1:2 Bob Henderson at Quantico
Bob Henderson studied the large screen wall panel in the Charles Lidell Conference Room in Quantico, Virginia. “Texas again,” he said to himself. This was the fourth biological or chemical attack apparently directed at the criminal justice system. All of them had taken place in Texas. The first three were strictly biological attacks. This attack seemed to be strictly chemical.
The media had already concluded that the three biological attacks were the work of the Mexican Alliance but Quantico had her doubts. The Mexican Alliance were criminals, not terrorists. They are different species with different habits and different methods. This was the work of terrorists.
His cell purred like a kitten and he fought back a smile before answering. “Henderson,” he said in an official tone.
“Can you tear away from the set long enough for a debriefing?”
“Two minutes,” he said and flipped the cell back into his shirt pocket. “People” he yelled in a coachy tone. “Let me remind you that it is our job to tell Fox News what is happening. It is not Fox News's job to tell us what is happening. You are professionals. Get back to your stations and do something. Anything. Your country is under attack.”
With that Bob Henderson raced out of the stapled leather conference area and trotted the to his office at the end of the hall. “No interruptions, Stella” he barked at he darted past his secretary. He locked the door behind him.
From the bottom drawer in the tan Hohn file cabinet, Bob Henderson removed a laptop computer with a wireless transmitter. Technically, he could be disciplined for using an unauthorized computer and an unregistered crypt, but he was, after all, Bob Henderson. He set the screen and dialed Agent Judy Hunnsicker in Salt Lake City.
“Hi” Judy answered ever so perkily.
“Whatta ya got?” Bob Henderson begged, not even attempting to hide his enthusiasm.
“You remember the trifecta?”
“Hell yes!”
“You said the perfect scene was a young perpetrator receiving a long sentence, a sobbing mother and a blubbering girlfriend.”
“10-4.”
“Well get ready for the grand slam! This also has a weepy little sister!”
Bob Henderson was transfixed. Veritas had procured the sentencing of a 19 year old in Federal Court. They had somehow gotten three or four camera angles. It was a masterpiece.
As the judge asked the defendant to rise, Bob Henderson dropped his pants to his ankles and slipped his left hand inside his boxers. The dark eyes of the defendant contrasted nicely with his whitish face. And then the screen split and he also saw the perp's mother. She was gorgeous! Was she 13 when she had him? And that pair of mommy melons! Mmm.
The screen split into thirds and the sobbing girlfriend appeared. She was a cutie with light brown hair that hung down upon her firm breasts. And then an 18 year old girl who could have passed for 15 and was obviously the defendant's sister, filled the entire screen. She was so pretty and so scared and so anguished. Bob Henderson looked away and looked back. He rubbed harder and faster...She was so innocent!
Bob Henderson pointed his cannon at the rubber plant behind his desk and closed his eyes. He could still hear the judge yammering on and on as his pelvis spasmed and he moaned ever so quietly. He was at peace.
Reluctantly Bob Henderson came back to his life. He pulled up his pants and wiped his hands with a tissue. He surveyed the discharge as he worked bottled disinfectant into his hands. Most of it had fallen on the rubber tree. What had hit the carpet, he smeared with his shoe.
Bob Henderson thanked Judy Hunnsicker profusely and promised to call her that evening. He put the cell in his pocket and stowed the laptop in its hiding place. He sprayed the affected leaves of the rubber plant with lemon-scented water. He shot breath spray onto his tongue and poured a heap of breath mints into his mouth. At last, he dialed his voice mail.
His spirits would sink as the robot announced on this historic day when Quantico had become a beehive, a day where data transmission had surpassed all previous records, on this critical day in American history, Bob Henderson had received no voice mail.
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