Excerpt
Part 1


Chapter 1
Rest in Peace, Admiral Quinn


Marines in full dress kept vigil over the deceased.

In a somber voice, the reporter described the scene from Washington D.C. “Our memorial coverage continues as America mourns Admiral Connor Quinn…astronaut, war hero, recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor as well as the Alfred Peace Prize…”

Inside the rotunda of the White House, the camera focused on a large mahogany coffin draped in an American flag. A bush-sized bouquet of red and white roses, tied up with red, white, and blue striped ribbon, stood at the foot of the casket.

Mourners circled their fallen hero, behind black velvet ropes hanging from brass stanchions, as they passed paintings on the wall from scenes in American history. Text of breaking news scrolled at the bottom of the screen. Info-bites were punctuated by the Washington News Network logo, WNN across a bust of George Washington.

A Marine guarded the entry point by a flagpole. He saluted, then unhooked the rope to allow three VIPs to approach the casket.

“And coming into our view is Admiral Quinn’s widow, Dr. Nova Orlovic. She pauses…and lingers for a final goodbye to her husband.”

The widow, wearing a form-fitting black dress, bowed her head. Covering her face was a mesh veil, dotted with black knots, draped over her raven hair that was tied back in a bun. Her burgundy lips mouthed a prayer. She sighed, then patted the end of the coffin.

“And following Dr. Orlovic is President Lincoln Todd with First Lady Wanda Todd. The President and the First Lady pause at the casket. President Todd bows his head…paying his last respects. It’s clear Admiral Quinn was dear to him…a close advisor and longtime personal friend.”

The camera zoomed in. Tall, broad shouldered, Lincoln Todd filled the screen. He put a hand over his heart and heaved his chest. His dark gray suit complemented his wavy charcoal hair. And his charisma eclipsed the First Lady in his shadow.

Wanda Todd moved into view wearing a frumpy looking jacket and black hat shaped like a bell lampshade. She blinked rapidly while she pushed aside her flaxen locks from her eyes. Then she nudged her husband to move on.

The President inched forward, glancing at a camera. He wiped tears from his ruddy cheeks and quivered his lower lip. With a tear-stained hand, he touched the shoulder of Dr. Nova Orlovic.

The widow turned around. Her eyes and mouth snapped open as she met the President’s embrace. By happenstance, another camera angle caught the President’s hand slipping down her backside and squeezing her derriere while a red-faced Wanda Todd glared at the spectacle.

* * *

The scene froze. The President’s hand stayed on the widow’s firm buttocks. The First Lady’s stare remained fixed.
The camera zoomed out from this image displayed on a monitor inside a television studio. The Fly-Over News logo—FON superimposed on an eagle spreading its wings across the US map—appeared at the bottom of the screen.

Talk show host Jose Romero gaped at the scene. “So we caught you in an illegal crossing on live TV, Mr. President—hands roaming south of the border onto the forbidden territory of a widow’s backside. No?”

“But see that look on your own woman’s face?” The handsome Latino in a smoker’s jacket lifted a corner of his mouth, skewing his trim, graying beard. “You’ll definitely have ICE to deal with now.”

The studio audience tittered in total agreement.

“Seriously, my friends,” Jose’s smirk morphed to a sober look, “all of us at Fly-Over News extend our heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of Admiral Connor Quinn.

“As for you, Mr. President, groping a grief stricken widow in front of your wife—not to mention the entire country—is that any way to treat a lady? Yes, Admiral Quinn was a friend of yours. But like so many of your friends, he came to a mysterious, untimely end. No?”

The camera zoomed in as Jose wagged his head. “We’ve all heard what the mainstream media outlets reported. Admiral Quinn’s death was a tragic accident. Yet will we ever find out what really happened to Admiral Connor Quinn from this current regime in the White House?”

“No way, Jose!” The studio audience chanted the show’s mantra.

Jose wiggled his thick, gray eyebrows. “We’ve better odds of finding the Lost City of Gold than finding the truth from the Todd Administration, don’t we, my friends?”

The camera swept many faces in the studio audience. Meanwhile, the bumper music played, but ended on a discord.

The host waved to his applauding fans. “So on this note we wrap up this hour of Jose Romero, where we say, ‘no way, Jose,’ to government propaganda. Up next, Diogenes News as Rusty Wheeler searches for the honest truth without the bias.”

* * *

“Bloody Americans,” Lord Frederick Wise said in a posh British accent.

With a twitch of his trim brown mustache, he pressed the off button on the remote control. Jose Romero’s image disintegrated into the blackness of the flat screen until it only showed Wise’s reflection.

The middle-aged Englishman popped out the memory card from the TV monitor and slipped it inside his wallet. Then he pulled out his mobile phone from his navy jacket and checked the time.

Lord Wise had a plane to catch. He planned to show this segment to his client, Dr. Nova Orlovic, during their transatlantic flight to London.

The video clip was old news. Though Admiral Quinn’s memorial had been eight months ago, Wise was sure it would be painful for Nova to watch again. But he wanted her to preview what he intended to show to her prospective agents.


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