asked why it was so large.

"Oh, that old hangar was built for dirigibles, 'balloons' before we had lots of airplanes. Now they use it to accommodate the very largest military aircraft. Our plane is inside waiting for us. We don't leave it out on the tarmac unless we have to." Kareem smiled, as though he knew a secret I was yet to become privy to.

As we slowed to a halt outside the massive hangar, a group of four marines approached us. The driver rolled the window down again, and displayed his documents. One of the guards examined them, handed them back, and signaled to the other marines. The quickly assumed positions around the limousine, and the lead guard waved towards a control booth just outside the hangar.

There was a huge groaning sound. I looked around and saw the entire front side of the hangar was separating. It was composed of two gigantic doors, which rolled back to reveal the interior of the structure. They were so tall I couldn't see the top from inside the car. We began to creep forward as a crawling speed, and were soon inside the hangar. The two great doors reversed direction, and finally shut with a thunderous boom. There was a huge white aircraft directly ahead, but I was unable to make it out clearly due to the privacy glass separating me from the front compartment of the limousine.

We came to a halt, and the anonymous front passenger hopped out and opened my door. Kareem got out, then waited for me to exit. I got out, and leaned back for a good long stretch. My eyes closed as I yawned and reached my hands skyward. As I finished, my eyes opened, and there, planted directly in front of me, was the magnificent Air Force Two, the Vice-President of the United States of America's personal plane! A fully customized Boeing 747 capable of running the US Executive Branch from the air in the event of an emergency, it came equipped with every comfort and security device one would expect to find in the vehicle of the assistant to the leader of the free world. Such opulent luxury surpassed even my fine motorhome. I was impressed, even from the outside.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed.

"Actually, we're quite serious, Sir," said Kareem. "They really want you to get started right away."

"I guess so!" I heard myself say.

Kareem urged me forward, and as we approached the stanchion ropes in front of the aircraft, another secret service man came out of the plane. When he got close, he shook hands with Kareem, and pulled a wallet from his inside jacket pocket.

"Professor Weatherspoon, you'll need to keep this with you at all times from now on," he said, handing me the wallet."

I took it from him and opened it up. Inside was an identification card with all my personal information. In red ink across the card were the words, "Top Secret Security Clearance Level". On the other side was a badge. On the badge was an emblem surrounded by the words, "United States Department of the Treasury, Secret Service".

The agent smiled at me. "Welcome to the department, Professor!"

"Good grief!" I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

Kareem started up the stairs leading to the aircraft, and I followed close behind. As we entered an attractive woman welcomed me by name, and guided us to our seats in the center of the plane. As I settled into the fine leather recliner and Kareem got comfortable in the chair across from me, I heard the secret service men board the plane and close the door behind them. The engines immediately started up, and I could hear the groaning of the massive hangar doors beginning to open again.

Before too long we were cleared for takeoff, and I felt the plane lurch as it exited the hangar and positioned itself onto the runway. After a brief pause, we could hear the engines increase to a loud roar, and then the pilot released the brakes and the aircraft began to rapidly increase in speed until we were hurtling away from the shrinking hangar. There was the whine of hydraulics, and then the front of the behemoth lifted into the air. As the rear tires left the pavement the plane dipped, gathered lift, then rose suddenly and nauseatingly. My stomach sunk and then floated so suddenly I nearly lost my lunch. Up, up and away we soared, with the airfield fading fast into the twilight. I saw the Bay Area grow faint below as we changed course for our eastern destination. Soon we were so high there was nothing left to see but the clouds below us in the ever-darkening sky. The pilot reduced the engine speed, and I was finally able to reposition myself in the chair.

"It'll be about four hours, Sir. You might as well relax for now." Kareem smiled at me. I lifted the recliner footrest and nestled into the soft leather pillow. The humming of the engines droned on steadily, as I dozed off into a light slumber.

It was about midnight when the limousine arrived at the Swissotel Washington, formerly known as the Watergate Hotel, the bane of former President Nixon. The remainder of the night had been a blur of fitful sleep, landing, rushing from plane to car, rushing into a service elevator and being rushed into my suite at the hotel. Kareem was with me the whole way, and I just stumbled along like a zombie most of the time.

I do remember the lobby, however. It had a black and white checkerboard marble floor, tall white marble pillars, impeccably dressed attendants and staff, and long halls reminiscent of a modern-day European castle. The suite was vulgarly opulent, with plush furniture, actual original masterpieces displayed on the walls, and a balcony overlooking the Potomac River. It was larger than most homes at a massive 1900 square feet of living space. Later I discovered I was right at the edge of historic Georgetown and right next door to the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts. The National Mall was right down the street, as were the Lincoln Memorial and the US Capitol. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Smithsonian Museum, the Air and Space Museum, The Museum of American History and the National History Museum were all within walking distance. There were luxury apartments in an adjacent building for the rich, powerful and famous of the city. From where I stood I could make out silhouettes from my balcony moving around in the middle of the night in their rooms.

