Tuesday, April 30, 2024


Chapman had the host seat her at a table with a nice view of the Potomac, her server came by, she ordered water with a lemon slice, and a chopped spinach salad. While it was a meeting, it was in a restaurant, and it was lunchtime, so she was going to eat. The drive from her office hadn't been too bad, but it was still DC traffic.

She heard a familiar voice as she was digging into her salad, she looked up and sure enough, it was the man she was supposed to meet with.

"Hi, Beth," Jack Morgan said with a grin as he sat down across the table from her.

"Pretty ballsy, Jack, meeting like this."

"I remembered that when you lived in Old Town you liked this place."

"Well yeah, I still get down here from Annapolis from time to time. I didn't move to the moon you know."

Morgan blushed, he and Chapman had been a 'thing' when they were in the Navy. She flew helicopters, he had been a surface warfare officer, specializing in boarding operations.¹ They had spent a number of months in the Persian Gulf, he had been assigned to a destroyer, she had been on the same ship as part of the Air Detachment. They had behaved aboard ship, but the few port calls the ship had made, they had not.

After her helicopter had gone down in a sandstorm and she had badly injured her back, they had gone their separate ways. She had been stationed at ONI while undergoing rehabilitation, he had stayed at sea until he got out of the Navy a year later. Eventually she had been medically retired with three years to go until her twenty, he had separated from the Navy when he'd been passed over for lieutenant commander for the second time.

She often wondered what would have happened had they been closer in age, she had at least six years on him.

"Anything I need to know about?" Morgan asked.

"You've got no worries on my end." Chapman answered.

"What's good here?" Morgan asked as he glanced at the menu the server had dropped off.

"Food's better in the evening, the only reason I'm here at lunch is I like the view."

"Hhmm, ah, I'm not hungry anyway, call me?" Morgan said as he stood up to leave.

"Only if I have to, Jack. Only if I have to."

Johansen was just hanging up his phone when Morgan walked into the office. Johansen gave him a sour look.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Morgan sat, uninvited, before he answered, "I was down in Alexandria, thought I had a lead on something, but it turned out to be nothing."

"What kind of lead?"

"Let's go for a walk Ephraim, it's nice outside."

"Spill it, Morgan."

"I heard a rumor that someone who works at the Pentagon, the E Ring² mind you, may, or may not, have heard something about our little after hours activities."

Johansen's face paled slightly. "Anybody important, or some staffer?"

"Like I said, it didn't pan out. The guy I talked to, a staffer, is an old buddy of mine, another blackshoe³ sailor, he'd heard one of the flags say something offhand about 'traitors in our midst.' Turns out he was talking about a Marine who's rooting for Army this fall."

Johansen raised an eyebrow at that.

"The Marine's son plays tackle for West Point."

"Ah. So this was much ado about nothing?"

"It kinda concerns me that this staffer would think to bring it up to me, what does he know, or thinks he knows?"

Johansen, "I'd ask for a name, but I don't want to go poking around over in Arlington. Best let sleeping dogs lie. If something comes up, will this guy get in touch?"

"I doubt it, he's headed back to sea in a couple of months."

As Johansen walked back to his building, Morgan went to his car. In the glovebox was a burner phone, he opened it and hit a single button.


"I brought the bait, don't know if the fish are biting."

The phone clicked off on the other end.

On the way back to his apartment, Morgan stopped at a convenience store and picked up a six pack. The phone, which he'd snapped in half before putting it in a paper bag with a rather ripe banana peel, went into the trash outside the door. The chip from the phone was somewhere on 295, just past the sign for Exit 1A. He had snapped that in half as well.

Vice Admiral Tom Shaeffer was tired. It had been a long day and it wasn't over yet. It was just past 1900 and he had another meeting over at the Navy Yard which would probably run until midnight.

As he settled into the back seat of his car, his driver, Master Sergeant Turner Johns, USMC, turned to him, handing him a paper sack. "I bought you a sandwich, Admiral. Tomatoes and cheese on dark rye. Mayo, no pickles."

"Thanks, T. Did you get to eat?"

"Yessir, went home to Mama and the kids while you were hobnobbing with the Congresscritters. Had some red beans and rice, some boudin, and a nice cold beer. Ya shoulda come with me, Sir."

"You're right. Talking with those bastards from up on the Hill always makes me want to shoot myself."

