Beranda
The Bear Got Me
Short Story By Matthew Licht
Garson Thayer didn't like driving at night, but since his internal clock, an expensive Swiss gadget, sent signals to the effect that it wasn't officially night yet, he kept going.
He was on his way to do a job for Strategic Air Command. He worked for them fairly often, couldn't help wondering why they paid stratospheric consultation fees yet refused to spring for drivers. The US Military had a near-infinite pool of uniformed serfs with valid military licenses and civilian hot rod/speedway experience. He could've used expensive travel time to review classified documents and equipment diagrams in the back seat, in a cone of light from some highly engineered inner-automobile reading apparatus.
He also wondered why SAC never sent him to Hawaii.
The answer was obvious. The missiles were aimed the other way. So he was driving to an officially uncharted location near Barrow, in the upper reaches of the USA's freezer cabinet, at three in the afternoon, according to the aforementioned internal timepiece. The dashboard clock and radio announcer expressed agreement, but the charcoal-gray outer darkness said the timely information was a lie. Night was coming. Night was already there. Night was outrageously cold.
The bulky extreme low-temperature Olive Drab snorkle coat, Gov't Issue, which he'd found neatly folded on the webbing seat next to his on the transport airplane, sat humped in the back seat of the car. Its coyote-fur ruff shimmered in warm breezes from the auto heater. The minimal movement caught Garson's eye in the rearview mirror. He reached back and scrunched the parka down. Didn't want a spectral, vaguely human-shaped presence looming behind him.
He turned up the radio. Faraway civilization sent weak music signals. 'Try to see something grand or majestic in these bleak surroundings,' he thought. 'Think where you are. Top of the world. Maybe they'll take you up in a spy plane again, to allegedly survey the Brooks Range.'
Most military outpost honchos had a decent sense of humor about squandering taxpayer dough on senseless, even ridiculous outings that sounded good on official reports, on the off-chance such reports were ever demanded or, when delivered, scrutinized. Military types had exceptionally low regard for taxpayers in general. Even though military personnel and high-end experts occasionally on the payroll had to pay taxes without fail, too.
That was The Bear Got Me - Short Story By Matthew Licht. You can read the full story at eastoftheweb.com since this story is taken from that site.
Garson Thayer didn't like driving at night, but since his internal clock, an expensive Swiss gadget, sent signals to the effect that it wasn't officially night yet, he kept going.
He was on his way to do a job for Strategic Air Command. He worked for them fairly often, couldn't help wondering why they paid stratospheric consultation fees yet refused to spring for drivers. The US Military had a near-infinite pool of uniformed serfs with valid military licenses and civilian hot rod/speedway experience. He could've used expensive travel time to review classified documents and equipment diagrams in the back seat, in a cone of light from some highly engineered inner-automobile reading apparatus.
He also wondered why SAC never sent him to Hawaii.
The answer was obvious. The missiles were aimed the other way. So he was driving to an officially uncharted location near Barrow, in the upper reaches of the USA's freezer cabinet, at three in the afternoon, according to the aforementioned internal timepiece. The dashboard clock and radio announcer expressed agreement, but the charcoal-gray outer darkness said the timely information was a lie. Night was coming. Night was already there. Night was outrageously cold.
The bulky extreme low-temperature Olive Drab snorkle coat, Gov't Issue, which he'd found neatly folded on the webbing seat next to his on the transport airplane, sat humped in the back seat of the car. Its coyote-fur ruff shimmered in warm breezes from the auto heater. The minimal movement caught Garson's eye in the rearview mirror. He reached back and scrunched the parka down. Didn't want a spectral, vaguely human-shaped presence looming behind him.
He turned up the radio. Faraway civilization sent weak music signals. 'Try to see something grand or majestic in these bleak surroundings,' he thought. 'Think where you are. Top of the world. Maybe they'll take you up in a spy plane again, to allegedly survey the Brooks Range.'
Most military outpost honchos had a decent sense of humor about squandering taxpayer dough on senseless, even ridiculous outings that sounded good on official reports, on the off-chance such reports were ever demanded or, when delivered, scrutinized. Military types had exceptionally low regard for taxpayers in general. Even though military personnel and high-end experts occasionally on the payroll had to pay taxes without fail, too.
***To be continue***
Source
Eastoftheweb.com
Eastoftheweb.com
