Storm of the Century

The Last Time I Saw Paris in person was...well, let's just say it was long, long ago in a galaxy where the Jedi had only recently returned...and it was the month of May. So the touch down at Charles De Gaulle airport this May was something of an anniversary. I couldn't decide if the sprinkling of raindrops that descended as the plane taxied to the gate symbolized tears of joy and expectation, or represented an infelicitous omen. But my expectations were high, in spite of the fact that we were arriving many hours later than I had planned. I knew that we would really have to hurry to get through French customs, get to our hotel in Versailles, and get back to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower at night. The latter was intended as a special gift for my wife; I knew that she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower. I think that it was the only landmark she associated with Paris, or with France. I hoped to show her many more wonderful things than that great and glorious iron pylon...but I could at least get her to it the first night.

Tubes (speaking of which, I think it was in Paris that I heard the only song I know by that group). We seemed to move from one tube to another. It felt like someone was making sausage...and we were the ingredients. Being near the front of the plane, we were able to exit that flying cylinder rather quickly. From there we went through the tube that connected the plane to the terminal. A narrow hall and the press of the passengers behind extruded us to a stairway and to more tubes. One tube seemed to take us up and across the center of the immense circle that is the airport. 

As it turned out, we didn't go through customs...having already done that in Germany...we tried, but were unsuccessful. I saw the customs sign, I asked a uniformed guy about it; he directed us into the customs room...which was completely empty. We looked around for a couple minutes. No one came in. We decided that we weren't supposed to be there, and began to leave. As we were about to do so, a tall, cheerful woman came in and told us we didn't need to go through customs...and she seemed amused that we thought we needed to. I think the guy who had directed us into the room had told her about his little joke, and she had come to rescue us from my paranoid delusion. It wouldn't be the last time that I provided amusement for the natives...it's a gift, really.

I had two things on my mind: purchasing the Paris Museum Pass (good at many places, including some outside of Paris), and finding the metro to take us to Versailles. A girl at an information booth sold us the passes and directed us to the shuttle that would take us to the metro. She spoke English much better than I spoke French, so we mostly spoke in English--by "mostly" I mean pretty much entirely--I was still getting my sea legs, so to speak. Following her directions, we took an elevator...yep, took it right out of the building and left a big empty shaft...no, but one can imagine. Actually the elevator took us...down (and I always think of this song when the elevator goes down) a couple levels, and another moving sidewalk took us up about a half level. The shuttle, like a metro train with just one car, carried us through another tube to the train station.

We followed directions on signs, wandered back and forth a bit like a forgetful grandma who can't remember where she put her glasses, and finally asked someone where to buy our train tickets (I believe this was in French--I was getting more confident). We were directed to the ticket booth where the transaction again required two languages for consummation. We purchased our tickets which would take us on the course that I had mapped out weeks in advance: the RER B to St. Michel/Notre Dame where we would change to RER C to ride to Versailles. I also bought a carnet of 10 metro tickets for future use. We found our set of tracks, and took an elevator down to the quai. After a minute or two spent pondering the information screens, I realized that we were on the wrong side of the tracks--the train on this side would be traveling in the opposite direction from our destination. I also noted that almost everyone waiting for the train was on the other side of the tracks. The experienced traveler notes the little clues...I did too.

We took the elevator back up, walked to the other side, and took another elevator down (this would be a frequent pattern (appearing to make a wrong selection) that I would use to throw off anyone who might be tailing me--and I believe that it proved entirely successful--sort of a Maxwell Smart maneuver). As 99 and I were getting into the elevator, an elderly lady who entered behind us remarked, "C'est l'orage du siecle!" I comprehended without realizing. I looked outside to confirm her words. I could see that it was windy and rainy. "Rainy" is an understatement in the same sense as saying that one day Pompeii experienced a spot of trouble with Mount Vesuvius. The water coming from the corner of the building rushed out as if from a battery of fire hoses. The skies of France sobbed copious tears of joy at my return. I was touched...and glad to be there, but glad that I was inside.

The coming days would see the skies of this joyous land wash us with abundant tears as we walked unsheltered amid exuberant water works.

