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Privateers - A Blog Novel (Ch.2)

Chapter 2: The Potters Wheel

Sunday Morning

Baltimore-Washington D.C.

Commuter trains on the weekends are desperate, haunted places. They have none of the natural rhythm or timing that makes up its natural environment on the weekdays. You just know you’re not supposed to be on a commuter train on the weekend. It’s like wearing a business suit on Saturday afternoon or a pair of shorts to the office on Monday, there’s nothing technically wrong with it; it just feels wrong.

Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, David Hastings sat in his usual seat on the train. It felt odd, but it was as if he was required to sit in the same regular spot among all the suburbanite tourists on their way to visit the museums in the Capital as he did Monday through Friday with all the other commuters on their way to the cubicle farms in that same city.

David Hastings woke every day at 5:00 am, even on Saturday and Sunday. He never used an alarm clock; he simply willed it to be. Monday through Friday, his pattern was the same. Wake, shower, shave, eat, work out for 45 minutes either by running or the elliptical trainer in the converted garage of his Condo; read the email that had arrived from his contacts in Europe from the night before and by 7:00am be out the door to catch the train. Even though today was Sunday, the routine was the same.

Like his father before him, at 17 years of age, David Hastings had joined the Marines to get away from life at home. His father, Sam Hastings had been in the Marines for only 5 years before an unfortunate accident that occurred while on duty had stripped him of the one thing he loved; the service. The shame of how Sgt. Sam Hastings was removed from the service would feed a lifetime addiction to alcohol and violence.

The eldest of five bothers and sisters, Dave has been the default parent in a dysfunctional household for far too many of his very young years. One too many fights with the old man, one too many arguments over trivial things that ended up with either himself or his siblings in the hospital or cowering in fear in the corner of their rooms had finally brought Dave to the decision point.

After an argument over whether Dave should surrender his earnings from his after school job to the family, Dave decided it was time to go. He cut school that day and went to the Marine Recruiting office. Afterwards, he went to the bank and took out all of the savings he had accrued over the years lawn mowing and other work that he had performed since the age of 12. For all that work for all those years, it was just 150 dollars.

He placed the money on the kitchen table, and told his father to sign the papers that would allow him to join the Marines. He could have the one if he could have the other. Sam Hastings laughed out loud. Slovenly, unshaven with a beer in hand, took the money and signed the paperwork. He looked at Dave, pointed smiling with his unfilled hand and said “The will eat you alive you little punk. I loved the Corp, and they screwed me for it, they’ll screw you too, just you wait and see.”

Dave had stared his father down many times before; he had lost his sons natural fear of his father long ago. Rage had long replaced the parts of his mind where the fear used to live.

After that day, Dave never again sat face to face with his father. When he left for boot camp, he avoided his father, never looking him in the eye or shaking his hand as left for the airport. He said his goodbyes to his mother and siblings and never returned to his home.

His father would drop dead of a heart attack, while sitting at a barstool just two weeks after Dave completed boot camp. Yet, while his father was long since gone, the image of that day with his father mocking him at the kitchen table would live in his mind for the rest of his life.

Unlike his father, David Hastings made a home of the Marines. He made a fetish of the discipline it provided to his life. The irrational uncertainty of living as the child in the household of an alcoholic had toughened him for the very worst deprivations of military life and rather than be shocked and beaten down by it as most normal men were, he reveled in it.

He became an NCO and moved on quickly to become an Officer. He was the very definition of a “Maverick”. His work as a Battalion level intelligence officer in Lebanon brought him the notice of his current boss, Hugh Teale.

In those days, Hugh Teale worked as the Section Chief in Beirut, but later Hugh Teale would go on to be the Deputy Director of the CIA.

As Beirut Section Chief, Hugh Teale found a Marine intelligence officer that was always informed, inventive, good with a bribe, actually bothered to get to know the local language and customs, and knew more about how to get around in the alleys than his own men did.

After crossing his path many times in Lebanon, Hugh Teale made David Hastings an offer that would change both of their lives. David Hastings would leave his beloved Marines and come to work in the CIA.

That Sunday morning, David Hastings would ride the train to meet with his friend and mentor for the last time.

Hugh Teale

Hugh Teale was old money, old world and old school. Raised overseas at embassy postings around the world, Hugh Teale was very much his fathers’ son. His father came from the intelligence community before the CIA, before the OSS, back when serious people actually said “Gentleman don’t read other Gentlemen’s mail”. Hugh Teales’ father William Teale, actually did read other “Gentleman’s mail” long before it became fashionable and a regular part of government policy to do so.

