Category: My Work

YO! Brand new!

Enjoy.

 
Dev Surely rode the T home from work, took a quick shower, put on summer weight clothes more befitting a hot Boston June than an overly air-conditioned megastore, poured herself an ice tea, and sat on her porch overlooking Dorchester Bay.

It had not taken long for this to become her end-of-day routine. For student housing, this was quite a find. Frankly, she believed this whole building was a safe house and every apartment was monitored, videod, and otherwise privacy invaded.

You didn’t find places like this in Southie any more.

She wondered if DDOS Connelly secretly watched her shower.

Rumor was she wasn’t his type. Wrong plumbing. Not that it mattered. He’d always been playfully respectful since their first meeting back in McLouth, Kansas.

She hadn’t been back home in years now. Couldn’t contact her folks for fear of compromising them with all her undercover work.

Wouldn’t Mom and Dad be proud, though? Your baby girl who ran the risk of getting kicked out of school weekly is one of this country’s top counter-terrorist agents? So much so even MI6 and Mossad asked for her by name.

Connelly kept them apprised, he said.

Good old Connelly.

She sipped her ice tea, her feet up on the porch railing and looked out over Boston Harbor north from Southie, which wasn’t really south but tell that to native Bostonians and most would knock your eye out.

The glass sweated and some of the cool XXX ran down her fingers. She took the glass in her other hand, snapped the wet one to dry it off, and transferred her ice tea back before taking another swallow.

She didn’t mind being hit on on her way to work and back, but for Christ’s sake take a wash when you get off shift before you hit somebody up for a date; stale body odor does not a good first impression make.

She made one friend in her few weeks here. Irene Casey. Black Irish and, as far as Dev could tell, a good cop.

They met in a bar when Dev looked to create some local cover. Sat side-by-side by chance and found drunks assumed they were together hence left them alone. Except one idiot who decided women were Les because they never had the right cock. He tried to knock Dev off her stool. Dev didn’t want to draw attention but it didin’t matter. Before she responded Casey lifted the guy off the floor, flattened him on her stool, sat on him, and continued slowly sipping her beer.
Jensen came forward. Slightly bent at the waist, she supported herself by placing her hands on the control panel’s edge while she scanned Boyd’s screens. “Sounds like they’re having a conversation, doesn’t it?”

Previous entries in The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery)

Yes, this is brand new. I skipped Chapter 15 because it’s pretty much what was The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 12 (New).

Enjoy.

 
Master Chief Sonar Technician Boyd sat at the Henderson James‘ sonar station. Her right hand held a headphone snug against her ear, her left hand adjusted analog verniers on her board.

Chief of the Boat Jensen stood behind her on her right and leaned slightly forward to watch and, she hoped, get an idea of what Boyd did. “I thought all that stuff was digital now.”

Boyd kept her eyes on meters and gauges. Her fingers turned the vernier so minutely her movements wouldn’t have disturbed spider silk.

“Seaman Oyster’s been released from sickbay.”

Boyd continued her focus.

“Captain Hudon’s got a Neil Robinson with heavy duty restraints and a comm pipe where nobody will find you all picked out in case you cause trouble again.”

“It helps if you don’t talk right now. And don’t make fun of people’s names.”

Jensen folded her harms over her chest and leaned back against the station’s doorjamb. “You gave him that name.”

“I’m a bad person.”

Boyd’s eyes moved from one diagnostics screen to the next. Recumbrance? Check. Integration? Check. ABFAC Cones? Check. Towed Array? Check? Transform Analysis? Check. AI Separation? Check.

Boyd shook her head. One hand kept her headphones tight to her right ear, her other hand continued their ministrations over dials and switches.

Run another series check?

Why?

She turned to a second set of screens along a wall projecting from the sonar displays.

Jensen looked as well. “Anything on the ES-10?”

“Nothing. Unless somebody’s got something way beyond what we have, this is pure biologic.” Boyd ran diagnostics. “Or the most sophisticated ‘droppers DARPA can come up with suck.”

“What biologic out of Boston has a signature like that?”

Boyd turned back to her sonar panel. Two screens showed Sherlock’s progress analyzing the signals, one coming out of Boston harbor, the other out beyond the continental shelf.

It kept coming up blank and asking for help.

Boyd leaned back. Her eyes continued their dance over her screens. She flipped a switch and the signals came over her station speakers. “Ever hear of Tim Storms? He’s a singer and voice actor with the lowest voice on record. He can sing too low for humans to hear but elephants and whales hear him fine.”

“You think he’s singing in a shower somewhere in the Back Bay?”

“Ha.”

Jensen came forward. Slightly bent at the waist, she supported herself by placing her hands on the control panel’s edge while she scanned Boyd’s screens. “Sounds like they’re having a conversation, doesn’t it?”

Previous entries in The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery)