Badger's Sett

STO'B 4-13 Captain Fitton

2011-04-07T11:51:00.000-04:00

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last episode with Dr M’Mullen
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The Spaniard recovered from her confusion, steadying on her original tack and firing again. Several shots tore up the water near the Badger’s bows, and Philip saw that they were now using chain.

“He means to cut our cable and let us drift ashore, then range along and hit us with his guns, like,” said the master from his spot by the wheel, “the bloody bastard, begging your pardon, sir.”

Captain Fitton did not reply, but put his glass to his eye to scan the Spaniard’s quarterdeck, looking for the captain. He saw a flash, followed by a small but blinding explosion, and he dropped his glass, clapping his hand to his eye.

For a moment, or a minute, or an hour, it was all he could do not to cry out. A second explosion, much, much larger than the first, knocked him down, and as he picked himself up he realized that the guns had stopped firing. Still holding his streaming right eye shut, he opened his left eye and say why. The Spaniard had exploded. The blast had utterly destroyed the aft half of the frigate and as he watched the fore half capsized so the Philip looked down on her deck. Dozens of men scrambled up the tipping deck as it rolled over on them and, with a groan, sank form sight.

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last episode with Dr M’Mullen
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Preventing Wheel use

2010-11-26T15:25:00.000-05:00

<- From

Instead of simply limiting the number of wheels that the child has, we could allow her to have the wheels, but not allow her to use them to make cars. We can do this in a few ways.

First, we can sequester the wheels, perhaps by putting them all in a bag that she can’t open. Second, we can stick something to each of the wheels so that they won’t fit into the cars. Finally, we can stick something into the cars so that the wheels no longer fit. The body uses each of these methods as well.

The Lego® Model of Pharmacology

2010-11-26T15:22:00.003-05:00

In understanding drugs and how they work, it can be helpful to think of the body and its atoms as a giant set of Lego® bricks[1]. A child can use Lego® bricks to make buildings, space ships, cars, etc; and the body can use its atoms to build muscles, bones, signaling molecules, etc. Moreover, just as the child can disassemble her building and then use the bricks to make a car, the body can disassemble its muscle and build bone. Of course, the car requires special bricks (e.g. wheels) which aren’t needed to make a building, and bone needs special atoms (e.g. calcium) which aren’t needed to make a muscle: the number of cars the child can make is limited by the number of wheels she has, and the amount of bone the body can make is limited by the amount of calcium available.

This last point is important. It means that if we want to regulate the number of cars that the child makes, we only need to regulate the number of wheels we allow her to use. We might do this because we have too many cars, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough buildings (or space ships, or bridges) and want to conserve our bricks to make those instead of cars.

In the body, if we want to regulate the amount of bone we make, we can regulate the amount of calcium there is to make it with. We might do this because we have too much bone, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough of something else, and want to conserve building materials to make, say, muscle.

Pharmacology (the science of drugs) manipulates the body by interfering with the way it uses its atoms. Continuing with the Lego analogy, drugs are the equivalent of another person adding or removing bricks to the buildings, cars, space ships, etc as they’re being built or after they’re finished; or adding or removing bricks from the box of unused bricks.

[1] Lego® is a registered trademark of the LEGO® Group of companies, which does not sponsor, authorise, or endorse this site

Pebbles are Evil

2010-09-13T11:39:00.002-04:00

all of them: http://redaspouch.blogspot.com/2010/07/pebbles-and-evil.html

Quentin Tarantino

2010-05-10T21:17:00.000-04:00

Overheard: "It was like a Quentin Tarantino for teenagers."

Does this mean that Tarantino is high-end art?

Professional driver, closed course

2010-05-08T22:12:00.000-04:00

Just about any car ad on TV these days features the disclaimer that the car is being driven by a professional driver on a closed course. The point of this, as I understand it, is that we non-professional drivers, driving on roads with other vehicles also present, shouldn't attempt to get the car to do what is being shown on TV. And in cases where the car is spinning through snow and sleet, or slaloming through pools, this makes sense. Skidding conditions are by their nature unpredictable, and the risk of an accident is real.

But the other day I saw that disclaimer on an ad where a car merely drives down the street. Does this mean that their car is so unsafe that a lay driver can't safely drive it down the street? That being so, why are they bothering to sell it in the first place?

Selected work-order problems and solutions

2010-04-20T00:45:00.004-04:00

Below are the stated problems and solutions for several work orders filed on our ambulances and facility over the years.

Problem: [Ambulance] 56-B2 left inside rear tire almost needs replacement.
Solution: Almost replaced 56-B2 left inside rear tire.

P: Ambulance 3: Something loose in patient compartment.
S: A 3: Something tightened in patient compt.

P: Mouse in driver’s-side outside cabinet ([ambulance] 56-B2).
S: Cat installed.

P: [Ambulance] 56-B2's engine is missing.
S: 56B2 - engine found under hood after brief search.

P: Ambulance 2 (56B1): Lots of dead bugs on windshield.
S: Amb2: Ordered live bugs for windshield.

P: 56-B1: Evidence of brake fluid leak near front right wheel.
S: 56-B1: Evidence removed.

P: Building’s front door lock causes door to stick closed.
S: That's what it’s for.

P: Amb. 2 siren volume unbelievably loud.
S: Ambulance 2 siren volume set to more believable level.

P: Ambulance 2 handles funny.
S: Ambulance 2 warned to straighten up, drive right, and be serious.

P: Abnormal seepage near cylinder 3 glow plug (Ambulance 3)
S: Amb3 - seepage is normal. Cylinders 1,2,4,5,6,7 and 8 lack proper seepage.

P: Stairs to landing by rear building door rusted – I think they may fall.
S: I think you're right.

P: 56-B2 - Cat found in left outside compartment (behind driver’s door).
S: Dog installed.

P: Building lights hum.
S: Taught building lights the lyrics.

P: Ambulance 3: Noise coming from behind suction unit when on - sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
S: A3 - Took hammer away from midget.

Sneakers

2010-04-19T23:15:00.000-04:00

Overheard, while I was building today:

Middle Schooler: Someone's backstage!

Teacher: Yes. That's Mr Badger. He's building the set.

Middle Schooler: He's wearing sneakers!

Never before has my wearing sneakers excited comment.

Top men

2010-04-19T23:11:00.000-04:00

I've actually wondered why, at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, God allows the US to keep the Ark. You'll recall that earlier in the movie, while the Nazis have the Ark, it, or God, burn off the Nazi symbol on the packing crate. But nothing happens once the US gets their hands on it.

One explanation is that the US is Good, whereas the Nazis are Bad. These days, the distinction is less obvious, perhaps, but the movie is set back in the thirties.

But another explanation occurred to me today: God wants the US to have the Ark because of exactly what happens in the last scene. The US buries it so deep that no one will ever find it again.

I prefer the second explanation.

