The next thing I knew we were being led up the steps of Air Force Two and hustled out of town until things were clearer.Dark ops had a protocol for this. Everything around the attack went dark as far as electronic communications. Our people communicated using land lines hastily plugged into nearby telephone lines. Everyone else was without communication capability while our people tried to figure out what, where, who, why and how.Surprisingly, it worked.One of our cloned listening posts recorded a satellite call that triangulated both parties. The conversation was a report of the attack as it occurred, giving chapter and verse to the listener. The call was received in the middle of the ocean, which means it was made to a yacht belonging to someone that wanted us dead. It didn’t really work out well, because the Air Force blew the yacht into small pieces, then picked up seven survivors, including a man who owned the yacht and when our forensic auditors finished looking into his. Her reply was short and to the point. She agreed about not letting it come between our friendship and also said she wanted to go ASAP, before getting cold feet and backing out. We agreed to go this upcoming weekend, which ws only about three days away at this point. Saturday rolled around and I picked R up at her townhome. She seemed quite nervous and a little bit fidgety, but I didn’t say anything to point it out. R was dressed casual, in khaki shorts, a T shirt, and her nerdy Chaco sandals she wore while kayaking. We loaded up towels and sun screen and then made small talk on the hour and a half drive to the club. We stopped for a quick lunch before driving the last half hour or so to the club. Upon reaching the long dirt road leading to the club neither of us spoke. I asked R if she was okay. Her reply was something to effect of, "I can't believe I'm actually going through with this, but I guess it's too late to back out now." I said, "We can turn around, I don't want you to go if.
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