Not in this installment, and perhaps not the one after, but I found my way out of my plot dilemma. I try to tell, not show, when writing, but having Gil’s family standing around talking is pretty boring. I went to bed last night thinking, “it’s not as if the King Rhun of Columbia would show up just because of this news; that would be stupid.”

One of my few friends left, Will Deonne, Ohio’s best graphic artist, once told me “when it comes to telling a story, turn it up to eleven.” This morning, walking into DayJob around 0620, it hit me that “well, why the fuck not wouldn’t King Rhun show up? He asked Nichole 5 to be one of his wives… moer thanonce. If information is leaked *cough*Reina*cough* to his court, he’d want direct, PERSONAL, intel, immediately. In my mind’s eye I see his plane – one of the only ones left in that corner of the former US – circling for a landing at the Tillamook Air Museum.

Thanks, again, Will. Your genius keeps my head above water.

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

The lieutenant turned to Gil.

“You go.  A pleasure speaking with you, Keptin Haven.  I…” For the first time, Grammatikov gave the ghost of a smile.  “I suspect we shall again.”

Still at battle stations, a sailor was detailed to quickly lead Gil back to the aft wet deck, but this time all through internal corridors.  He saw petty officer Solokov and the other two waiting for him.  But, this time, he and the man in the bow had machine pistols.  Solokov waved at the rubber boat.  Moments later out in the Pacific, it was only a mile to the inlet of the bay.  All three Russians got apprehensive when the smaller of the two Columbia ships – just another fishing trawler with the nets and booms removed, and a fifty-caliber machine gun added – motored closer to them.  Dressed completely different than the sailors, Gil sat up as high as he could and waved.  Yes, I’m a local; don’t shoot, dammit.

Less than a half-mile in, the rubber boat bumped up against one of the two short public piers of Garibaldi.  The marina proper was around to port but Gil didn’t want to seem churlish.  He thanked the others and carefully stood before climbing up the worn wooden ladder.

“Thanks again,” he called, turning as the boat was already on its way out.

After all that, it’s only just after noon.  Everyone should just be wrapping up now.  At a jog, he covered the short distance to the marina.  Sure enough, halfway down the first pier, the four crew of Nichole were there, talking, their work complete.

“Hey, there!” Gil yelled.  TK and Dalt waved but his boys came running.

“Dad, Dad!…” Mike began.

“Everything’s fine.” He looked about.  “Like I said earlier, let’s see if we can bum a ride south.  Both for home and the mayor’s office.”