Two pieces of advice

2010-04-18T23:36:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, my father gave my brother and I two pieces of advice:

* To have a friend, you have to be a friend

* Never bring a knife to a gunfight

X-ray Chapter 7, part 12

2010-04-14T09:40:00.001-04:00

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Back on the platform, Andy dragged Jeremy up the stairs to the daylight with an iron grip. Marcus sent One-nine Adam and Lieutenant Squadron, who had an inclination to vanish once extrication was complete, with Jeremy and Andy, then hopped in himself with Three-five Carlie and Ian. In the ride to the hospital Ian had Maria pull the ambulance to the side and he decompressed the patient's right chest: clean the site quickly by pouring iodine over it, find the second intercostal space midaxilary, sneak over the third rib with the IV catheter until a rush of air, remove the needle, recheck lung sounds and compliance, and attach a flutter valve.

At the hospital, they dropped their patient off and reconnoitered with Three-three Zebra, while Lieutenant Squadron caught a lift back to his car with Three-five Charlie, the Williamsburg Rocket. The other basic bus was immediately dispatched out for a twisted ankle. The four paramedics sat on the hoods of their ambulances and watched the rain fall together; there was nothing better to do.

[END CHAPTER]

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 11

2010-04-13T18:13:00.000-04:00

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Twelve feet away Andy's patient was giving up on his side of the Mets-Yankees debate. Andy squeezed his patient's hand - Marc, it had turned out his name was. This was not the time Andy was interested in winning this debate. "Marc," he called, "Marc."

Halfway between the two patients Rescue Three had completed their cribbing and placed their air bags. You guys wanna pull out?" the fire lieutenant asked.

"Oh," Marcus indicated their patients, "we'll go when they go."

"I'm not leaving without my date." Andy said.

"It's cold." Marc replied.

The whoosh of air and the creak and groan as the car stirred, shifted, and rose. Rescue Three braced and cribbed the car at its new height, then Lieutenant Squadron, the two medic units, and the newly arrived Three-five Charlie and One-Nine Adam pulled both now-unresponsive patients free from the train.

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Sam Black

2010-04-10T21:05:00.002-04:00

It was the usual bunch of photographs, the scene, the body, the wound, and even the weapon, still there in his hand. Several photos of each, from different angles, probably shot by Hoffmann, since Laretz doesn't work nights anymore. Too old for it, he says, and I guess I don't blame him. He is 72.

But it was the usual bunch of photographs, and as I sat there with them I wasn't feeling motivated. I had been woken up at about 3 AM by the phone, had been at the scene until 10, and had completed a few interviews after that, all over town. Everyone agreed that Eugene Waters would never have killed himself, but there was the gun in his right hand, spattered with blood, and there was the hole in what was left of his head. And for those of you thinking murder, no one could think of anyone who wanted him dead.

I certainly wasn't thinking of murder, not yet. All I could think of was my bed. I flipped through the photographs again, stopping at one that showed the whole scene. Waters lay there on the floor, face up, between his chair and his desk. But I couldn't see straight, couldn't even read the clock on the wall in the photo. I slid the photographs into the case folder, dropped the folder into the file cabinet, got my hat, and went home.

I guess I should introduce myself here. I won't give you my real name, 'cause if it got back to the department they'd have my badge, but I've always kind of liked the name Sam Black, so let's go with that instead. I've got about ten years on the job, the last three in homicide. That makes me not quite the most junior detective in our station house. My wife left me last year, too many hours on the job, I guess, so I moved out and now I live alone in a fifth floor walk-up. It's not a happy home, no pictures on the walls, rented furniture, but when I got home that night I didn't care. I fell right into bed, still dressed, and fell right asleep.

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 10

2010-04-08T08:59:00.000-04:00

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Two minutes behind Louis came improved lighting and coffee, courtesy of the MTA engineers. Jeremy reappeared with another cylinder of oxygen and an umbilical cord of IV lies and extension sets that stretched 25 feet over and up to a Liter bag he had tied to a straphanger's pole. In the glare of the halogen light his face shone ashen and drawn. His breath came fast and hard and he fumbled with clumsy fingers. He was hyperventilating.

"Jeremy, you're hyperventilating," Marcus said.

"I'll, I'll be okay."

"Slow your breathing down, Jeremy. Deep breaths."

"I'll, be okay"

"Jeremy- sing, Jeremy," Marcus counseled.

"What?"

"Sing. You can't hyperventilate if you sing."

All Jeremy could come up with was to chant The Four Questions. He started in a low mumble.

"Sing, Jeremy," Marcus admonished him. "Let Andy hear you."

Drew and his patient heard the singing and broke off their baseball debate.

Up on the platform, Lieutenant Squadron looked up from his clipboard.

The MTA engineers crossed the platform and gazed down beneath the train. The train's two conductors followed them.

Jeremy's clear tenor interrupted Rescue Three in their cribbing construction.

The rookie policeman broke off his report to dispatch, then joined in for the last line. In the half silence that followed, Ian though he could make out the hiss of Andy's jazz cassette. Then Andy and his patient reiterated their arguments, Lieutenant Squadron bent over his clipboard, the engineers and conductors returned to their contemplation of lunch, Rescue Three redoubled their building speed, the cop recontacted his dispatcher.

"Rats," Ian said as Jeremy retreated.

"Ian," Marcus scolded.

"No, rats. Rodents. On the Lifepack."

No joke. Ian was closer to the monitor, but his hands were full with ventilating the patient; Marcus couldn't reach the bag valve. But Marcus could reach the prefilled syringes. Streams of lidocaine, then epinephrine shot at the interlopers. They retreated.

The monitor, which was waterproof, started showing PVC's again.

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 9

2010-04-07T00:00:00.002-04:00

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Ian and Marcus had their hands full, too. PVC's had started to show up on the monitor. And although Ian had a line, it wasn't going to run because he couldn't raise the bag. Red blood had already started to streak back up the tubing. "Jeremy," he called.

Jeremy stuck his pale head down between the cars like an inverted jack-in-the-box, took in the situation with a quick glance, nodded, and disappeared again.

"Can you reach the lido?" Ian asked. "I think it's time."

"One hundred of lidocaine," Marcus pushed the prefilled syringe.

Ian squeezed the bag to flush the line. He reached for a pulse and wondered what he would do if he couldn't find one. "One hundred," he announced. "PVCs perfusing." Things could be worse.

Ian looked up when he heard the music. He had heard the exchange between Andy and the cop, but had already forgotten it. Louis Armstrong was drifting heartily beneath the train. "Thank you!" Andy shouted up to the unseen police officer. "I don't see why we can't be civilized just because we're under a subway train."

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 8

2010-04-06T00:00:00.002-04:00

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Ian, another twelve feet further under the train with the second patient, grinned quietly as he struggled with the laryngoscope. "I'm in," he told Marcus, inflating the balloon and attatching the bag valve.

Marcus listened to the patient's lungs with his stethoscope. "Equal," he said a moment later.

Ian secured his tube, noted the lip line at 22, and slipped an OPA in beside it. Marcus tapped an ETCO2 detector across the patient's chest, but Ian shook his head. "I don't think I can fit it without kinking the tube. What's the oxygen at?"

Marcus glanced at the regulator. "About 900."

Ian glanced at the monitor, still sinus, then his watch. Ten minutes they'd been here already.

