The Faint Taint of Deceit #4

November 8, 2011

Greetings. It’s time, once again, for another gripping dip into ‘The Faint Taint of Deceit’. John Garrison finds himself back in 1957, on his way to the Bahamas to kill a Communist. Seems straight forward enough, doesn’t it? Haha! Think again…

Chapter Four: ‘Cabin Pressure’

John Garrison peered nervously out the window, down at the Gulf of Mexico, 40,000 feet below. He hated flying. He still had no idea why he suddenly found himself here in 1957, but he thought it would be best to leave that for another day and just enjoy his adventure without asking any such complicated questions. He hoped that everyone else would do likewise too.

He was the only person, save for the cabin crew, in the swanky jet, laid on by the CIA. It was all part of his cover. For this mission he was no longer John Garrison, he was John Harrison – a millionaire commemorative mug magnate vacationing in the Bahamas. Garrison looked down at the photograph on his lap. It was of Dimitri Dimitrov, the Communist he had been ordered to kill.

“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Harrison?” purred the stewardess. Garrison looked her up and down and smiled all over. With all the anxiety of the flight, he had neglected to check out her smoking body. A joke about what she does with this smoking body when the captain turns on the ‘no smoking’ light ran through his mind, but he couldn’t figure out a way to work it into the conversation, so he just answered normally.
“Bourbon, straight up on the rocks.” he replied.
“Of course.” she re-replied and wiggled off to fetch it. Maybe all this time travel had its perks after all, he thought, as he watched her walk away. He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. The next thing he expected to hear was that beautiful stewardess’ velvet voice saying something along the lines of ‘Your drink, sir’, but instead he heard her voice saying this:
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” She was screaming, loudly and horrifically. He was out of his seat like a shot. He found her standing in the doorway of the cockpit, still screaming.
“What’s the matter?!” he shouted as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Why are you screaming?”
“He’s gone.” she wailed. “The pilot’s gone.” He was gone. The cockpit was emptier than a bank on a bank holiday Monday. Completely empty. Completely empty, apart from a note, that is. But apart from the note, it was completely empty. He picked it up off the dashboard (is it called a dashboard if it’s in a plane?) and read it. ‘Dear John Harrison, or should I say John Garrison? Give my regards to the Caribbean Sea. Ta-ta, Mr. F.’

How did they figure it out who he was? Did someone at the Agency rat him out? Who is Mr. F? So many questions flew around in his head. How do you fly a plane? That was another one.
“Stop screaming and get me that drink.” he barked. “I’ve got a plane to land.”

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