Next time: Making the most of another Maxwell Smart maneuver.

Frankfurt

I never anticipated going through customs in Germany. As you may recall, our itinerary as scheduled was supposed to go from San Francisco direct to Paris. However, that famous German Helmuth von Moltke the Elder said something like, "No plan survives contact with the enemy." He might've added, "Or with Untied Airlines." (I have spelled it that way intentionally: so the carrier will remain technically anonymous...and to make sure I don't get dragged from a flight in the future. Actually, except for the delay(s), all of the carrier personnel were very nice, helpful, and never once threatened us with removal or bodily harm--if you don't count the in-flight meals (of course, I jest--about the in-flight meals, that is.)). So I was surprised to discover that we were going through customs in Frankfurt. We hadn't reached out destination; I saw no point in going through customs until we had reached the nation of our destination (destination?).

Thinking about it now...it makes perfect sense. I don't suppose everyone on our flight was continuing. An incoming international flight would naturally have everyone pass through customs.

Well, it was nothing like I thought German customs would be. The man with whom we dealt spoke English with hardly had any accent at all. I was glad of that because the only German I know is what I had picked up from watching Hogan's Heroes; I was really hoping not to have a need to use terms appropriate for a prison camp. Nevertheless, I had my best, "Achtung!" "Schnell, schnell," "Jawohl," and "Danke, fraulein," prepared.  Also, the gentleman did not say, "Your papers, please." like on the Medal of Honor video game that my son and I used to play. I should've asked him to say that, just for fun.

"How long are you staying?" he asked, behind the glass booth, as he looked at our passports.
"Just until we can catch the connecting flight to Paris," I answered.
"No. How long are you staying in Europe?"
"Oh. About a week."
"Only France," he said with a little disappointment, as if I had started singing La Marseillaise over the top of Deutchland Uber Alles. (Right click the link to open the link in a new tab. It's one of my favorite scenes from Casablanca).
"That's all we have time for," I said.
He stamped our passports and handed them back to us.

Without any other directions having been given to us, we went through the doors that those before us had taken...to an empty room with more doors. One set of doors had signs indicating that they were for those with something to declare. I thought about declaring that I was lost and needed someone to hold my hand...except my wife was already doing that...but she was lost too. We opted to forego any philosophical declarations, or excited utterances, and proceeded through the other doors.

There were signs. We followed them. Jim and Nancy had found us, or we had found them; I don't recall which way it went. We were together again. Fortunately, the signs at the Frankfurt airport (which has its own song) were somewhat clearer than the SFO signs had been. We rode the rolling sidewalks, i.e., conveyor belts, and found our new gate where my wife took a picture of this:

Once again, we were privileged to wait...but that was a good thing. It was good because Rachel back in Boise, when she had booked us on this flight, which was a Lufthansa flight, had only been able to get seat locations for me, and Jim's wife Nancy. Jim and my wife did not have seat assignments...and no one seemed amused when I suggested that Nancy and I might be forced to continue the trip without our spouses...tough crowd. So we got right in line at the counter at our gate in order to get the ticket situation straightened out in plenty of time to board. The trouble was, there wasn't anyone at the gate counter to help us. This situation continued for some time. I made some statements about the famed German efficiency and my disappointment with the lack of any evidence of it to this point. Another person in our group made reference to the prominent political party of the nation during WWII, and kept referring to the name of the airline as the Luftwaffe. That made me a little uncomfortable, but that was all that came of it. Eventually, someone did show up at the counter to help us, and the 47 other people behind us who had similar issues. We got seats, but none of us were together. I was near the front of the plane; my wife ended up a couple rows back and across the aisle from me. Jim and Nancy, also separated (by seats, not like drawn and quartered), were much farther back in the plane. This was the last time that we saw them.

It was a quick flight over beautiful country.

Next time: The Storm of the Century

Plane Tales (with apologies to Kipling)

We landed at SFO on "a warm San Franciscan night." Except that it was afternoon, and we were on a plane. We were tired, but we had good company; Jim and Nancy had become our traveling companions. We made our way together through the airport like a band of great white hunters on safari. In other words, we had no idea how to get where we were going, but we followed the sign of our quarry--large printed signs that often seemed contradictory or poorly placed--to reach our destination. Our destination was the international terminal, the Hotel California of airport terminals; once you enter you can check it out all you like, but you can never leave.