Hugh Teale was the sort of man that could walk in his underwear across a crowded ballroom in the middle of a waltz and no one would take notice. He was by his nature and style, invisible. He rarely spoke just above a whisper, always wore a hat and overcoat, always leaned forward to talk to you and looked directly into your eyes and poked you with his long dangling, nicotine covered, claw like fingers while he did it. He was the sort of person you always think you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn to look, is always someone else instead.

He was in every sense of the word, “spooky”.

Au Bon Pain – Grand Central Washington D.C.

He sat at the edge of the platform at a table furthest from the customers, a pile of the Sunday paper laid out in front a cup of coffee in the old fashioned style sitting before him. Dave caught site of him as he left the train station below. He knew that the only reason he saw his friend is that in this case at this time, he simply wished to be seen.

As Dave approached, Hugh arose from his seat and delivered in his continental accent a quiet whisper that said; “Good morning David, it’s good to see you again”. He smiled and shook his Dave’s hand and motioned for him to sit down.

Dave smiled and sat down opposite.

“This couldn’t wait for Monday, Hugh”?

Teale Smiled and leaned forward. “By this time tomorrow David, I suspect that you will be very busy indeed. I read your plan. I was very impressed David. I’ve read it half a dozen times since you delivered it two weeks ago. Frankly, I haven’t though about much since I first read it. You’ve outdone yourself, you really did” He laughed and nodded his head and then looked up.

“There are plans that are created to mark time, there are plans designed to make their bosses look good. There are plans that exist to give cover to the fact that the author wasted government money for a year just to repeddle the already known facts as new facts, and then there are plans like this one.

This is the kind of plan that is immediately fed into the shredder.

Why? Because this is the one sort of plan that this town absolutely hates and cannot tolerate. This town hates two types of things more than any other, Failure and Success. Failure gets hunted down because everyone wants to be the big scalp hunter that removed the scourge of failure from the land. It’s an easy kill and it’s easier to hunt down a failure than it is to make something work of your own. But by far the most hated thing in this town is what looks to be a shot at success. Success changes the game, once the people of this country find that its possible to actually “do something” they will start to clamor for it more often, and we cant have that now can we, Dave”?

Dave smiled and wondered where this was all going.

“So good plans, I mean really good plans are smothered in their cribs before they can do any harm to the bureaucracy at large, which as you know must be protected at all costs. I immediately fed your plan into the shredder the first time I read it Dave, It is truly that good”. Hugh sat back in his chair as Dave sat across from him flummoxed, not quite knowing where to go next.

“Hugh, the thing is, after 20 years of working with you, I can never tell if you are insulting me or praising me from one moment to the next”

“Occupational hazard dear boy. My apologies” Hugh said, grasping Dave’s upper arm.

Hugh started again “ I discussed the basic theory of this, ahem, plan of yours with a couple of friends from college who are staying over the weekend in Camp David”, he said with a wink.

And? Dave said askance with a wave of the hand.

“The plan that you have created, to say the least my friend, was received with great interest. David. This is a plan that will change the game. Plans that are actually going to change things cannot be executed from within the company. The company is rotten with corruption from stem to stern. This plan, if it is to survive, must be done from the outside if it is to have any chance of success at all. That’s why I’m meeting with you now, here on a Sunday”.

David, your lovely, plan has been “approved” and that my boy is why I’m going to have to ask you to resign. You see, you’re the only one who can see how this plan will work and I will need you on the outside to do it, and you need to start right away. The longer this thing sits around the bigger the chance that someone will come to see that it never sees the light of day".

Hugh Teale, leaned back and looked at his protoge and friend David Hastings right in the eye. He leaned over to the table took his cup of coffee and said “ Here’s to 'privateer' my boy"” and tipped his Styrofoam cup with a small salute.

Dave Hastings had put it all on the line with one simple plan. Before the plan had started, it had already cost him his career with the CIA; but it would be worth it if the plan worked.

It was, as Hugh said; "a game changer".

(Note: Chapter 3 will appear on Sunday, Feb 25th)

Posted @ February 22, 2007 10:05 PM | Blog-novel

Posted by: TBinSTL at February 22, 2007 11:23 PM

Posted by: frank martin at February 23, 2007 07:25 AM

Posted by: Dave at February 23, 2007 11:27 AM

Posted by: Woody at February 24, 2007 02:09 PM

Posted by: frank martin at February 24, 2007 04:18 PM

Posted by: TBinSTL at March 2, 2007 12:36 AM