"Take it easy, Sir. They'll get theirs. You know what they say, right?"

"I do, T, I do. What goes around, comes around. After you drop me off at the Yard, go ahead and go home. I'll leave a message as to what time to collect me tomorrow morning."

"Roger that, Sir."

"I have not yet begun to fight," the Admiral said softly as he exited the car.

MSgt. Johns nodded as he drove off, "Amen to that."

¹ Morgan would have been part of the Navy's Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure (VBSS) teams. Very active in the Persian Gulf at certain points in history.
² The most senior military and civilian officials of the Department of Defense and their staffs work in the E Ring.
³ Surface Warfare Officers (SWOs) are often referred to as "black shoes" due to the color of their footwear when not in whites. Naval aviators are especially fond of referring to them that way. Aviators wear brown shoes, my son, a SWO, did some heavy eye-rolling when his baby sister, a Naval Flight Officer, bought her first pair of brown shoes to wear with her khakis after being winged.

Monday, April 29, 2024

Texan Weather*

Howdy folks! It's another juvat Monday!  But, as usual, this is getting written on Sunday.  

As such, some of this post could be old news to some readers, e.g. Cletus or STxAR. Being in the same area of Heaven (AKA Texas) they may have seen some of the wonders about to be revealed to the rest of our loyal readers.  

First, one may notice that the color of the font is different.  Our beloved blogmaster, having decided (wisely) to make some changes to the blog, sent me some HTML to setup the approved fonts and their color.  However, despite having 20+ years as a webmaster and teaching that to HS students, I could not get it to work in blogger.  When I copied it into the HTML page of the post then went to the text view, blogger translated it into gibberish.  Perhaps there's a supersecret HTML page for style sheet level settings?  Who knows?

But, on with the show.  This morning about 0400 Mrs J woke up and brought the GP's (Great Pyrenees, wonderful dogs) in from outside.  Apparently a large thunderstorm was about to strike.  Myself, still wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, knew nothing about this until lightning struck pretty close to Chez Juvat (e.g. the bright light and loud bang were nearly simultaneous).  


That was the lower level of the storm,  Cloud to Cloud lightning was pretty spectacular.

Realizing that there was little I could do now that the torrential downpour had commenced, I rolled over and went back to sleep.  Having been a tad sleep deprived recently, and frequently, by one of the other adopted dogs, a hyper Golden retriever.  Seems he won't use the doggie door to exit the abode and do his business, he requires someone to arise and let him out in the back yard.  He then arouses the GP's, they all do their business, spend a bit of time with them, barking at spirits of the night, or the wind, or something then after an hour or so (aka just as soon as I get back to sleep) starts pawing and howling to be let back in.  

Yes, I'm tired and cranky.

In any case, due to the storm, Mrs J made the executive decision to let the GP's sleep in the garage.  A compromise since it's neither outside in the wet and lightning nor inside the house where their mortal enemies, the Cats, reside.

It's still dark when the alarm goes off and I arise.  It being Sunday, we regularly go to the 0730 Mass.  As there's also an 0900 Mass, we choose the early one as that puts a limit on how long our long winded Priest can lecture us.  Not that he doesn't push it to the limits, but it is somewhat disconcerting to him when he's not done and the doors are flung open and the next group of parishioners start making their ways into the pews.  

He's learning, slowly, but learning.

Back on story, juvat!

Aye, Sarge.

As I said it's dark, it rained very hard and we have a dry creek that our access road crosses that I'm concerned is no longer dry and possibly flooded.  I talk to Mrs J and say that for safety sake, maybe we should go to the later Mass.  I can tell from 40+ years of being schooled on her body language that even though she said "Okay", she did not mean "Okay".  

What to do?

I dress, grab my raincoat, sprint to the truck, drive to the wash and, lo and behold, no flowing water.  I rush back to the house and issue Mod 1 to the Morning Op Order and off we go.

Finding an empty pew this morning  was surprisingly easy, and it was the visiting Sri Lankan Priest saying Mass.  Nice guy but with a  strong accent that you really have to pay attention in order to understand his sermons.  I suppose that's a good thing.

By lunchtime, the skies were clear blue and little wind.  Quite lovely Spring day.

Onward with updates on a couple of other ongoing projects.