Andy was also facing problems with his patient, though of a different nature. He was alone with his patient because he had learned almost too late that Jeremy was claustrophobic. "Your knuckles are white, Jer," he told him, "Jer, you're crushing, Jer - Jer!"

"I'm fine. Fine, I'm fine."

"You're claustrophobic."

"No I'm not."

"What do you mean you aren't. Go away, away!" he pulled a liter of saline from his ALS bag and threw it at Jeremy, who retreated a few feet but sat there, looking uncertain.

"Go." Andy said. "Go." He chased Jeremy from under the train, "Go. And don't come back. Sorry about that," he said to his patient, "What were we talking about?"

The jaywalking laws. Which led to traffic, busses, back to the subway. Oops.

"I don't want to die." Andy's patient said. This was definitely a problem.

"I won't let you die," Andy said. "I will not let you die."

"I'm cold."

"We're lying on wet cement beneath a subway. It's normal to be cold. You think I'm not cold?" he smiled.

His patient smiled, too, then shivered once. Andy reached out to the one hand he could see and took it.

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 7

2010-04-05T00:00:00.001-04:00

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* * *

The two days off passed in a blur. Ian returned to work with the feeling that if Sam hadn't been in there would have been open battle. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the driver's door and closed his eyes to block out his headache. Then he opened the door and climbed in.

Marcus had the paper spread open on the dashboard. Almost all of the dashboard - certainly more than just his half of it. Ian pulled his door shut and started the ambulance.

On the way down to coffee Ian opened his window for fresh air. Marcus would soon be after him to close it or shut of the A/C; Marcus would have to deal. Ian turned the stereo on, flipped through the presets, turned it off. He pulled back the wiper-washer lever and cleaned the windshield. He pushed in the cigarette lighter and power locked the doors. The clock on the dashboard was a minute slow; Ian reset it.

Traffic was at a near standstill due to utility work at the intersection. Ian fought off the urge to lean on the horn, and turned on the stereo instead, tuning in to a weather report. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

It would have taken a far less observant man than Marcus to not have picked up on Ian's mood. Marcus quietly reassembled and folded his newspaper, holding it in both hands and looking complacently out of the windshield.

Ian breathed in and out deeply a few times then shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. "Supposed to be nice all week," he commented on the weather broadcast.

"That's what they say," Marcus replied. Traffic inched forward. What Ian wouldn't give for a Diff Breather now. Anything to turn on the lights and siren and hop onto the sidewalk. The radio and MDT, however, remained stubbornly silent.

Overhead a pigeon circled, landing on the sidewalk beside the ambulance. Ian considered the bird, losing himself in the complexities of its shading, the way its feathers flashed pink and green in the sunlight, the fact that it absolutely had to bob its head to walk. How had they figured that out, he wondered, picturing a scientist squatting over a pigeon, holding its body and neck in rigid formation. No, that wouldn't work, he reasoned, the pigeon would peck at him. Perhaps a neck and body cast? Perhaps a Stiff-neck C-collar? He smiled.

Traffic had pulled up a car length or two, so Ian released the brake and let the bus roll forward. "Anything in the paper?" he asked Marcus.

"Oh, the usual. Now the mayor's cracking down on jaywalkers."

"Really? This is New Gotham. Who does he think he is?"

"He thinks he's the mayor."

Finally, the corner. Ian twisted the steering around until it hissed, slipping the bus onto the cross street and bumping one of the rear wheels over the curb. Somewhere he had read that some off road vehicles had artificial horizons on their dashboards. He wondered what it would cost to install one in the bus.

They took their time climbing out of the ambulance, but eventually made it into the deli. "Mister Marcus, your coffee," Abraham called as they walked in. "Fresh and hot, not milk."

"You look good, Abraham," Marcus replied.

"Not my time yet it was, not yet, but one of these days. Come to it we all do," he handed the coffee across the counter, "Every one, yes."

"I don't think it's your time yet, Abraham. And consider Elijah."

"A chariot of fire, yes, but only he proves the rule. With milk?" he asked Ian.

"Please," Ian answered, not wanting to be rude and still being in too much of a mood to be able to politely decline.

"Here, for you," Abraham handed the cup across.

They paid, they insisted, and Ian bought a newspaper off the rack, then they turned to go. "The Lord bless you and keep you," Marcus called from the door.

"The same may he do for you," Abraham called back. "The same may he do for you."

Outside, the earlier half mist had grown into a thin, drifting rain, the type Erin had called an Irish rain. "He looks good," Ian called across the bus's hood as they unlocked their doors.

Inside Marcus set his coffee on the console to buckle his seatbelt. "He does. The doctors told him very little damage. They t-PA'd him within five minutes of our arrival."

"Wow."

Ian found jazz comforting, as a general rule, and once they were parked again, he dialed up the jazz station on the stereo, flipped through the paper to the crossword, and leaned back into his seat. Andy found jazz comforting, too, and held to the philosophy that if he was going to be stuck somewhere he might as well have it to accompany him. "What do you mean, you can't get jazz down here?" he asked the pale-faced police officer who had climbed down below the R train to reach him and deliver his message. "Get me jazz."

The officer, a rookie, didn't know how to reply. "Get me a CD player, a tape player, I don't care. Jazz. Not blues," he cautioned as the officer crawled backwards from under the subway car, "jazz." He turned back to his patient in mock exasperation, "Some people."

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Smoke Assassin Customer Service Phone Number

2010-04-04T00:00:00.002-04:00

Since I commented on the Smoke Assassin in a previous post, I've gotten several visitors looking for the phone number for their customer service. So, here it is:

Smoke Assassin Customer Service

1-800-604-9575

Unfortunately, the reports I read on the quality and caring of their customer service are uniformly bad. Be prepared for long waits, and expect to have to speak with a manager.

Good luck!

- B

X-ray Chapter 7, part 6

2010-04-03T00:00:00.005-04:00

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Ian slept. He dreamed. He awoke. It was still raining. The radio was crackling: "Woman Acting Strange."

A note stuck to the steering wheel said that Erin had gone ahead with the Williamsburg Rocket, Three-five Charlie. Ian climbed over the console, catching his stethoscope on the radio mic., and slid into the driver's seat, fumbling for the ignition keys as he did so. The engine wouldn't start. He cranked, and cranked, and cranked until it caught, hesitated, and settled into a stumbling rumble. Ian shifted into gear and turned the wheel, shocked at the resistance he met. The power steering was on vacation. Once he had wrenched the wheel sufficiently around, he tried to pull out.

But the bus was stuck in the mud. Deep mud, Ian learned, promptly sinking to his ankles as he climbed down from the driver's seat. The rear wheels were buried to the rims, on both sides, it turned out. He threw his weight against the back of the bus and pushed.

All of the bags were still in the bus because Erin hadn't taken them. All she had was Three-five Charlie's oxygen and their HeartStart. "Ian," she called on the radio, "Ian, Ian."

Ian jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. "Ian, the shift is over," Erin told him, "It's time to go home."

