Capellan
Explorer
Prologue
Johnson shifted nervously from foot to foot as the huge, black iron chair descended from above him. General Patton looked cheerful. That always made Johnson uneasy.
"Johnson. What's the word on Operation Whack-a-Mole?"
The nervous executive suppressed a sigh of relief. So it was just the leathery old bastard's pet project that had him almost smiling.
"We believe things are about to start, sir. Almost all the team are in place –"
"Almost all?"
"Yes sir. The one who calls himself –" Johnson flipped through a stack of papers, "- 'Fabio', is not with the rest of the group any more."
"And where is he?"
"He seems to be occupying himself by cutting a swathe through the widows and neglected wives of Brindinford, sir."
"Anything we can use for the late night broadcasts?"
"Not really sir. He seems more interested in the size of their bank balance than their physical attributes."
"What about the sponsorship deal?"
Johnson nodded, not unsettled by the old man's sudden change of tack.
"Panda Cola signed, just like you said they would. A masterful ploy -"
"Spare me the sycophancy."
"Yes sir. There was one condition."
"A condition?"
"Yes sir. The Panda people felt that the group was a little rough around the edges and might need some guidance and grooming to give them their full money's worth. They insisted we send a marketing consultant."
The General drummed his leathery fingers on the arm rest of the chair.
"How did you explain that to the men in the field?"
"We told them we thought we'd got the gate fixed, and sent the consultant through to them. Then we sent through forty pounds of pig's intestines and told them it was a reporter from the New York Times."
The General barked a laugh.
"Well done, Johnson."
"Thank you, sir. We've told them we think we can transport small amounts of non-living matter back and forth, should they need supplies, but that we can't risk bringing them home until we work out all the glitches in the system."
"Who did you send?"
"Sir?" He knew what the old man meant, but he didn't want to answer.
"The consultant. Who did you send?"
"Um ..." Johnson pretended to flip through his papers. He didn't want to talk about her, "Josephine Coltraine, sir."
"Coltraine? The name's familiar."
Johnson's mind raced. What explanation would the old man believe?
"She was involved in the Turner deal –"
"The Christmas party!" the General cackled, "The girl you slapped on the fanny. How is your wrist, these days?"
"It's fine thank you, sir. I did try to explain to her that the contact was accidental –"
"Is that what you were saying? It was hard to tell through all the whimpering you were doing."
Johnson bit his tongue, inwardly seething. One day, you decrepit old corpse ...
"Don't look so sour, Johnson. She had a mighty slappable fanny. Now, let's check in on our boys. I have a feeling the dung is about to hit the fan."
Johnson shifted nervously from foot to foot as the huge, black iron chair descended from above him. General Patton looked cheerful. That always made Johnson uneasy.
"Johnson. What's the word on Operation Whack-a-Mole?"
The nervous executive suppressed a sigh of relief. So it was just the leathery old bastard's pet project that had him almost smiling.
"We believe things are about to start, sir. Almost all the team are in place –"
"Almost all?"
"Yes sir. The one who calls himself –" Johnson flipped through a stack of papers, "- 'Fabio', is not with the rest of the group any more."
"And where is he?"
"He seems to be occupying himself by cutting a swathe through the widows and neglected wives of Brindinford, sir."
"Anything we can use for the late night broadcasts?"
"Not really sir. He seems more interested in the size of their bank balance than their physical attributes."
"What about the sponsorship deal?"
Johnson nodded, not unsettled by the old man's sudden change of tack.
"Panda Cola signed, just like you said they would. A masterful ploy -"
"Spare me the sycophancy."
"Yes sir. There was one condition."
"A condition?"
"Yes sir. The Panda people felt that the group was a little rough around the edges and might need some guidance and grooming to give them their full money's worth. They insisted we send a marketing consultant."
The General drummed his leathery fingers on the arm rest of the chair.
"How did you explain that to the men in the field?"
"We told them we thought we'd got the gate fixed, and sent the consultant through to them. Then we sent through forty pounds of pig's intestines and told them it was a reporter from the New York Times."
The General barked a laugh.
"Well done, Johnson."
"Thank you, sir. We've told them we think we can transport small amounts of non-living matter back and forth, should they need supplies, but that we can't risk bringing them home until we work out all the glitches in the system."
"Who did you send?"
"Sir?" He knew what the old man meant, but he didn't want to answer.
"The consultant. Who did you send?"
"Um ..." Johnson pretended to flip through his papers. He didn't want to talk about her, "Josephine Coltraine, sir."
"Coltraine? The name's familiar."
Johnson's mind raced. What explanation would the old man believe?
"She was involved in the Turner deal –"
"The Christmas party!" the General cackled, "The girl you slapped on the fanny. How is your wrist, these days?"
"It's fine thank you, sir. I did try to explain to her that the contact was accidental –"
"Is that what you were saying? It was hard to tell through all the whimpering you were doing."
Johnson bit his tongue, inwardly seething. One day, you decrepit old corpse ...
"Don't look so sour, Johnson. She had a mighty slappable fanny. Now, let's check in on our boys. I have a feeling the dung is about to hit the fan."
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. I wonder what class Coltraine is? And any relation to the musician?