Once we found the international terminal and passed through the security, we knew that we had entered  A Whole New World. Sweet perfume wafted to our nostrils, beckoning us onward into the labyrinth. Stores for perfume and jewelry--Hermes, Cartier, and Swarovski--these and more promised awe and wonder in the international terminal. Perhaps there would be dancing girls with finger cymbals, veils, bells, and elaborate headdresses giving us free fruit baskets and chocolate bars. Let me just say, there wasn't any of that. No dancing girls. No free fruit. No free chocolate bars. None. At. All.

After we found our gate, we found that we hungered. The search for food began. We did find a number of eateries, each with a European flair. Based on the prices, I must surmise that each dish and simple sandwich had been carefully prepared in Europe and then shipped by private courier to the SFO international terminal. My wife and I split an outrageously priced tri-tip dish with new potatoes. Jim and Nancy had something similar. We all went back to our gate to eat our meals because there wasn't any place left to sit in the food court. As for the meal, it was delicious!

The remainder of what transpired before the plane arrived and we were allowed to board can best be described as waiting...we did a lot of it. The highlight was that we got to charge our phones. Jim eventually left to refill water bottles. After he returned, I did the same. I found a blonde girl (teenager or early 20's maybe) in sandals, yellow shorts, and a white top at the fountain, trying with only limited success to fill her bottle from the actual drinking fountain rather than the special bottle-filling station which was located where the fountain met the wall. There was a bottle outline and a button...obvious, once you notice it...if you notice it. I asked her if the other part wasn't working. She looked at me strangely (I get a lot of that), and said, "What?" in accented speech. (I'm guessing it was German). I pointed at the bottle-filling emblem. "Oh. I didn't..." she said, giving me a look that indicated how foolish she felt. She thanked me and quickly filled the bottle at the station.

Do you ever notice people? We had a lot of time to notice people coming and going from the terminal. I can still see many of them in my mind's eye. I made particular note of one guy...because of his hair. His hair was long and dark...both longer and darker than my wife's hair. The hair came to his shoulders and turned up; it reminded me of pictures of one of Jackie O's hairstyles from the 60's (here's what I mean). When he turned around, I could see that he sported a pointed moustache and goatee-like facial hair as well. I thought he looked a bit like a musketeer; the rolled up jeans and sandals did rather detract from the musketeer effect. Perhaps the incongruity is what struck me; or my own state of cranial deforestation made me envious.

At last, after a good deal of time spent waiting in lines based on our ticket type, we were allowed to board. We had to show our passports and plane tickets. My wife and I were together, but as we approached, she was directed to the right where another person was inspecting tickets and passports. I was in like Flynn...but there was no sign of my wife. I kept looking back through the stream of humanity, expecting to see my wife appear. She kept not doing that, appearing, that is. Jim and Nancy were in the stream but a little way behind me. No wife. I wondered if I should turn back and swim upstream to make sure that she had't been pulled out for special interrogation, or for some flaw in her passport or boarding pass. Just when I was about to go back, I saw her. She had stopped not appearing. She was way back there, but it was her. After we got seated on the plane with Jim and Nancy, I expected some words about not having waited for her. She had no harsh words. The problem hadn't been with her or her papers, but with the guy immediately in front of her; he had issues and had caused her to be delayed. She got through with no problems.

As for the flight itself...long, boring, miserable. I could go on, but that's not a part of the trip that I want to relive.

Next stop: Frankfurt...and the problem Rachel left for us with our tickets for the connecting flight.

Hallowed Ground

Although this isn't the post I promised about the SF airport experience, and its placement here is a departure from the chronological presentation of the trip, some things merit a move to the front. If any part of the trip to France merits a move to the front for Memorial Day, it is a discussion of the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer--Omaha Beach. Those crosses in that vast expanse of white and green mark the graves of the Americans who found themselves moved to the front, the front of the war, the front of the battle for Normandy.