Ian had slept through the ride back to the station. Sara was waiting for him, leaning against the cab of her navy blue truck; Ian's car was in for an oil change and she had dropped him off to work. Ian pulled his bags from the bus and handed off his narcotics in the station office. In the locker room he changed quickly, then met Sara in the parking lot, tossed his bags in the back seat of her Yukon and climbed in shotgun. He reclined the seat, breathed in and out a few times, and settled down for the ride to the airport, where they were picking up Sam. "Never take it home," he told himself, shrinking from Sara's touch as she placed her hand over his.

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X-ray Chapter 7, part 5

2010-04-02T09:02:00.000-04:00

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Ian drove while Erin sat in the back and completed her SAMPLE history. At the hospital she gave the report, then, "She has a full bottle of Prednisone filled two weeks ago next to a half full one filled a month and a half ago. Toast was buring in the toaster when we arrived, the smoke detector didn't go off, and it took her close to five minutes to find the coat closet when we went to leave. Lives alone, apparently a son drops by to deliver meds, including an OTC epi inhaler. I've had her three or four times since New Year's."

"I'll tell the social worker," Anne signed the run report

"That's all in the report. Thanks," she said as Anne handed back the report. Erin left behind the pink hospital copy and joined Ian in the Truck.

"I didn't offend you giving the report?"

"No. You knew her."

"Laura always flips if I get involved with patient care when its her day to tech. Ready for lunch?"

"Yeah." Ian punched up their numbers from the MDT and filled in the rest of the ACR, but his thoughts drifted back to the essence of the call. Erin had done a good job of trying to lay it all out in the report. A nursing home would just add to her confusion, but clearly she was no longer able to take care of herself. "You haven't seen any live in care around here, have you?" he asked Erin.

Erin paused to squeeze past a double parked 18-wheeler before answering. "Live in care? No. Not unless its a family member. Mrs Leonardowitz . . ." she trailed off. "They're closed."

Closed for good. The Top Hill Diner sat cold and empty with two new signs posted next to the advertised specials. "Death in Family," one read, "Closing our Doors." "For Rent," read the other, with a local phone number.

"Not even a thank you for years of customer support," Ian was suddenly very angry. He hadn't realised how much he had wanted his number two special until it was denied him. They crisped their bacon without shrivelling it. Done right every time. "Why can't one thing go right today? Why can't we just get a decent two egg special with toast, home fries, and bacon? For Chris' sake, it's not that complicated," he tossed the clipboard onto the dash. "Let's see what else is open," he said tiredly. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

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To be a pet, or not.

2010-04-02T08:46:00.000-04:00

I often wonder/worry about my cats' happiness as pets. I worry more about this with Christian, since he was a stray into his adult life and so has some perspective on this - he knows what he has lost, and what he has gained, in the transition from stray to pet. Shadow, of course, has been with me since she was three month old, and so never had a chance to experience the outside world on her own.

The tally, as I understand it, is this:

Pros of being a pet:
- food is provided twice a day
- clean water is always available
- no predators
- no bad weather, aside from occasional thunder (which may be scary but can't hurt them)
- no cars

I don't add things like veterinary care, since I doubt that they understand its significance.

Cons of being a pet:
- severely constrained roaming area, with
- little to chase
- only one other cat to interact with
- no sex (though they're both neutered/spayed/fixed)
- sometimes a little too much interaction with the resident human (I'm happy to pick them up, pet them, etc a bit more than they're happy to be picked up, petted, etc. But I'm learning to read them and there haven't been any altercations.)

I think there was one other thing, but I forget what it was for the moment. And in any case, the real point of this post is this: when I open the door to enter or exit the apartment, even though they often look out the door (which leads directly into the outside world), they never try to escape. I realized the significance of this only this week, when it occurred to me that that was their vote: to stay as a pet. Which makes me happy.

Richmond Rail Heist #2-9

2010-03-31T23:29:00.000-04:00

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NOTE: This entry follows entry #8

The two Southerners disappeared into the church, leaving the three Northerners alone to continue east toward Chattanooga. Some minutes later the road turned into a wood, sheltering them from the sun, and soon after they heard a horse coming up behind them. They turned to face the rider, who was hidden in the trees.

“You remember seeing a horse in that village?” Rufus asked.

“No,” said Will. “But that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”

Jones said that there might have one in the barn, and for a minute or two conversation devolved into a discussion of whether there had been a barn at all, with Jones swearing that there had been, Rufus sure that there had only been houses and the church, and Will unable to remember. “Well, here he comes, whoever he is,” he said as the rider began to appear through the trees.

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STO'B 4-14 Dr M'Mullen

2010-03-30T14:26:00.000-04:00

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last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY

He held onto the crate and considered. The Spanish frigate continued to trade shots with the English brigs, and it was apparent even to him that both sides had scored some important shots. One of Badger’s upper masts leaned drunkenly; a horizontal mast, or spar, or yard aboard the other English brig hung crookedly; and turning to his left he saw that the Spaniard’s sails, peeking above clouds of white smoke, now contained several holes. None of the ships were particularly close.

Behind him and to his right lay the ruined mole, with the beach a bit further on. Some crumbling steps led from the water up to the mole. “Of course, if I were to do that, the cat would escape, and although I don’t know that I want a black cat, I do feel a certain responsibility for it, having saved it, he said aloud. “Nevertheless …”

A low hum and a sudden splash not many yards away brought him back to the present: he was in the middle of a battle, and daydreaming would save neither him nor the cat. He started to swim toward the steps, pushing the crate and cat before him.

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New Rule

2010-03-29T17:02:00.002-04:00

The blog must be updated daily.

Exceptions: none

STO'B 4-13 Dr M'Mullen

2010-03-11T18:04:00.000-05:00

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As soon as he hit the water, Patrick realised that this might not be such as good idea. The Badger, which had looked small from on deck (and positively diminutive alongside the Viceroy) now loomed over him, looking unnaturally large and shrouded in smoke. The Spaniard, now only a few dozen yard away, looked if anything bigger. She was also wreathed in smoke, and as Patrick looked at her something blinked orange and stirred in the heart of the grey-white cloud, raced across the water and vanished over Patrick’s head.

He kicked powerfully, flapping his arms and heaving himself out of the water as he looked around. The cat stood on a crate perhaps 40 yards away, scrambling to stay dry as the box pitched and heaved. “I’ll be lucky not to get a face full of claws,” Patrick said as he swam over, stopping perhaps a yard from the animal, whose increasingly panicked movements were causing the box to rock with increasing violence. “Perhaps if I simply push the crate over to the ship, or the shore,” he said. “Who could I possibly be talking to?”

He reached out and touched the box, then grasped it more firmly, steadying it. The cat, no longer threatened with falling into the water and instant dissolution, sat at the far end of the crate and stared at him. It was solid black, its pupils were wide open, making its eyes black as well, and its tail thrashed from side to side. It would have nothing to do with an offered finger, merely shuffling further away from Patrick, who gave up after one attempt. “Well,” he said, looking around and finding the Badger at last, “I suppose I’ll have to get you aboard, though I confess I have no idea how to do so.”