I really thought I was going to be finished with the Piklar triangle Saturday.  The triangle itself is complete, However, late in the project, negotiations were reopened about the details.  Adding a slide was agreed upon by all parties.  

Said slide was constructed, mostly.  A couple of attachment braces were made.  


Then I decided to get a bit fancy as the slide is plastic covered particle board.  The slide portion looks pretty good, but the sides reveal the ugly particle board.  I cut some 2x4's to fit the sides, but forgot one other measurement, the width of the triangle it rests upon.  

So....Negotiated with Mrs J for another trip to Lowes later today to find some edge banding or quarter round molding to finish it up.  I'm not going to say "Shouldn't be hard", as I don't want to tempt fate, but...

Finally, I had a lot of entertainment overhead Rancho Juvat Saturday and Sunday..  Seems the Airport was hosting "Formation School" and at least 4 WWII North American T-6 Texans were in attendance.  Pretty sure they used my house as a rendezvous point or a turn about a point practice reference.  

Four ship over the property. I apologize for the wind noise. It was pretty windy Saturday,20-30K.

We were resetting our guest houses after Church this morning and I heard an engine. Got outside just in time to see this Lucky Son of a Gun flying his Texan and pulling out of a loop.


Damn, I wish I was rich!

One more Weather Update.  MBD and The Rev's house flooded last night.  8" of rain in about an hour.  Fortunately a group of student's The Rev deals with came over to build dams around the house.  Good to have friends.

Peace out y'all


 * Get it? Weather and Texans?


Sunday, April 28, 2024

Fall Guys

DuPont was back at his desk. The trip to the country had seemed worthwhile, at first. Now he was having doubts. He picked up his phone.

"Beth, you're still here? Good, please come by my office."

DuPont sat staring at his desk, he was dead tired and the chance of going home to sleep in his own bed was looking slim. His gaze went from the desk to his sofa, he'd be sleeping there tonight, if he slept at all.

He looked up at the tap on his door, Beth Chapman, former member of the Office of Naval Intelligence stepped into the room. She had a folder in hand. DuPont wondered what it was.

"So, we were out in the country today, an abandoned farmhouse ..."

"From which you brought back a single 7.62 NATO cartridge, a couple of trash bags of garbage, and not much else."

DuPont nodded, "You're up to speed then, good. Any thoughts?"

"A few."

Chapman pulled a chair around to sit beside DuPont, she placed the folder on his desk. "Forensics lifted a single partial print off that cartridge, they're running it through AFIS¹ now. That might take a while."

DuPont sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, as they search, the trail goes cold. Any DNA on that trash?"

"The lab guys aren't real hopeful. Seems the local teens use the place as a party hangout. Some of that trash is probably months old."

"Damn it," as DuPont sat back up, his phone rang. "Excuse me, Beth."


"Yes Sir, we've got a report that our shooters might have returned to the warehouse district."

"Bullshit!" DuPont barked into the phone. "How do we know this isn't another set-up like before?"

"Sir, we've had surveillance up since the shooting. A van pulled in to one of the abandoned factories, three men got out. If they were armed, we didn't see them carry anything into the building."

"They may have prepositioned ..." DuPont stopped talking and listened.

"Can we get our people in, unseen?"

"I'll be there in an hour, can't be any quicker with the traffic out there. Thanks, and be f**king careful, Teddy."

He hung up and looked at Chapman, she asked, "What's up? Our shooters?"

"Maybe. A surveillance drone spotted a beat up van entering the warehouse district. No businesses still up and running there. Drone saw them cut the lock on a building. Suspicious as hell if you ask me."

Chapman was already moving for the door, "Can I come with?"

"Yeah, I'll meet you in the garage, gear up, this could get nasty."

Walter Rostock looked at his two companions, both of whom were high on something. He shook his head, he'd told them to stay clean until they left the country. Stupid bastards.

"Leo, Jack, there should be something for us in that locker." He said, indicating a storage locker over by an old rusty turret lathe. The locker was pretty banged up, but the lock was new.

He tossed the key to Jack Wilkins, who seemed the more sober of the two. He went to the locker, and after fumbling briefly with the lock, got it open.

"Gotta gym bag here. Nice, feels kinda heavy."

Rostock walked over, "What's in it?"

Leo Rogers, who had been in the Army before being thrown out, looked around, something didn't feel right.

