Michael DiMercurio

Terminal Run

Desired and missed.

My beginning and my destination,

My purpose and my hope.

My future and my past.

EPIGRAPH

1

It had been a month since he had flown to Washington to demand a demotion.

The boss had protested, of course. Every other candidate for his job was dead, killed last summer in the disastrous terrorist attack that had robbed them of more than a thousand of their most senior people. But failing a reassignment back to his old job, he would have no choice but to resign, and that would leave two jobs vacant. He had returned home successfully demoted, and the demotion seemed to set the world right again. The staff had shaped up, the operations personnel were improving, and the equipment was in excellent condition.

On this sunny May Saturday he had gone through eighteen holes and pounded out six kilometers before lunch. After a brisk shower at the club, he had donned chinos and a golf shirt and climbed into his convertible Porsche for the twenty-kilometer drive to the office. With the staff home and the phones quiet, he could do more real work in three hours than he could accomplish in a week. He put the top down and drove out of the lot until he reached the coast highway, then opened up the smooth engine, the car accelerating, taking the curves easily, the wind blowing in his hair and taking away his few remaining problems.

As the road rushed toward him, he considered the situation that awaited. For the last year the world situation had been relatively peaceful, but now there were rumors of sparks flying between the Peoples Republic of China and the Hindu Republic of India, bitter enemies since India’s land grabs during the first and second Chinese civil wars. But any resulting global hostilities would be someone else’s problem, since a full-out war would certainly take years to develop, or even decades.