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The parts of a rotating light

2010-03-03T23:51:00.002-05:00

The parts of a rotating light:
top: the fully assembled light, showing the light, its power cord, and a mirror to be used when the light is mounted in the windshield or rear window.
middle: the light with the mirror removed and set aside.
bottom: the light with the green dome removed, revealing the electric motor in the front, the incandescent lamp in the center, and the rotating reflector toward the back. The incandescent lamp remains fixed in place while the reflector revolves around it, creating a rotating beam of light.

STO'B 4-11

2010-02-27T21:22:00.003-05:00

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The frigate yawed, fired a bow chaser at the Chasseur (who fired a ragged, ineffective broadside in return), yawed the other way and fired the other chaser at Badger, the shot humming low over the deck, and now in his glass Philip could see the crew gathering about the pin rails, looking back to quarterdeck for the command. “Gun crews ready!” Philip called. For a moment he wished he had thought to load grape, but then the Spanish captain lifted his speaking trumpet and it was time. “Fire!” shouted Philip, and the Badger’s guns went off together, shaking her from truck to keel.

Follow Captain Fitton, or
Follow Dr M’Mullen

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STO'B 4-12 Captain Fitton

2010-02-27T21:17:00.003-05:00

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Philip grabbed the main shrouds, hoisting himself clear of the Badger’s gunsmoke. Her shot did no great execution. No yards came crashing down, nor did they hole the frigate disastrously beneath the waterline, but though most of the shots went wide, one punched a hole in the fore course, and another passed over the deck, raking her at head height. More to the point, the noise of the broadside drowned out the Spanish captain’s orders, throwing his maneuver into confusion. The smoke also hid the Badger partially, and though the Spaniard fired another gun or two neither of them hit the sloop.

“Run out!” cried Philip, “keep firing! Aim for the bows - an extra ration of grog for any crew that hits her in the bows!”

The Spaniard fired again, some of the shot coming aboard, and fromt he corner of his eye Philip saw something splash form the quarterdeck into the sea.

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STO'B 4-12 Dr M'Mullen

2010-02-27T21:13:00.004-05:00

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Badger’s deck filled with smoke following her broadside, and Captain Fitton pulled himself into the rigging to better see the enemy. Patrick put down his telescope and considered the various ropes. He pulled at one, and it seemed to yield, so he let it go. How they know which rope to pull is far beyond me, he said to himself. He pulled another rope, which seemed solid, then pulled himself up into the rigging and launched himself into the water.

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STO'B 4-10

2010-02-25T10:57:00.004-05:00

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Half an hour later the disorder was all cleared away, and Badger and her consort lay waiting for the strange frigate, their guns run out and primed, waiting for the word to fire. The Spaniard, and now Philip could see the Spanish flag streaming bravely from her masthead, swept toward the bay. Her captain had not yet stripped he down to her fighting sails, which was understandable enough, for reducing sail would mean reducing speed, and she was currently sailing straight into the broadsides of the two English sloops.

“They seem to be tossing a quantity of items overboard,” said Dr M’Mullen, standing beside Philip with a pocket glass in his hand. “I believe I see some barrels, and a washtub.”

Philip almost said that it was a shame that they had tossed the tub overboard, as Badger had broken hers last week, leaving her crew with nothing to wash in, but he realised that that was incredibly presumptuous, and likely to bring bad luck. Instead he merely said “the thing about fighting with the Spanish is not that they aren’t brave, for they are, but that they are never, ever ready. An admiral told me that - probably old Admiral Pullings - and I have always found it to be true.”

“Now they have tossed their boats overboard.”

“Yes. They make nasty spinters when they get hit with a cannonball, you know. We had a lieutentant in the old Intrepid - a splinter from the longboat struck him through the chest - clean through - and pinned him to the bulwark. Hedley was his name, George Hedley. That’s why I had our boats hauled up on the beach.” He peered through his telescope, watching the Spaniard’s crew for the first sign that her captain was preparing to swing to the side and give them a broadside. “If we were at sea we would set them off on a line, to trail behind us. Doctor, you will forgive me, but if you would like to have a bang at them there will be guns in the wardroom, and a sword, too, if it should come to that. But for the moment-”

A shot from the Spaniard’s bow chaser cut him off, and he watched intently: two splashes, each in line for the Badger’s quarterdeck, before the ball finally knocked harmlessly against her side. And even now the Spanish crew was throwing things over the side: another spar, some loose fabric, a crate, and on the crate what might have been a small black dog, or perhaps a cat. “Goths!” cried Dr M’Mullen. “Heathens!” Chasseur fired a single gun, the ball bouncing once before sinking into the sea. Badger held her fire.

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STO'B 4-9

2010-02-14T17:15:00.002-05:00

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Chasseur sent up a cloud of black smoke as her donkey engine came to life. On the beach the last of the water barrels rolled down to the shore, guided by seamen. Another party clustered on the mole, ready to cast off the mooring line as the marines closed their perimeter inward in preparation for departure. Several fathoms below Philip the Badger’s crew scrambled into place hauling on the cable that bound her to the mole, bringing the messenger to the donkey and clapping nippers on. The bosun, supervising the operation, waved his hand, the engineer engaged the donkey, and the Badger paid out the cable to give the men on the mole slack to work with.

Out to sea the Spaniard settled on her new tack. Her new course would take her past the English brigs, probably within random shot. Philip held her in the glass, considering. Yes, it was better to fight from his current position: the Spaniard would have to sail into his fire if she was to attack. “On deck, there, Mr Horrace, belay that last order! Send the men to quarters and fire a gun to windward! On the mole! We will remain at anchor, return to the sloop! Chasseur! Prepare to fight at anchor!” He collapsed the telescope and slung it over his shoulder, took the speaking trumpet in his teeth, and grasped the backstay, wrapping his legs around it and shooting down to the quarterdeck.

Badger now resembled an upturned anthill, with some men fulfilling his new orders, others still recovering from his old orders, and three of the stupider landsmen trying to scrub the deck. Philip turned away from the chaos - it was for his officers to sort out - and came face to face with Dr M’Mullen, incongruously sipping tea from a china cup. “Doctor, how do you do?” asked Philip, but at the same time one of the Badger’s guns went off, and he had to repeat his question before Dr M’Mullen understood.

“Well enough, I thank you,” he said. “I imagine you’ve seen the ship that’s now approaching.”

“I have,” said Philip.

“Do you suppose she’s the enemy?”

“I think she is.”

“She appears quite large.”

“Even so, I mean to sink, take, burn, or destroy her. Mr Wilkins!” Philip broke off to hail the midshipman. “run out when ready!

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Cross-posted at http://hkitchen.wordpress.com/2010/02/14/stob-4-9/

2010-02-10T23:42:00.002-05:00

Memorandum

Future Disaster Management posts will appear at Hell's Kitchen.

- Badger

STO'B 48

2010-02-10T13:50:00.001-05:00

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The strongest possibility, though, was that the sail was Spanish, Philip thought as he took a glass from the binnacle and climbed into the shrouds. “Where away,” he asked Higgins as he swung into the top.

“Just forward of that spit of land, sir,” said Higgins, pointing over the Badger’s side. “You should see her from there.”