Our trip had been utterly delightful to this point. We spent the night in Bayeux, about five miles from the coast. We enjoyed one of the best breakfasts that it has ever been my privilege to eat. It was no struggle at all for me to consume two freshly baked croissants (nearly the size of footballs) with two cups of rich hot chocolate, along with fruit and cheese, and nearly a liter of cold apple cider along with the bacon and eggs that the young Cuban cook, who spoke English better than French, insisted on preparing for us. Following the delicious repast, that petit-dejeuner which was anything but petit, we walked in the garden of our hotel Le Maison Bayeux, while we waited for the Bayeux Tapestry Museum to open. I had selected the hotel for its proximity to the museum, and its serene garden.

Oh, how I wished that we had had more time to spend in Normandy! My heart weeps just thinking about it. If I have any regrets about this trip, it is that it was altogether too short.

I had kept my expectations for the tapestry museum quite low. How much excitement can you expect to generate from one long remnant of old cloth? The answer to that is: Plenty! To say that the tour of the tapestry was awesome undersells the experience. I would gladly do that again. We got so excited that we even bought some things from the gift shop, including  manly shirts for my son, son-in-law, and myself. We really would have liked to have obtained a replica or two of scenes from the tapestry. We did not, however, want to open up a home equity line of credit to obtain the them.

We chased the excitement of the Bayeux Tapestry with a thrilling drive to the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer. I'll have to expound on the adrenaline rush that comes with getting behind the wheel of a small car on French roads at another time. My wife eschews the term "adrenaline rush," favoring instead phrases like, "dodging the Grim Reaper," "flirting with disaster," or "Let me out, now!" She's quite the comedienne.

The first thing that I noticed about the memorial was the parking. I know that seems trivial, but after having driven around a town the previous day for at least a half hour looking for a parking place, I appreciated the big American-style parking lot at the memorial. There was a short line to enter into the building. When we got near the door, a French couple in front of us was attempting to get the door to stay open. They moved the small pylon which stood behind the open door to the front of the door...it didn't hold. They tried a variety of things...all ineffective. I finally stepped up and pushed the bolt down at the bottom of the door, and wedged a 20 centime piece in a crack in the concrete, letting the bolt rest against the coin, holding the door open. The coupled seemed pretty pleased with my solution. I was congratulating myself on a fine display of American ingenuity. Then one of the attendants stepped out and said the door wasn't supposed to stay open. It had to close. I pocketed my coin while the attendant put everything else back how he wanted it.

As with every other place that we went, bags had to be searched, and we had to pass through a metal detector. My wife passed through fine. I set the machine off. After I had removed all of the metal from myself that I could think of, I tried again...it still went off. Altogether I think I tried about 4 times. The attendant then asked me the question that nearly got me banned from the memorial. It wasn't the question itself, but my potential response that could have led to the ban. I'm not that old. Although the old-fat-and-bald train has welcomed me aboard, it hasn't left the station. So when the attendant said, "Have you had a hip replacement?" if I hadn't suppressed my instinct to hook a thumb in his eye and deliver a series of gut punches in response, I think I might have been banned from the memorial. Fortunately, I'm not overly sensitive about such things.

Eventually, I got in. The memorial is a somber place. I cannot think about it now without a surge of emotion. Within the building are many bits of written information about the men, the campaign, the materials that they carried, etc; films relate the stories of individual soldiers; some were killed on the beach; others survived that cauldron of fire to succumb later during the campaign amid the hedgerows and towns of Normandy. There is a hallway, which I believe was called the Hallway of Sacrifice; it passes into a room that highlights some of the personal stories of those buried at the cemetery. As you pass through the hallway, the names of those buried are read aloud. To experience the memorial is to appreciate their sacrifice, to be touched by their struggles, to resolve that they shall never be forgotten.

The cemetery overlooks Omaha Beach. While the memorial evokes an emotional response, the cemetery invites contemplation. Looking from the endless rows of white markers upon the green sward to the beach below inspires a reverence for this ground hallowed by the blood of common men engaged in an uncommon effort.

