The Sam Chronicles
Irene
Sam was fingering the keys on his laptop when Toby came in, and
slammed the cover shut as soon as the screen was in his sight.
"What are you doing?" the Communications Director asked.
"The question is, what am I not doing," replied the young man numbly,
staring into space.
"Okay."
"I'm not helping you write the apology."
Toby eased into a chair under the snake-woven poster with the
words "Don't Tread On Me" and sighed.
"The reason you're not helping me wouldn't be due to the fact that,
say, you want to write it entirely on your own, would it?"
"No," Sam said earnestly. "I don't want to have anything to do with
it."
"It's a little too late for that statement."
"It might be; but when was I given other options?"
Toby did not answer. Instead, he tapped on the laptop cover.
"What are you doing, then?"
"Nothing." Sam moved the laptop aside, but quickly changed his mind
and opened it again. "None of this is fair, and not only the
President should take it personally. I should, too."
"Why?"
Sam stood up, his face an expression of uncertainty and grief.
"There's this thing..." he began. "I was kind of hoping to... um,
well. Never mind."
"Sam, I know you're angry and upset and you don't know which feeling
comes first. Are you worried about the President?"
"Toby, I'm not a two-year-old. I understand the consequences of
multiple sclerosis and of course I'm worried about his wellbeing. We
all are. But... there's something else."
"Are you going to spill it? I'm getting older by the minute here!"
"Okay. I'm kind of writing this book."
"Book?" Toby repeated, startled. "That's great. An auto-biography?"
"Well... no."
"'Cause I could see how an auto-biography would be seriously affected
by these circumstances and I gotta tell you to stop writing it for a
while."
"I understand. It's more of an action-adventure series. You know,
the kind I've always wanted to write. It's just that..." Sam paced
his office, smallish enough for Toby to follow him by visibly turning
his head. "The main hero, his name is Stan Sorrensen, is an FBI
agent and he goes around saving people – you see, I've been mirroring
him after myself."
"You don't say," said Toby, repressing a sarcastic smile.
Sam didn't catch the change in his friend's voice. He was too
entangled into telling his story.
"It's almost finished now and I know a guy who said he'd put it in
print for me, but now that the President is ill I don't think I can
ever finish it. Shallow as this is, it saddens me. Everyone I know
has been incorporated into the story as a character – of course, the
names have been changed and the setting is entirely dissimilar, but
I'm afraid I might slip up somewhere and leak the story."
"Sam, the story will be leaked no matter what you do."
"Yes, but "The Stan Chronicles" will lead people to believe I knew it
before anyone else and purposely withheld the information.
Toby coughed. "'The Stan Chronicles?'" he asked.
Sam blushed.
"It's a tentative name," he said shyly.
"Why don't you read some to me, and I will tell you whether or not
it's a dangerous leak."
***
The sky exploded with gunfire. Stan dropped to his knees behind the
bullet-sketched BMW, shocked more than frightened, and pulled his
colleague Clarissa close as she screamed in panic...
***
"I'm sorry. Clarissa?" interrupted Toby immediately.
"Yeah. Pretty inventive, no? And it's a nice name."
"Well, it starts with a 'Cla' and if you ask me, that's as
transparent as a slice of Swiss."
"It really isn't. You'll see, no one will be able to tell."
***
...as she screamed in panic. She fell down; he saw her head hit the
ground and reached to hold her up, his fingers tousled in her
necklace. As she hung limply in his arms, he heard the thin golden
thread break in two in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket before
she came to.
"You all right?" he asked hoarsely when she moaned, clutching her
hurting wrist.
"I think so... what happened?"
"We were attacked. Stay here, call for backup. I'll go check on the
others."
Stan Sorrensen had been fired on before; in his line of duty, any and
all reservations were quickly abandoned, as the situation usually
left no time for them. Those who adapted, survived. He never deemed
himself lucky, just good enough to help those unused to such harsh
conditions.
As he made sure Clarissa was safe behind the bulletproof car door, he
heard a faint scream.
"I need a doctor!"
The voice belonged to Tony, his work partner. Stan rushed in his
direction...
***
"Well, I'm flattered." Toby smiled slightly as Sam looked at him
above his laptop screen.
"Really?"
"Yes. It's not every day I get immortalized in print as a hero's
colleague."
"Actually..."
"Yeah, scratch that."
****
Agent Sorrensen tore into the thick green of the jungle with
rejuvenated vigor. The thought of his friends in danger made him
restless and at the same time gave acute power to all his senses. He
could hear every noise in the visible perimeter around him, and
quickly spotted clues that lead him deeper into the perilous maze of
curvy branches, where a poisonous snake or a carnivorous beast could
strike at any time.
He feared not these obstacles. The people he cared about were hidden
from him in this forsaken place, and his duty was to see them
returned safely to the Bureau and their families.