Philip steadied the glass on a ratline and peered through it. A blurred ship came into view, and he cautiously twisted the barrel until it suddenly sprang into sharp focus. A frigate, he saw, under full sail on the larboard tack. No plume of smoke, so if she had an engine, steam wasn’t up. No tell-tale smoke stains on her sails, but he was really too far away to expect to see them. Spanish built, most likely, and the cut of her sails suggested Spanish ownership. “On deck,” he called, “stoke up the main engine and get those last casks aboard. Hoist the blue peter!”

He turned to look at the shore, where the sailors under Mr South were hammering the bungs into the last of the water casks. “On deck,” Philip called, “send up a speaking trumpet!” The Spaniard didn’t seem to have noticed him yet - firing a gun to alert the shore party would alert her as well.

On deck, hands stepped the funnel, and the engine gave a preliminary puff of smoke. Out to sea the Spaniard luffed up in preparation for changing tack, but the action was leisurely, and Philip suspected he still had not been seen. Badger cut a low figure, and the forest behind her would serve to camouflage her and her smoke from the Spaniard.

The rigging creaked, and a moment later one of the ship’s boys appeared over the edge of the top, touching his curly blond hair with his knuckles and solemnly offering a speaking trumpet. “Thank you, Mr Blakey,” said Philip, and once the trumpet was to his mouth, “Mr South!”

On the shore, the master turned, cupping one hand behind his ear, then to his mouth. “Sir!”

“Those will be the last barrels. Collect the marines and return to the sloop!”

“Yes, sir!” Mr South saluted.

“On deck, prepare to weigh once the last of the water is aboard!”

“Yes, sir!” shouted the gunner, turning and issuing the appropriate orders.

“Chasseur!” Philip hailed, “There is an enemy in the offing! prepare to weigh!”

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Richmond Rail Heist #8

2010-02-06T22:33:00.004-05:00

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“His cousin is in the Georgia 63rd,” Will gestured to Rufus, “a sergeant, and we’re headed down there."

“Georgia 63rd’s with Crittenden, in Kentucky,” said the first Southerner.

“Zollicoffer,” said the second Southerner, speaking around his clay pipe.

“Crittenden. Well, maybe Zollicoffer. But they ain’t in Georgia. You’re goin’ the wrong way. Maybe you best stay with us.”

“Zollicoffer?” asked Will. “I thought he - I thought the Federals got him.”

“Don’t you believe it. He’s in Kentucky, and holding the Gap. You boys got a long way to go if you want to join him. Why not join with us?”

“Who are you?” asked Will

“Georgia 101st,” said the shorter Southerner, standing up straight and taking his pipe out of his mouth for the first time, “finest unit this side of the Mississippi. You’re much better with us. We’ll be joining Lee, to help him with Mitchel. We’ve got artillery,” he gestured at a small, blue-painted cannon sitting in front of the church.

Rufus walked over to the cannon, followed by Jones. It was an old-fashioned piece, probably bronze, probably dating to the War for Independence. The blue paint had been sloppily applied and both trunnions were gone. “When was the last time you fired this?” Rufus asked.

“Yesterday,” said the first Southerner. "Mitchel tried to takin’ the town and we beat him off. Shot his horse out form under him.”

“Impossible,” said Jones, speaking for the first time.

“What?” asked the second Southerner.

“The whole touch hole is…”

“Jones means that that’s impressive for two men and a cannon to turn Mitchel away,” Will said quickly.

“Damn right,” said the second Southerner. “Sent him packin' and we’ll do it again. You should join us.”

“I don’t think we could join you - we’re not that good. We’d only be getting in your way,” said Will.

“Oh,” said the first Southerner. “Well, yes you would. Come on, Jem,” he said to the second Southerner, “we got to get ready for Mitchel.”

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Richmond Rail Heist #7

2010-02-02T00:41:00.000-05:00

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Just as Jones said this, an unseen church began to strike the hour - eight solitary bongs. "Eight o'clock, just like I said," said Jones, pulling opff his spectacles and polishing their lenses when Rufus and Will looked at him.

They walked on, climbing a small rise in silence, and below them lay a few houses, too few to be a village, really, and the church they had heard earlier. The church was stone, the houses sun-bleached wood. Two men stood in the road, in front of the church, each holding a rifle.

"Do they look like greybacks to you?" Will asked Rufus.

"Oh, yes," said Jones. "Without a doubt."

Rufus peered down the hill, squinting in the sunlight. “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

“Well,” said Will, “it had to happen eventually. We’re escaping Federal the forces, who overran our homes in Lone Pine, and are looking for Rufus’s cousin, who is a sergeant in the Georgia 63rd. Your cousin’s name is David Porter, right?”

“Yes,” said Jones.

“Yes,” said Rufus.

“Then that’s our story,” said Will. “David Porter, Georgia 63rd.”

By now the men with the guns had noticed the northerners. They stood with their guns in hand, watching the three descend the hill. “Hello,” called the stranger on the left, a tall men with blue eyes and grey hair. He wore faded, home made shirt and pants. His companion, similarly dressed but several inches shorter and several pounds heavier, also with blue eyes but with brownish hair, said nothing, merely fingering a grizzled beard.

“Hello,” called Will. Rufus waved his hat in greeting. Jones said nothing, but licked his lips before pulling off his spectacles to polish them.

“Where you all from?” asked the first southerner.

“Lone Pine,” said Will. They were close enough to talk without shouting now and the northerners came to a stop a few strides before the two men of the South.

“That’s up North,” said the second southerner.

“Yep,” said Will. “Damn’ Federals overran us, tried to make us serve in their army.”

“You need to fight back,” said the second southerner. “Show them they can’t push you around.”

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STO'B 47

2010-01-14T18:16:00.001-05:00

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* * *
The donkey engine coughed and clanked as the engineer, a small, wiry man, ran around it, reaching into its crevasses with a can of oil. “Should have been overhauled,” he muttered to himself, “last time we was in dock.” He put the oil can on the engine and pulled a rag from his pocket, using it to wipe his hands before he ran them through his thinning sandy hair. “Steam is up, sir,” he said at last.

“Very good, Mr Stevens,” said the Captain. Badger was moored in a small bay, with a line running out of her stern gallery to a ruined mole, and another running from her bow to an anchor near the middle of the bay. Chasseur lay between her and the far side of the small bay, with the brigs’ guns commanding the entire seaward approach. Sergeant Harris and his marines guarded the single landward approach to the spring, an overgrown path up some crumbling stone steps, found by the brigs’ boys as they explored the ruined buildings on the small beach. A high stone palisade ringed in the spring and its beach, and apart from the two brigs and their men, cursing and sweating with their barrels of water, the only sound was the cry of several birds, and the occasional ‘ploop’ of a fish breaking the water’s surface.

“On deck,” cried the mainmast lookout.

“Deck, here,” replied the captain.

“Sail in the offing, sir. Looks like a ship.”

“Who is the mainmast lookout?” Philip asked the Master.

“Higgins, sir, able.”

To an able seaman, ship meant a three-masted vessel, with her masts in threes: lower mast, topmast, and topgallant. Some merchentmen sailed ships, though most preferred other rigs, and chances were that the ship was a war ship. The question was, whose?