On the western side of the garden is a half-moon colonnade with a sculpture in the center, American Youth Rising from the Waves. The rear of the colonnade contains a quote from Eisenhower honoring those who fell in the war: TO THESE WE OWE THE HIGH RESOLVE THAT THE CAUSE FOR WHICH THEY DIED SHALL LIVE.

My wife and I got through all this without crying out loud. But when we talked with an older gentleman who asked my wife what she thought of it, her voice broke as she answered. Her father had participated in the attack at Omaha Beach. He had survived the war, and had told her about many of his experiences.

A bunch of French school kids carrying flowers through the cemetery provided an interesting sight. The legacy, the memory, lives on. As we were leaving, my wife spoke with them. She acquired a habit of speaking with strangers whenever I would go to the restroom. We met some nice people that way, including Jeff and Elizee from the United States. Jeff said that he had been to the memorial three times over the years. I can see why he returns.

Early to be late

If you're not early, you're late...

That's why we arrived at the airport at 10:00 a.m. The flight was scheduled to depart at noon. Things began most auspiciously when we got to go through the TSA pre-check security line, instead of the general strip-and-cough-for-the-x-ray-machine line. It was quick and almost painless.

When we located our departure gate, I recognized the petite woman at the counter from my previous flight with this airline some nine months earlier. That flight had been delayed; I had spent a great deal of time in lines and on the telephone trying to re-book alternate flights for the missed connection in Chicago. That time, my flight had not actually been delayed; the flight to San Francisco had been delayed, and the airline then cancelled my flight and used my plane to fly those people to SF. Ironically, when I was done with re-booking, my new flight plan took me via SF...several hours later. On this flight, we were already scheduled go via SF.

Not only was Rachel petite, she wore her dark hair in a short bob (I realize a bob cut is short. I'm not being redundant; her hair was cut in a short bob, as opposed to a long bob or a medium bob--which reminds me of my cousin Bob; he's rather a medium Bob; although his hair isn't long enough even for a bob; although it is long enough for him, and he is a Bob). But back to Rachel; she looked like a French girl to me. About an hour from the scheduled time of departure, Rachel made an announcement over the loudspeaker about the flight. At the end of the information, she coyly slipped in that our "wheels up" time would be 1:54. We were all momentarily stunned. We were like the pre-teen boy blissfully playing on the playground equipment whose friend points out to him that his arm is bleeding; he has no idea what caused the wound, and has felt no pain until the blood is brought to his attention. As with the child, after the stun, the crying began. Our departure would be nearly 2 hours late. Rachel never did mention the word "delay"...until people asked for clarification. Then she admitted that our flight would be 2 hours late because of some repairs to the runway in SF. Apparently with the runway restrictions in SF, we could not be cleared for departure until SF gave the okay because of the critical importance of being able to land once we arrived at SF. So much for the auspicious beginning.

Naturally, I began to think about the connection problem. A two-hour flight to SF would have us landing at exactly the same time that our connecting flight to Paris would be taking off. I decided, as had several others, that I needed to talk to Rachel about this. (For clarification, the several others didn't decide that I needed to talk to Rachel; they had decided that they needed to talk to Rachel). The guy in the line ahead of me told Rachel that he was on flight number X to Paris from SF and could she please solve for Y. No. Actually, he gave the flight number and asked about the likelihood of still being able to make the connection. I overheard him, and quickly interjected myself into the conversation, stating that I was also on flight X to Paris. Rachel told us that they would probably hold the plane to Paris for us as there were other passengers from other delayed aircraft making connections with that flight. The word "probably" bothered me. It bothered me a great deal. It's one step up from "maybe" toward "yes," but it's still uncertain. Imagine a Venn diagram of two overlapping circles with "yes" on one side and "no" on the other, would the overlap be "maybe" or "probably"? Is it both "yes" and "no"? Is it both "yes" and "no" until someone opens the box to see if the cat is alive? Maybe.

Rachel explained that we could re-book the connection from SF. There were no other direct flights to Paris from SF, but flights via Frankfurt, or Munich, or London, or some other place could be used. However, all of those options except the one to Frankfurt would result in the loss of another day traveling. She told us to wait until we had more information about the SF flight before re-booking. So we waited...until someone finally opened the box...the cat was dead. New departure time: 2:55. They weren't going to hold our flight to Paris for an hour for just the four of us. We re-booked via Frankfurt.