"Hey Walt, hold off ..."

As DuPont and Chapman headed for the warehouse district, his cell phone went off.

"Yeah? F**k, you're kidding? Alright, get some people on scene, be careful, this whole things stinks to high heaven."

Chapman looked over, "Something go wrong?"

"Yeah, the f**king warehouse blew up."

Johansen headed through security, bypassing the metal detector after showing his credentials. He wondered if Morgan was at his desk yet. It had been almost a week since the latest development in the case. It was getting harder to pretend that anything given to him was news.

After all, he knew what was going to happen, if everything went as planned. So far it had.

Walking down the corridor to his office, he ran into Beth Chapman. He said hello, she nodded and hurried down the hallway.

He walked into the office and nodded to his personal assistant, "Anything new, Ben?"

"Yes Sir, the Director has a meeting scheduled for 0830, you're invited."

"Wonderful, another meeting." then Johansen entered his office and turned his computer on.

First thing he noticed was the email from the Director's executive assistant, a couple of emails further down and he saw what he was looking for, he glanced at the subject line then kept scrolling.

The subject line had been "Warehouse Explosion." He didn't open it, if security was monitoring his system, and they were known to do that, he didn't want to show any unusual interest in that event. After all, he had been the cause.

Jack Morgan wasn't at his desk yet. He'd come up on a traffic accident on his way to work. Traffic was totally backed up, he called his assistant.

"Hi Jennie, it's Jack Morgan, yeah, I'm going to be late. Some idiot who doesn't know how to drive caused an accident. Can't go around, can't back track. Anything going on I might miss?"

"Yes Mr. Morgan, the Director has called a meeting for 0830."

"Well, it'll be a miracle if I make it. Can you go and take good notes for me?"

"Will do, boss. I'll see you when you get in."

Morgan put his cell phone away. He still wasn't really happy with Johansen. Though it really was a good idea to eliminate Rostock, Wilkins, and Rogers, he still didn't like it. Though the men all had criminal records, they were veterans after a fashion. All had been soldiers, all had been thrown out for various reasons. But they had served, they had been upstanding citizens before life had screwed them.

He remembered Johansen saying, "Come on Jack, you know how important this mission is. We need to rattle some cages, get some of these bastards out in the open. Do you want to take the chance that things will change on their own? You know that ain't gonna happen, man!"

Johansen was probably right, but Morgan still felt dirty. Some of those men they'd ambushed were just doing their jobs. He'd said as much to Johansen.

"Didn't fly at Nuremburg, ain't gonna fly now."

Johansen and his damned history lessons, ah, traffic is moving, good.

¹ Automated Fingerprint Identification System, sometimes known as IAFIS, the initial "I" standing for "Integrated." Government loves systems which are "integrated," DAMHIK.

Saturday, April 27, 2024

The Farmhouse

Morgan was looking down the road, they were a ways out into the boondocks as he remembered his father calling it, when he saw something ahead which he didn't like.

"Hey Ephraim, we might have a problem."

Johansen looked up from the book he was reading, "Shit, just keep going."

At the turn off to the safe house was a military vehicle, two soldiers were standing near it. While they weren't exactly blocking the road, they were obviously watching it. For what Morgan didn't know.

"Are you going to slow down?" Johansen asked Morgan.

"Why should I? We're just a couple of good old boys headed down to the lake."

"To do what? Country boys don't just 'go down to the lake.' Are we fishing, what if those troops stop us, what's our story?"

"Oh buddy, you should read up on the places we operate in, rather than ... What is that you're reading now?"

"Caesar's Commentary of the Gallic Wars. Good stuff."

Morgan shook his head, "Caesar mention anything about a little beer garden next to the marina on the lake. Ain't you thirsty, boy?"

Johansen had to laugh at Morgan breaking into his Southern accent. "I suppose. Damn it, the soldier boys want us to pull over."

Hurley Thompson and Wilson Hackett were members of the National Guard. They had been on duty when the call came in that some Federal agency needed backup at a raid in their county. So they'd signed out weapons, ammo, and a Humvee.

Their sergeant told them, "Head out to the Macready place on Sackville Road. Look for one of those obvious black government sedans parked by the road."

Thompson, a corporal, said, "Seems pretty odd, Sarge. Don't these Feds have any people of their own they can call for backup?"