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STO'B 46

2010-01-08T18:08:00.001-05:00

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Some hours later, Dr M’Mullen sat down with Philip for dinner. “Would you consider that to be a bad battle?”

“Oh, no,” said Philip. “Three, no, four dead. Would you care for some wine?”

“Actually, I’d prefer some water if you don’t mind. I’m rather parched after today’s work and the dipper at the scuttlebutt was missing”

Philip put down his glass. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but we’re rationing water in order to reach Gideon’s Bay. I had Wilkins secure the dipper until then.”

“Why not refill at the Roman spring?”

“What Roman Spring?”

“At the old bath, perhaps twelve miles west from the village where we fought.”

“There’s water here? Isn’t it defended?”

“Occasionally the Spanish stop by for water, but not on a permanent basis.”

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STO'B 45

2009-12-22T16:31:00.001-05:00

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Some minutes later the officers on the Badger’s quarterdeck moved over to the leeward side as their captain appeared, followed by his guest. In the waist, the sailmaker and his mates were sewing the dead men into their hammocks, in preparation for the funeral. The gunner’s junior mate emerged form the main hatch, bearing a bucket of roundshot for their feet, to carry them down.

Philip led Dr M’Mullen to the taffrail. “The battery commands the harbor,” he explained, “and now that they know who we are there will be no sneaking past them. And, of course, we have to get you to Gideon's Bay.” He paused, but Dr M’Mullen did not take the opportunity to observe that perhaps he didn’t need to get to Gideon’s Bay just yet, far less to observe that Philip should land seamen and marines and take the fort from behind, then burn, sink, take, or destroy all of the shipping in the harbor. Philip sighed. “Mr Horrace,” he said to the gunner, whose watch it was, “once the service is done we will up anchor and lay in a course for Gideon’s Bay.”

Simkin mounted the quarterdeck, flipping through the General Printed Instructions for the funeral service. “Here, sir,” he said.

Captain Fitton took the book from his servant and nodded, saw that the crew was assembled, and pressed his hat more firmly onto his head. He read the service - it mingled strangely with that occurring on the Chasseur, just to windward, and took off his hat as the dead mens’ mess mates lifted the hatch cover, three times, sending the bodies into the water one at a time. The Captain placed his hat back on his head and turned away to wipe a tear from his eye. He glanced over at the Chasseur and saw that they were done (only one splash followed their service). “Mr Horrace, up anchor. Mr Wilkins, signal Chasseur to follow.”

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Why we're asked about eggs when we get the flu shot

2009-11-12T09:31:00.000-05:00

When we receive the flu shot (influenza vaccination) we're typically asked a few things, such as are we currently sick, have we ever had Gullian Barre' Syndrome (GBS), and are we allergic to eggs. We're asked if we're sick because the vaccine triggers our immune system, and if we're sick, our immune system is already busy. Depending on how sick we are, perhaps it's better to allow our immune system to finish off our illness before presenting it with the vaccine. We're asked about GBS because having it once suggests that we may get it again. I discuss GBS and the flu vaccine in more detail here. Eggs are my focus on this post, and that explanation requires a little bit of background on how a virus (such as the flu) reproduces (copies itself).

A Little Virology (Study of Viruses)
A cell, whether it's one of the cells in our bodies, or a cell from our pet cat or dog, or whether it is a bacterium (1 bacterium + 1 bacterium = 2 bacteria, and each bacterium is a single cell) contains everything it needs to reporduce. All we need to do is feed the cell, and it does the rest - it repproduces its DNA and all of its internal parts, and then splits into two new cells.

A virus can't do this on its own. It lacks some of the machinery needed to reproduce, and needs to break into a cell and trick the cell's internal machinery into reproducing the virus.

Making the Vaccine - the Chicken Egg Connection
The flu vaccine works by showing a weak or inactivated copy of the flu virus to our immune system, so that if we later see the real flu virus, the immune system can quickly pounce on it and kill it off. As I've said before (see this post for details), the vaccine is kind of like a test prep course for our immune system, where the flu is the actual test: taking the vaccine leaves our immune system better able to take the flu.

The point for this post is that in order to make the vaccine, we need to make a lot of copies of the flu virus, and the easiest way for us to do that is to put the virus in a cell and let the virus do its thing, hijacking the cell and making lots of copies of itself. The cell we use for this is a chicken egg (a chicken egg is a cell).

Since we grow the virus up in a chicken egg, we can end up with some egg in the vaccine itself. So, if someone is allergic to egg, then perhaps the vaccine isn't for them.

The flu

2009-10-24T22:48:00.004-04:00

A colleague recently wrote me that he had read my post on the flu vaccine and GBS, and his son had had GBS at age 3.

I am sorry that his son had GBS. It is not a fun condition, and it must be horrifying to see in one's own child. But as a medical professional, and as a public health professional, I have to be very careful not to confuse one patient's experience with what is likely to happen to all, most, or even many patients.

My point on flu vaccine and GBS is that, although there is the possibility of GBS from getting the vaccine, not getting the vaccine leaves people liable to influenza - so the question is, which possibility is greater, and which condition is worse? WHO states that on 1 million vaccinations, 1 case of GBS will result. Last year, (as of 1 July 2008) the US population was 304,059,724(1) - if we had vaccinated everyone, that would translate into 304 cases of GBS; with a fatality rate of 6% (the larger end of the estimate from the CDC, as discussed in the previous post) that would yield 18 deaths total.

On the influenza side, for the 2007 - 2008 season, 88 "Influenza-Associated" pediatric deaths occurred. That's pediatric deaths only - not counting the deaths in young adults, middle aged adults, and the elderly. And this is death from seasonal flu only, not swine flu (also known as H1N1)(2)

So, looking at these numbers, we have 18 vaccination deaths in the entire population, if we vaccinated everyone; or 88 deaths in the pediatric population from the flu itself, plus additional deaths in the adult populations.

I'd rather go with the vaccination.

[Edited 25 October 2009]

Previous post: The flu vaccine and GBS
SOURCE:
(1) http://www.census.gov/popest/states/tables/NST-EST2008-01.xls
(2) http://www.cdc.gov/flu/weekly/weeklyarchives2008-2009/weekly32.htm

The flu vaccine and GBS

2009-10-15T16:03:00.010-04:00

In 1976, a study showed a possible connection between influenza vaccination (the flu shot) and Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS). In GBS, the body attacks its own nervous system, causing weakness and paralysis. Most people recover completely over several weeks or months, but some do have permanent problems, and about five percent of people who get GBS die. So, a connection between influenza vaccination and GBS alarmed a lot of people (and rightly so) because we don't want to be giving people GBS when we vaccinate them against the flu. Since 1976, many other studies have looked for a connection between influenza vaccination and GBS.(1)

Only one study has found a connection: it stated that for every one million people vaccinated against the flu, one person "may be at risk of GBS associated with the vaccine." Not "will get GBS," but "may be at risk." And again, no other studies have found any connections between the vaccine and GBS.(1) (See also (3))

What this means is that there may have been a real connection between the vaccine and GBS. Unfortunately, we cannot rule this out absolutely. there is a chance - a very small chance, but a chance - that today's vaccine is somehow connected to GBS.