I became aware of Kareem standing beside me on the balcony. He smiled and said, "This is probably how the Watergate burglars were apprehended….by someone watching from another window. Secrets are getting harder and harder to keep in this city…" he trailed off. "You'd better get some sleep, professor. We have a long day tomorrow." I wasn't about to argue.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of a television set murmuring in the next room. I glanced at the nightstand by my plush bed, and tried to focus on the clock radio's soft red numerals gleaming in the darkened room. 8:59am. I yawned, and sat up slowly on the side of the bed. I fumbled around for my glasses, locating them and putting them on clumsily. I felt rather well rested, despite the whirlwind of activity the previous day. I strode over to the bathroom and felt around for a light switch. Finding one, I flicked it upwards.

The room was suddenly filled with a soft white light emanating from recessed runners somewhere in the ceiling. I looked around, amazed by the thick carpeting and gleaming marble surfaces everywhere. "Good grief," I exclaimed. I looked at my reflection in one of the many mirrors, and was unimpressed by the image. I looked much older than my 45 years with a thinning hairline, my thick glasses, my widening waist and my frumpy, disheveled overall appearance. I thought perhaps a shower might help, and walked towards the marble enclosure to turn on the faucets. I suddenly realized I had no clothes to change into, an walked out of the bedroom into the living room. It was just as luxurious as I remembered it from the night before, except the sun was shining brightly through the windows offering a breathtaking view of the Potomac river below. Kareem was sipping a cup of coffee and watching the television intently. He was crisply dressed in the usual dark suit, with not so much as a single hair out of place. He turned slightly and smiled at me as I came towards him scratching my head.

"Good morning, Professor Weatherspoon!" he greeted me. "You'll find the room is fully stocked with clothes and toiletries, Sir. Just grab whatever you need. I'll be waiting out here."

"Um, okay," I muttered, and turned back to the bedroom. I walked to the draperies and looked for the cord to open them in vain.

"Kareem?" I called.

"Yes, Professor?" he responded.

"How do I open the drapes?" I asked.

"Remote control, Sir. On the nightstand by the alarm clock." He replied. I was confused as I began muttering to myself.

"Remote control draperies? What next? Automatic toilet paper?" I walked over and picked up the remote. There were two buttons. I pressed one, and nothing happened. I pressed the other, and a soft whirring began as the drapes slowly slid open to reveal the same fantastic view I had seen in the living room.

"Astonishing," I said to myself. I walked over to the closet and opened the door. "What the….." I was speechless. The walk-in closet was filled with suits, sweaters, casual wear, shoes, underwear, jackets, coats, topcoats, hats…every imaginable garment one could possibly imagine. I checked several of them out, and every single item was my exact size. Flabbergasted, I headed back to the shower. I began to think I could easily get used to this lifestyle. I smiled as I entered the shower, and turned up the hot water until I was enveloped in warm, comforting steam. I closed my eyes and enjoyed every drop of water as it massaged me from head to foot.

About 45 minutes later I emerged from the bedroom dressed in some sharp and comfortable woolen slacks, a soft silk dress shirt, a thick sweater and some very comfortable loafers. I had chosen a floor-length wool topcoat to ward off the frigid Washington D.C. winter outside, and had it draped across my arm as I walked in towards Kareem.

He didn't seem to notice me, his eyes were glued to the television set. CNN had a special report in progress, and I meandered over to the plush leather couch in front of the television and sat on the edge to see what was going on.

"…the historic vote was passed unanimously by both houses of Congress in a special joint session a few minutes ago. With an approval rating exceeding any in history, and this new elimination of presidential term limits, President Bush is now set up to conduct the War against Terrorism indefinitely. We go now to our local correspondent in Washington D.C., Ms. Mary Manning. Mary?…" Kareem flicked off the volume.

"Well, it's begun," he said solemnly.

"I'm sorry, did I hear that right? Have they removed term limits on the President?" I asked in shock.

"That's right, Professor. No more term limits. The War against Terrorism seems to be the highest priority in the nation these days. That's why you're here, Sir. To assist with that war effort." He looked at me compassionately as he saw the fear in my face. "Try to hang in there, Sir. I'll be with you through this entire thing. You're not going it alone." Somehow, that made me feel a bit better. Such uncertain times were at hand, I had no idea what to expect. One thing was certain, though: Anything was possible. Anything at all.

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