Page 5 of Exit Strategy
“Slaughterhouse Five. It seemed relevant when I was in Afghanistan,” I added. “You read much?”
“I don’t read as much as I used to,” she said. “The physical library was torn out and everything was digitized or was tossed for not being of value or interest.”
“Vonnegut didn’t make the cut?” I asked, surprised.
“Quite a bit didn’t make the cut,” she said, sounding a tint sad.
“I have a few books in my bunk, if you wanted to borrow one. It will probably be a while before Tomcat is done on set. I mean, Mr. Rex.”
“I’m familiar with the callsigns, Mr. Worthington. What’s mine?” she asked.
“Cardinal, and please, just call me Kurt,” I added.
“Gladly, Kurt.” She smiled. “And I’ll take you up on that book offer.”
It only took a minute to duck into our bunk trailer, grab a few dog-eared books from the footlocker, and drop them off with Cardinal.
It had been nice meeting her formally and finding out that she was literate.
Half of my detail was barely literate, and on the set, it was less than that. They could read, but they chose not to. It was something that I had a hard time processing.
Shooting lasted another hour or so. There was shouting, green screens were moved around, a stagehand was fired for wandering into a shot while on his phone, and the general ongoing noise that was the business. I kept an eye on the detail. There was something that had me feeling squirrely today.
The first clue that shooting was over was when Rex appeared stomping up the hill, flanked by his entourage. A man held an umbrella over him, giving him shade. A pair of personal assistants chased him, garbling about emails, texts, and calls, which he waved away.
When he reached Cardinal, he actually looked the part of a bloodied Roman gladiator, but one now wearing an earpiece and smartwatch. These guys, they loved their tech.
“Radiance,” he said, greeting Callie.
“Husband,” she replied and rose to meet him. There was a pause, like they would have embraced, but then they noticed each other – him, her cream dress, her, his oil, fake blood, and dirt-covered breastplate. They stopped and instead, exchanged chaste lip-to-lip kisses.
“Makeup would have a fit if they had to match my blood makeup again,” he apologized.
“Of course.” She smiled.
“I see you’ve met my head of security? Worthy is a good man and has a very fitting name.” He gave me his Hollywood-side smile, the sort the hero throws to his sidekick. I gave him a grunt back.
“Miss Rex will be staying with us the rest of the afternoon and we will be attending dinner together this evening. Let’s keep this clean and tight, no photographers, no intruders.”
“Ever vigilant,” I said, and he beamed. It was some stupid catchphrase from one of his older action films. I gritted my teeth and told myself the bonus pay was worth it. He took Calanthe’s hand and led her toward his trailer.
“Worthy?” he asked.
“Present, sir,” I replied.
“Make sure that no one bothers my wife and I for a while. Nothing short of missiles falling from the sky, understand?” he asked. I nodded and said nothing. They went inside and pulled the door shut. There was a soft hiss as the lock partially engaged, but there was no click of the bolt. Maintenance still hadn’t addressed that. I turned my back to the door, pushed my shoulder into it, and then heard thesnickof the latch engaging.
“Tomcat and Cardinal are in Rex1, elevate to orange,” I said into the general security channel on the push-to-talks. One by one, the detail acknowledged the threat level, and made the appropriate changes in posture.
“Test six,” the tower chimed. “Assets to G3, assets to G3 thirty minutes.”
I watched as a drone lifted off from the tower and swung north toward the main gate.
“Sarge?” The tower chirped me on my private channel.
“Go ahead, tower,” I replied.
“Bogeys are moving from G1 toward G3. Delay was about thirty seconds,” he said.