Staff Sergeant Herb Myers shook his head, "Hurley, I just work here. It's Saturday, we've got the duty, and the State Adjutant himself gave us a mission. You wanna call him back and ask him yourself?"

"I get it, Herb, I get it. Come on Wilson, let's go babysit some Feds."

They had been briefed by the senior agent on scene to watch out for anything suspicious. Thompson saw a couple of fellows in a older Ford, the driver was wearing a ballcap, the older man on the passenger side had his nose buried in a book.

"I'm gonna wave those fellows down, Hurley."

"What the f**k for, Wilson?"

"Just ask 'em if they've seen anything out of place. I'm bored outta my mind."

Thompson shook his head, "Suit yourself."

Morgan groaned when one of the soldiers stepped out, his hand in the air. His rifle was still slung but that didn't give Morgan a warm fuzzy. They didn't need any eyes on them out here. Johansen rolled his window down and put his book in the seat pocket, where his hand found the grip to his Browning Hi-Power.

The soldier leaned in, Johansen could see that the name tape on his uniform read 'HACKETT.'

"Afternoon, fellas. How's it going?" the soldier spoke, he was smiling.

"Fair to middlin'. What are you boys doing way the hell out here, lost?" Johansen was smiling as well, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Nothing much, some Feds are checking out the old Macready place. It's been abandoned for years but some local boy said he saw people inside. Seems there was a terrorist attack up in the capital last night, Feds are running around all over the county."

"Damn. Terrorists you say?" Johansen asked in a scoffing tone.

"Yeah, don't know what flavor, Hurley here thinks it's Middle Eastern types. But hell, those boys would stand out like a sore thumb in these parts."

Johansen began to speak, but Morgan cut him off. "So you boys need our help or something? We're going down to Addie's Beer Garden, we worked all morning and we're kinda thirsty."

Thompson decided that Hackett had had enough fun. "You fellas seen anything out the ordinary around here?"

"Other than a couple of Guardsmen standing by the road? Nah, we ain't seen nothing." Morgan laid it on a little too thick for Johansen's tastes.

"Okay, keep your eyes open, call the sheriff's office if you see anything odd. Other than us, I mean."

That made Thompson chuckle. "You boys aren't from around here, are you?"

Johansen got a better grip on his pistol. Morgan spoke again.

"Nah. We that obvious? Our folks are a bit west of here. Up in the hills."

"Yeah, I thought so, okay boys, have a good one."

The Ford pulled out and continued down the road.

"Okay, Wilson, we don't stop any more unless they're really suspicious. That was just a couple of working fellas headed out for a beer by the lake."

"Can't be too sure, Hurley."

"I s'pose."

DuPont was a little annoyed, he'd come all the way out here with the day shift team and a couple of Guardsmen for very little reward.

But the tip had been correct, the house had seen people in it recently. Trash in the kitchen and spoiled food on the counter. Whoever had been here hadn't been planning on staying long term. Which was suspicious as hell.

He got on his cell phone. "Yeah, Alpha Gold Two-Fiver, DuPont. I need a forensics team at the Macready place."

He listened, "Yup, that's the one. We've got signs of recent occupancy. I want it dusted for prints, see if any match up with the M-60 the terrorists left behind."

He listened some more. "Yes, damn it. Send them by helo, my agency's picking up the tab on this one."

DuPont then turned to the team leader, "Anything else, anything?"

The man held up a single round of ammunition, "7.62 NATO, found it under the counter in the kitchen."

DuPont looked at it, the team leader was wearing gloves, so he wasn't worried about his prints on the brass. "Bag it as evidence. Forensics should be here in an hour or so. Gentlemen, I think we might have our first lead."

Friday, April 26, 2024


DuPont entered the office building and presented his identification to the security guard, "Has the Director arrived yet?"

"No Sir, he's on his way. Sorry about your guys."

DuPont nodded, "Thanks, Marv. Tough blow losing five guys."

"Five? I heard four, Murdock's in a coma, but the docs say he's gonna live."

"No shit?" DuPont shook his head.

"That's what I just heard."

"Finally, a bit of good news. When the Director arrives, let him know I'll be waiting in his office."

"Will do, Sir."

Morgan and Johansen turned the corner, Johansen muttered under his breath, "Shit."