On the bright side, we did get to meet Jim and Nancy, the other couple flying to Paris. Thanks to Jim's dogged determination (read harassment), Rachel booked us all with seats together on the overseas flight, and gave us seats nearer to the front on the flight to SF; our original seats had been in the very back of the plane in the "expendable" section.

Next time: Our adventure at the SF airport, and the reveal on whether we had flowers in our hair.

One Long Ridiculously Windy Day

A parent/coach mentioned that it had been one long ridiculously windy day. I thought that sounded like the title of a Winnie the Pooh story, and said so. I made the attempt at whimsical humor during daughter's final tennis match of the day. The resulting laughter was of the subdued and polite type, like when the weird uncle says something strange and potentially offensive, but no one is quite sure what he meant. But it was true; it had been one long ridiculously windy day. The wind blew continuously. It was a cold, steady wind with just enough intensity to penetrate to the underpants of the soul. Even the sun could not bear the wind, remaining wrapped in a blanket of clouds. 

The day had began early, as days are wont to do. Actually, the day began at the same time as usual for days (I have no control over such things...yet.), but I had become aware of the day much earlier than I had cared to do so. Daughter had a tennis tournament in Parma, a "a compact and thriving metro-village," according the the link. I'm not sure what the standards are to qualify for "metro-village" status; I would guess that it falls rather toward the opposite end of the hierarchy from that of an ecumenopolis. I began the day--my part of it--with a plain cake doughnut (my favorite kind), and my wife (also my favorite in the respective category...so far). The former was soft and delicious, while the latter was good company at the breakfast. By 10:00 a.m, four hours later, that doughnut had ceased to fill the hollow emptiness inside me. I went in search of comestibles. Sort of. Sort of "went," I mean. Because I didn't actually physically leave at that time. You'll see why.

I chose Boy's Better Burgers. Google informed me that it was about a 16 minute walk from my location, and that the establishment would not open until 11:00 a.m. So I waited. (See?) After daughter's second match (of the tennis rather than the striking variety), I began my walk. I arrived a little before noon at the burger place. A somber stillness rested upon the establishment. A sign in the window indicated that it would not open until 2:00 p.m. on this date. Either Google had capriciously withheld that important bit of information, or Google does not know everything.

Much weakened by hunger and the elements, but with the determination of Henry Morton Stanley, I continued my search. Eventually, I found, not Dr. Livingston, but Peg Leg Bistro. An elderly couple was seated at one of the small round tables. The knight and lady of that modest round table were clad in the finery associated with a funeral or a church service. I never heard them speak a single word while I was there. The waitress brought them a plate of something, but they still didn't speak. After I got my order, I took it back to the tennis courts to share with wife and daughter. 

Later, daughter and her doubles partner won the championship in their category at the tournament...which meant that we would be delighted to wait for all of the other matches to conclude so that she could be part of the medal award ceremony. Apparently "ceremony" possesses broad enough meaning to encompass a cheerful woman standing behind a cardboard box resting on a bench, calling out names (it's the woman who does the calling, not the bench or the cardboard box), and handing medals to those who respond. 

But the day wasn't about the medals, or the ridiculous soul-chilling wind, or doughnuts, or any of that. The tennis players, the kids who played all day in the unrelenting blast beneath a somber sky, gave the day meaning. Players like daughter's teammate who played for third place; she quickly found herself behind at four games to none. She pulled her game together and clawed her way back to a tie; she pulled a game ahead; her determined opponent tied the score; finally, she tasted victory, all the more sweet for having stumbled at the start. Players like the  teammate who played for first in her single's category; she gave all she had, but the sum of her efforts could not equal the ciphering of her more experienced opponent. Her effort was no less noble and praiseworthy, even though she found it not as sweet.

It was one long ridiculously windy day, but it was worth it.