The Bureau comes first, though. There is an assignment they are all
on and it must be carried out.
He came across a small opening in the forest, where the grass was
recently trodden and a few boughs seemed out of place. A piece of
hastily torn cloth hung low above his head, and he inspected it
carefully. No doubt that it belonged to Jonah, his best friend...
that the tiny drops of blood staining it belonged to him as well.
Finally, at a distance, he saw them. Two darkly dressed commandos
stood above his best friend, spread on the ground with a bloody wound
in his chest, his partner pressing on it as hard as he could. Stan
reached for his gun, but found the holster empty. Without a second
thought, he ran forward and with a swift movement knocked out one of
the enemies. The other threw up his gun and let out a series of
shots, but Stan kicked him with his foot and the bullets ricocheted
off a tree stem.
The standing commando turned around and swung his rifle into
Sorrensen's stomach. Pain shot through his body as he sprawled on
the grass next to his unmoving friend. Tony screamed, urging him to
be careful, and he got hold of the soldier's foot and pulled with all
his strength. The man fell on top of him, then rolled over and grew
still. He hit his head on his own gun.
Stan stood up.
"Keep pressing on the wound," he threw at Tony, then called out
softly to his friend, still unconscious. "Jonah, I'm here!"
Back at the foot of the jungle, Clarissa was waiting with a med-
team...
***
"What do you think so far?" asked Sam, pausing to catch his breath.
Toby leaned back in his chair.
"I like it," he said at length. "I don't like remembering these
things, but I have to admit they were good grist for the writer's
mill."
"That's for sure," Sam sighed.
"I don't see how this would affect our current status, though."
"It doesn't. I was reading from the beginning of the book. In a few
more chapters..."
"Get to the point, Sam. The apology isn't writing itself."
***
Stan leaned on the back of his chair, stunned by the horrible news.
He hadn't expected this to happen, and years of training and
experience in the field could not prepare him for what he just heard.
His department manager, his mentor and friend, had been incurably ill
for as long as Stan worked under his command at the Bureau. No one
knew until very recently, when fear that the disease could affect his
work overcame his need for privacy. It was, as he explained, a lie
for the better; but Stan was so hurt and disheartened he could hardly
breathe.
Several people, it turned out, knew after all. Gerald, the Assistant
Director, had known for two...
***
"Is this funny?"
"No, of course not. Sorry. I'm sorry." Toby continued laughing.
"Because I don't see how this is funny at all."
"You would if you were Lord Marbury."
"I'm talking about the big picture here."
***
... for two years, and Stan was taken aback to find out his own
partner saw no mystery in his finding as well. He stood up and held
on to the wall as a sudden dizziness overcame him. The last time he
lost control like that was when the news of his father's murder
came. He vowed that Monica, the woman who took a father away from
his family, would pay dearly for it, but this time vengeance was not
his option and help was not his to give. He was weak, alone,
watching a person he loved shatter to pieces without any hope of
extending a friendly hand...
***
"Stop reading, Sam."
"Is it bad? Should I change the wording?"
"You're writing a journal. I shouldn't be the one to tell you how to
do it."
Sam shook his head stubbornly, beads of cold sweat glittering on it.
"This isn't a journal. It's just something I have fun with in my
free time. I want to see it published and I need your advice..."
"My advice is to put it away. This is hurting you and it will hurt
those included in the story."
"That's ridiculous. How is it hurting me?"
"Have you spoken to anyone about what happened at Rosslyn?"
"We all have."
"But that was concerning Josh. I'm saying, have you spoken to anyone
about you?"
"I didn't have to. I'm fine."
"All evidence to the contrary," said Toby, and Sam lowered his eyes.
"Writing it down won't make you feel better. You need to tell
someone."
"I just told you," said Sam. Toby sighed deeply and reached to pat
the young man on the shoulder.
"It's a good book and I would be proud to own a copy. But it's not a
solution. You need to talk with someone, and not me. Speak to the
President again. Speak to Dr. Keyworth. You have to put this behind
you."
"Then I won't be able to write this anymore," replied the young man
sadly. "There won't be an adventure to describe."
"That isn't a good enough reason. Besides, when has your life not
been an adventure?"
Sam smiled.
"Batman and Robin, eh?" he recalled.
"Don't even think about it."
"The rubber suits caused quite a commotion, if memory serves."
"Stop."
"Plus, you know, women dig capes and long cars."
"I'm going now. I have things to do and daydreaming isn't one of
them."
"Need help?" suddenly offered Sam, and Toby stopped just outside his
door.
"Sure," he said slowly. "Sure, Sam. Come on down to the mess with
me."
"I'll just grab my utility belt!" shouted Sam, but Toby was already
outside.
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