About a hundred meters down the street was a checkpoint, men, and probably one or two women, were in position around it. With the tactical gear everyone was wearing, including darkened face shields and body armor, it was hard to tell gender from a distance. Some of the shorter ones had to be women, Morgan figured.

Morgan wished he'd left the rifle behind, but broken down it fit nicely into a small backpack, which he was wearing. And he really liked this rifle, he'd spent a lot of time customizing it to his own specs. That wouldn't be a problem if it was during the day and no one looked inside it. Checkpoints always searched people passing through, unless you had a badge. Good thing he and Johansen both had those, real ones, which they pulled out of their jackets as they approached the checkpoint.

"Hold it right there gentlemen," a voice spoke from the shadows.

At the same time three people stepped in front of the two men in civilian clothes, one had a military-style automatic weapon, another had a riot gun, the third man, holding a flashlight was armed but his pistol was holstered. That man spoke.

"IDs boys, and keep your hands where I can see them. Those badges you're sporting aren't gonna be enough tonight."

Morgan and Johansen pulled their credentials out and handed them over.

"Staties, huh? What are you up to this late at night and in this neighborhood?"

"The first part of that is classified, the second part, well, you do see a lot of crime in neighborhoods like this." Johansen swept his arm around, the neighborhood was mostly run down warehouses and abandoned small manufacturing businesses.

Nodding at Morgan, the man asked, "What's in the bag?"


"Let's have a look shall ..."

"What's the problem here, McGregor? Badges and identification not good enough for you?"

Morgan recognized the voice as the one which he'd heard coming from the shadows, he guessed the guy was the commander of this post.

"Just being thorough, Sir."

The man in charge, his face shield was up, looked at Morgan and Johansen, "Carry on, gentlemen. We're kinda hyped up, major shooting a few blocks over, couple of hours ago. We lost guys."

Johansen, his face revealing nothing, said, "Sorry to hear that."

Looking at Morgan, Johansen asked, "Think it's related to our thing?"

Morgan nodded, "Might be, boss. Something to look into at any rate."

The guy in charge looked at the two men carefully, a thought had struck him, "You guys on foot? Seems odd."

Johansen answered, "Yup, our vehicle is down this street another block, parked in an alley, you might have seen it. A white van, pretty nondescript-looking."

The man shrugged, "Didn't notice it, lot of beat up vehicles in this neighborhood. You best get going, might want to avoid this neighborhood for the next few days, Gonna be a heavy police presence."

Johansen nodded, "I'll bet. Thanks." Turning to the other people standing around he said, "Y'all stay frosty. Good luck catching your perps."

The Director walked into his office and stopped short, there was a man sitting behind his desk. "Are you DuPont?"

"I am, sorry about this, you have a nice view." DuPont got up from the chair and moved around the desk, hand outstretched.

The Director took DuPont's hand and shook it, "Rough night, eh Captain?"


"Any thoughts on who did this? Terrorists?"

"It's political, but it's internal, not foreign."

"Really? Any evidence to support this theory, Captain?"

"No Sir, it's a hunch at this point. But we usually get a lot of chatter on certain channels when the crazies are plotting something, those channels have been quiet as of late."

"Hmmm." The Director sat in his chair and turned to look out over the city. The view from his office was nice, very nice.

He turned back around, "Need anything from us?"

"Surveillance, we need a lot of eyes in the sky and on the streets. You guys have the means to tap into the city's CCTV network, right?" DuPont explained.

"Not without a warrant."

DuPont gestured at the telephone on the Director's desk, "May I?"

After getting a nod, DuPont picked up the phone and punched in a number, when it was picked up he spoke a short series of letters and numbers, then hung up.

"You'll have your warrant by daybreak, Sir."

Morgan drove the van downtown, to the business district, where they'd parked a second vehicle. Entering a parking garage, the van made it's way up to the fifth level, where it turned in. Morgan parked in the first available space.

The two men dismounted and headed for the stairs, where they went down to the second level and retrieved their regular vehicle. Putting the backpack in the trunk, Morgan got into the driver's seat and looked over at Johansen.

"Where are we going?"

Johansen thought for a moment, then said, "Safe house in sector five should be good. The others won't be joining us for a few days and we need to figure out our next move."

Climbing into the vehicle, the two men left the garage and headed out of the city. Fifty miles later they stopped at a diner, both men were hungry.