Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Colonel Starkes smiled at Phoenix and he returned her smile smugly. Irritated, she felt an intense flash of anger and sought to wipe the smug smile off his face. “Keeping a safe reserve is standard protocol in a hostile or an unknown environment, Phoenix. I imagine any civilian can muster up that amount of strategy. But, don’t think you’ve done anything special . And, don’t you ever think you can outguess my next move.”

“Pardon me?”

Surprised at the intensity felt in her gut, she was barely able to contain her anger. “Phoenix, you and I are not in the same ballpark.”

Phoenix’s smile quickly evaporated and his face showed a flash of anger. He smiled again and held out his hand in the direction of their assigned seating.

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my own seat,” she said acidly.

Major O’Malley brushed past Phoenix, detecting the man’s discomfort, and sat next to the colonel. The rest of the men took their seats around the two tables. All kept quiet, feeling the tension. After a brief delay, Phoenix approached the table.

“Madam President,” said Phoenix, “It was never my intent to upset you in any way. And, I thought it might be presumptuous of me to join you at your table of honor. I’ll be dining over there.” He pointed to a smaller table nearby. “I would like to discuss a few concerns after dinner, if that’s okay with you. But, for now, I hope you enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you, Phoenix,” she said, seeking to find a calmness and failing to acquiesce to his request for an after-dinner meeting.

“It’s a pretty big crowd,” mumbled Burroughs, sitting next to the major. It was a large crowd, somewhere around two hundred people, all surprisingly well dressed and each one trying their best not to stare their way. There were at least fifty waiters and waitresses circling the tables, refilling water glasses and delivering what appeared to be alcoholic beverages.

The colonel surveyed the room while Phoenix pondered his next response. She was impressed with the coordination of the event, organized in a relatively short time. Feeling the intense energy emanating from Phoenix standing nearby, she wondered at the level of her intense animosity toward him. She began to critically re-evaluate her behavior. Phoenix recovered from her earlier outburst, and quickly sought to place her at ease.

“I’ve taken the liberty of placing you and your men together instead of spread around. I hope this meets with your approval, colonel.”

“Yes, Phoenix, it’s fine. Thank you.”

“One of my men said that there was another woman in your group. Was that inaccurate, ma’am?”

“Do you see another woman here, Phoenix?” Her intuition was trying to tell her something, but it eluded her.

“No, colonel, of course I don’t see another woman. Maybe she’s with those of your group that you didn’t bring.”

“What exactly is your interest, Phoenix?”

“Only to make your stay in Cleveland as memorable as possible, colonel.”

The colonel turned her attention back to the room, studying the attendees, categorizing each with a photographic memory and filing away the contents for later review. “Keep at it, Phoenix. So far, you’re doing a damn fine job.”

He accepted the compliment graciously, bowing slightly. He turned and walked to a small platform to the side of the room where there stood a microphone. He tapped it gently to verify it was working.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice booming throughout the spacious room. “Can I have your attention, please?” He waited a moment for the conversation to die down. “We have the distinct honor of being in the presence of the President of the United States.” Those sitting rose to their feet and joined in the applause.

The colonel’s men also stood and applauded. “All eyes on you, ma’am,” said Major O’Malley, grinning.

She remained sitting for a moment, but it was clear that the applause was not going to stop until she did more. Slowly, she stood, hoping she looked presidential. She gave a calm and measured wave to the crowd. Phoenix smiled in her direction, his position by the microphone brightly lit by two strong floodlights. Colonel Starkes wondered where he secured the electric power for all the lights in the dining room and made a mental note to ask him for the details of this minor miracle.

“Maybe Madam President will give us an update on the state of the Union after dinner,” said Phoenix. This statement was met with additional applause. Colonel Starkes admired how all attention turned to Phoenix when he spoke. The charisma of his voice carried an alluring power and confidence. He was born with the natural ability—it wasn’t something that was easily acquired. She nodded briefly to the crowd her willingness to comply with Phoenix’s request and they rewarded her with renewed applause.

“I hope everyone enjoys tonight’s meal,” continued Phoenix. “I would like to thank Leslie for organizing this event on such short notice. Thank you, Leslie—I’m sure you’ve outdone yourself.”

A four-man band played light jazz on a corner stage, the low volume conducive to dinner conversation. The server’s activity increased greatly, a steady swarm of men and women ran into and out of the kitchen. The colonel and her men were the first to be served, their two tables attended to by six servers. A plate of canapés was placed in front of each diner.

“What’s this?” asked Burroughs.

“It’s cucumber canapés,” whispered Colonel Starkes. “If any of you men are afraid of playing the fool, just follow what I do.”

“Sure, colonel,” agreed Burroughs.

The men grinned at his discomfort, yet watched the colonel carefully, themselves concerned about potential embarrassment. They tasted their canapés after the colonel had taken a bite and were greatly surprised at the vivid burst of flavor. The empty plates were removed and replaced with piping-hot bowls of French onion soup. Two baskets brimming with fresh rolls were set on each table accompanied by a small plate, loaded with silky olive oil and laced with a coarse pepper.

The men tried gallantly to ignore the freshness of the bread and the aromatic soup as they waited patiently for the colonel to take her first bite. The conversation remained light while the diners enjoyed their soup. Colonel Starkes and her men pointedly ignored the curious glances of the other guests.

“That soup was excellent,” said the major, absorbing the last bit of broth with a piece of bread.

A poultry bouchee was served next, the ingredients mixed to a light perfection. Servers refilled water glasses and brought more bread.

“This is some real good shit, ma’am.”

“I’m glad you like it Edgars,” said the colonel, chuckling at the man’s inability to express himself a little more gently. “You may want to consider a more refined choice of words if you decide to compliment the chef.”

The next course was a quarter pound of glazed walleye, served on a small bed of rice. It was expertly prepared and Colonel Starkes closed her eyes, savoring the subtly sweet flavor of the glaze.

A small deer fillet was served next, followed by a light tasting speckled trout served with a spoonful of risotto. Everything was expertly prepared, served hot in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. Sautéed mushrooms, a favorite of the colonel’s, came next, its smell of garlic unmistakable.

The next course made the colonel think of her dad—it was rabbit, a dish her father prepared a hundred times and while she refused to admit that this was better than her dad’s, it was damn close. She was sure that the rabbit had been marinated—it was as tender as it would ever get—and she knew how much work went into the preparation of this course. She was determined to seek out the chef after the meal to offer a personal compliment.