Infiltration Mission

I had returned to the primary undisclosed location when the message came. My Brown-eyed Girl (MBG) who handles the communications referred the matter directly to me. She handed me the dinner-plate-sized device that is her cellphone. Of course, I had provided that particular piece of hi-tech equipment to MBG, so complaints about that unit (meaning the phone, not the girl) typically meet with icy stares, or offers of a knuckle sandwich with a side of waffle-sliced earlobes. I jest; she never says such things...out loud...but I know that she thinks them: the anonymous notes and morbid drawings that appear in my lunchbox possess a frightening clarity.

The contact reported an agent in need of assistance. I double checked the information. The agent was a member of my cell; that was true; in fact, I had interacted with the agent just a few days earlier. I had to accept the assignment. I risked a communication with the agent's handler. After establishing a secure connection (via a much smaller device), the handler verified the status as reported by the contact. He had been reluctant to disclose the agent's distress. Apparently the contact had hinted at some unspecified threat; the handler, unable to take the pressure, had crumbled like a desiccated sandcastle. It was fortunate that he had, otherwise I might never have been tagged for the job.

I didn't have much time. I considered the circumstances, concluding that a two-man team would be required. If things transpired like I expected, my usual specialist wouldn't be able to handle the job. I needed someone with experience. The local commander, via encrypted message, suggested an inquiry with a veteran agent that I knew. "Veteran" might be an understatement. This guy, Helmut, had handled more missions than NASA. If he had a nickel for every assignment like this that he had completed, he could retire the national debt. Unfortunately, instead of nickels, he got gray hairs, a lot of them...all of them; but the ladies, young and old, find him terribly captivating. It makes it tough to be around him...because I always come off second best in the comparison.

I contacted Helmut's handler and passed her security check. She summoned Helmut to the phone. He confirmed his availability. As always, he was eager for another mission. I knew why...it wasn't just to get away from his handler for a while. He was a mission-high junkie. Nothing compares with the euphoria that comes with this kind of mission when it's handled properly. We had worked together before. I knew that he was fit for the task. Even if I had a complete breakdown and forgot all the protocols, odds were that Helmut could carry us through to completion. He knew that another agent was depending on him. His Terminator-like tenacity and inmate innate charm virtually guaranteed success.

We arrived at the destination separately. As expected, Helmut arrived first. He visually confirmed the distressed agent's location and mapped a course to her. I followed his lead. We infiltrated the facility without difficulty. Our gal was unresponsive at first, but Helmut spoke her name in his engaging manner. She snapped to attention. Immediately she asked if we were there to render assistance. When we answered in the affirmative, she brightened, rewarding all our efforts. She reported that she had been captured the night before. They were plying her with pain, and drugs, in an attempt to break her spirit; she was too resilient, and too experienced for such amateur tactics. Her blithe attitude during the discussion assured us of her determination to holdout at all costs.

A female member of the facility's security team suddenly entered without warning before we had completed our mission. Luckily, Helmut with his +3 charisma modifier successfully distracted her with talk of a possible defection to her team for the express purpose of working with her personally. The idea enthralled her so entirely that she left us in peace without a word to the rest of the facility security team.

We couldn't remove our agent from the facility without blowing our cover; it would put the entire operation at risk. Instead, we gave her assurances from a higher authority to hold steady pending an eventual extraction. When we were done, we had learned a great deal about one another, and the area operation. I could see in the eyes of our temporarily distressed agent, that the mission had been as meaningful for her as it had for Helmut and me. Her spirit seemed even more resilient.

Just when I thought that we were about to make a clean escape, Helmut spotted that female from the security team. Always willing to risk everything on his extreme charisma, he entered into verbal communications with the security woman; he assured her that they would work together in the future. It was like watching a scene from From Russia with Love. We finally slipped away without the accompaniment of alarms, sirens, and machine gun fire. After a short congratulatory salute, Helmut and I parted ways to report back to our handlers.

Curiosity forced me to slip back into the facility the next morning. The agent in distress was still there. Her handler had managed to gain official entry via a clever ruse. Apparently, the enemy had determined that the drugs were insufficient to break her. They were going to transfer her to a more secure facility for the application advanced interrogation techniques. I was forced to leave as the transfer team approached to avoid being apprehended myself.

The enemy encountered logistical problems and had to abandon the transfer; her handler executed a delayed but successful extraction later in the day.