“By light infantry you’re talking about the local militia?” the reporter asked. “What they’re calling ‘The Charge of the Redneck Brigade?’ ”
“Bob, I’m not about to dis those locals,” the captain said, shaking his head. “They retook the gate and took plenty of casualties doing it. They’re fine Americans and patriots and, truth be told, they probably shoot better than most of my boys. Some of them are still hanging around and as long as they want to, they can stay.”
“I wasn’t making fun of them,” the reporter said with a tone of honesty.
“I know, but that redneck crack is getting under my boys’ skin,” the captain replied, sternly. “The day one of you reporters is willing to charge the gates of hell with nothing but some World War Two weaponry you can crack wise. Until then, treat them with the respect they deserve. They and the national guardsmen are going to stay here until, at least, the rest of the battalion arrives. I’ve been told that the short-term plan is to get the whole brigade down here, arrayed in layered defense. What they’ll do after that I don’t know. But I think that even the locals will admit that a battalion of mechanized infantry is probably enough.”
“I notice that you’ve pulled further back from the gate,” the reporter said, changing the subject hastily. “Is that wise?”
“Our Abrams and Bradleys are longer-range weapons,” the captain explained carefully. “We’re digging revetments for them and as soon as the engineers and civilian contractors are done with them they’ll start on bunkers for the infantry that are forward of that line. But I don’t want my command caught in another of those explosions; if the enemy had come through right after its rhino-tank exploded they’d have rolled over the defenders. Infantry positions are back two hundred yards and the Brads and Abrams are at two-fifty. That should give enough stand-off for secondaries. And, trust me, we can fill the probable avenue of approach with plenty of firepower even if we’re that far back.”
“Well, Captain, I’m sure everyone’s glad you’re on the job,” the reporter said. “Back to you, Peter.”
“That’s good news from Eustis,” the anchorman said. “Now turning to other news, the young lady who miraculously survived the explosion in Orlando has been reunited with her surviving family,” the camera turned to what was clearly previously shot footage of Mimi, Tuffy tucked under her chin, hugging a heavy-set woman in her thirties. “Mimi Jones’ closest surviving relative is Vera Wilson, who now has the responsibility of raising not only her niece but the strange alien playmate that adopted her. Our reporter, Shana Kim, talked with Mrs. Wilson earlier today.”
The scene changed to what was clearly heavily edited footage as the heavyset woman, now wearing too much make-up of the wrong shade for television, was sitting in on a plaid sofa and talking.
“Herman and I are glad to take Mimi in,” the woman said, dabbing at her eyes. “I miss my Loretta, that’s my sister, of course, but by the grace of God Mimi survived. Herman and I don’t have any children of our own, not for want of trying and we both love Mimi very much and are glad to have her. She misses Loretta too, but she’s taking it very well. She hasn’t cried at all. I mean, she knows her momma is gone but we’ll all be together in Heaven someday and that is a blessed relief to her.”
“What about the alien?” the reporter asked. The camera gave a brief shot of the blonde woman in her twenties, looking serious and nodding her head. “Aren’t you worried about it?”
“Tuffy?” the woman answered. “Well, he’s pretty scary at first. I mean he looks like a big old terancheler. But he ain’t done nothing wrong. I had to scold Mimi one time, nothing much just that she hadn’t cleared her dishes, and I was sort of afraid to. But Mimi just nodded and did as she was bid and then told me that Tuffy said it was okay, I was right. That was pretty strange, I’ll admit, but, like I said, he ain’t done nothing wrong. I know they say he hurt that deputy, but I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding or something. I’m not afraid of Tuffy; he’s sort of cute. Truth to tell, if he’s that good a watch dog I’m glad to have him around what with all the child snatching and all. Couple of my neighbors asked if Mimi knew where they could get one for their own kids. Course she didn’t. She doesn’t remember where he come from.”
“There’s going to be a lot of interest in Mimi, you know,” the reporter said. “How are you going to handle that?”
“Well, we’re going to raise her as well as we can, as a God fearing young woman,” Mrs. Wilson answered. “As to the reporters and such, I figure with all that’s going on, Mimi and Tuffy won’t be so interesting before long.”
“And rarely have I heard the term ‘nine day wonder’ so well described,” the anchor said, smiling. “A charity fund for the support of Mimi Jones has been established. Donations can be made to: The Mimi Jones Foundation, PO Box 4687, Orlando, Florida, 32798-4687. And in other news…”
“In other news that’s going to be one very rich little alien,” a voice said from the door.
Weaver looked up and grinned at Command Master Chief Miller, who was wearing a hospital gown tied in the back.
“You know your ass is hanging out in the breeze, right?” Weaver said, turning down the TV.
“Yep,” the chief said, walking in the room.
“And you’ve got an IV insert stuck in your arm?”
“Yep,” Miller replied, taking a chair. “And I told them they had thirty minutes to take it out or I was going to do it myself and bleed all over their nice, shiny floor. How you doing, Doc?”
“Tired, sore, hell of a headache.”
“Pain is weakness leaving the body,” the chief intoned. “You ready to get out of here?”
“I’d love to,” Weaver admitted. “I don’t think doctors know what they hell they’re doing; there’s a reason they call it a medical ‘practice.’ But we both appear to be a little short on clothes.”
“Got some guardsmen on the way over with some chocolate chips,” the SEAL said. “After which, by order of your friend the NSA, we’re going to take a little drive up to a town called Archer.”
“What’s there?” Weaver asked, wincing.
“Guess.”
Emma May Sands had turned seventy-nine the previous month. Two decades before when her late husband Arthur had retired they sold their house in Buffalo, New York, and moved to the small, rural town of Archer. It was not a “regular” retirement community and they had preferred it for that very reason. Archer was a small town consisting mostly of young couples who worked in and around Gainesville, generally in something connected to the university. There were also a few houses rented to students. It was a young town and despite the fact that Emma and Arthur knew they were old, they didn’t want to feel old. So they moved where there were young people around for the life and vitality.
And they were close to Shands, which was one of the best hospitals in North Florida. Arthur had a heart condition and proximity to a good hospital was important.
Shands had not helped, though, when Arthur finally suffered a terminal stroke. It had come in his sleep, thank God, and he passed lightly. After his passing Emma’s life hardly changed. She had to learn to cook for one but she continued to divide her time between the local Democratic Committee, which she had to admit was filled with hippy know-it-alls that didn’t understand you could be a Democrat and a patriot, and activities associated with the Episcopal Church.
That was until a three-foot-tall cat scratched on her back door and calmly walked into the front room to watch Oprah.