Does this mean that we shouldn't get vaccinated against influenza? Not necessarily. To decide whether or not to get the vaccine, we need to look at what might happen if we do get the shot and compare it to what might happen if we don't get the shot. We've already looked at the biggest potential negative of the shot. The smaller negatives include things like redness at the injection site, soreness, headache, etc, most no different from the results of placebo treatment. For a small group of people there is an additional negative - if you’re allergic to something in the vaccine, the vaccine can give you an allergic reaction. (This is why they ask you if you’re allergic to eggs, for instance, since eggs are used in the preparation of the vaccine).

There have also been concerns regarding vaccines and autism. This originated with the MMR vaccine. Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, writing in 2007, note that

The aetiology of autism remains unclear. The suggestion that MMR vaccination may be a cause received wide-spread publicity, although subsequent scientific research has failed to support a link.(2)

On a different note, people who get the vaccine sometimes still get the flu - the vaccine matches what the virus looked like when the vaccine was being made, but the virus looks slightly different now. But the vaccine is still useful, since it primes the immune system, and people who get the flu after getting the vaccine have a milder case of the flu - the illness isn’t as bad. So if you’ve ever gotten the vaccine and later gotten sick with influenza, you would have been even sicker without the vaccine.

Next, we need to look at the positives of getting the vaccine, and then the positives and negatives of not getting the vaccine. Then we’ll be able to make an educated decision on whether or not to get the vaccine.

The benefits of the vaccine are that it provides protection from the flu, as I discuss in this post. Some readers may also be aware of the study that showed that people who received a flu shot are less likely to die - from any cause - over the following year, but I suspect that this is because that those who receive a flu shot are also receiving better all-around medical care - I doubt that the flu shot is a panacea (a cure for all ills). So for our discussion, we’ll focus on the flu, which means we need to talk about what the flu actually can do to us.

Next up: the flu
Also: Why do we need a flu shot every year?

Edited 16 Oct, 4:40 pm Eastern)

SOURCES:
(1) Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “Seasonal Flu and Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS)” at http://www.cdc.gov/flu/about/qa/gbs.htm, on 13 October 2009
(2) Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, “Autism: a Focus Group study: MMR: marginalised, misrepresented and rejected?” Archives of Disease in Childhood. downloaded 21 March 2008 from adc.bmj.com
(3) World Health Organization, "Influenza vaccines: WHO position paper." downloaded form http://www.who.int/entity/wer/2005/wer8033.pdf on 16 October, 2009

The flu shot, and why we need it every year

2009-10-14T17:35:00.004-04:00

So, we've said that the immune system can learn to recognize pathogens, and that a vaccine teaches the immune system to recognize a pathogen (If you don't remember how or why, see the previous post.) If that's the case, why do we need a vaccine for the flu every year?

It turns out that the flu virus is prone to mutation. This year's flu virus doesn't quite look like last year's virus. The change is enough that even if the immune system will recognize last year's virus (either from a vaccine or from getting the actual illness), it probably won't recognize this year's flu virus. So even if we got last year's vaccine, we need this year's to be protected this year.

Next: aren’t there problems with the flu vaccine?

STO'B 44

2009-10-14T00:00:00.002-04:00

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

Chapter 4

Once they were well clear of the battery Philip tacked and stood the crew down from quarters. He fed them watch by watch, set them on repairing the damage wrought by the battery, and retreated to his cabin to think.

It was not until he was sweeping aside the curtain that now served that cabin for a door that he remembered that for the moment, the cabin not his, but by then he had already intruded. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Then, “I merely meant to ask if you had been, uh, inconvenienced by the banging.”

“Not at all,” said Dr M’Mullen. “Would you care for some coffee? I’m sure there’s another mug somewhere.”

There was another mug, and thus it was in the great cabin that Dr Foster found Captain Fitton (Dr M’Mullen having stepped into the quarter gallery for the moment) when the surgeon went to make his report. “Three dead, sir, and seven wounded, of which most should survive.”

Ten casualties - about ten percent of his men. He took the list from the surgeon. “Wykoff and Brown, ordinary, and Mitchel, able, killed.” He remembered Wykoff, a strong, talkative fellow, covered with tattoos, and Mitchel he had served with in an earlier command. “Brown was the man with the red handkerchief, yes?”

“Yes, sir, he died of a leg wound, and after some interference by - oh, Dr McMuffin, how do you do?”

“Very well, sir, and yourself?” asked Patrick, buttoning the last button on his breeches. “You were saying something about interference? How did the man with the leg wound do?”

“He died,” said Philip.

Patrick sat down. “Cautery might have saved him.”

“There was not time to find out. And may I request, sir, that you leave the care of the men to their proper physician?”

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GLOSSARY

Immune system basics

2009-10-13T12:46:00.008-04:00

THE BASICS
The immune system can be divided into two parts: the innate (aka non-specific) part and the acquired (aka specific) part. In most textbooks, the acquired part of the immune system receives the most coverage, but the innate part carries most of the weight, so we'll start there.

The non-specific part of the immune system consists of all of the things that keep pathogens (germs) out of the body. It works similarly to the walls and moat surrounding a castle, which work to keep the enemy soldiers out. The non-specific part of the system includes the skin, and also things like the stomach acid (which dissolves any pathogens that we swallow), and lysozyme (which is found in tears, and breaks down pathogens), and mucus (which traps pathogens that we inhale). Most pathogens don't get past these parts of the non-specific immune system. There are also things like fever, and other changes which help the body fight infections, but also make us feel sick, and these can be considered part of the non-specific system as well.

The specific part of the immune system is only activated if a pathogen does sneak past the non-specific part of the system. It is similar to friendly soldiers within the castle walls, whose job is to recognize, hunt down, and destroy any enemies that manage to get inside of the castle. It consists of B cells and T cells, each of which targets a specific pathogen. (A T cell that can target the bird flu virus, for instance, can only target the bird flu virus. A different T cell is needed for chicken pox virus.) When the specific immune system is activated, it also activates those parts of the non-specific immune system (like the fever, etc discussed above) that make us feel sick. (The fever, etc, also serves as a call to arms for the specific part of the immune system.)

TEACHING THE SPECIFIC PART OF THE IMMUNE SYSTEM
The non-specific immune system is always primed and ready - your skin is always there, keeping pathogens at bay. The specific part of the immune system, when we're born, is naive - it can't really respond to anything very well. But, it does learn. Once the specific immune system meets a pathogen for the first time, it remembers it and responds to it much quicker the next time. This is why if the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system once, we get chicken pox. If the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system a second time, the specific part of the immune system recognizes it and pounces on it, killing it before it can really make us sick. We get the chicken pox once, but not twice. (For those of you familiar with shingles and how it relates to chicken pox, I will be getting to that - don't start writing angry comments just yet)

Wouldn't it be great, though, if we could teach the specific part of the immune system to recognize chicken pox without having to actually get the chicken pox that first time? It turns out that we can. We show the immune system a model of the chicken pox virus, and the system learns what the chicken pox virus looks like from the model. The non-specific immune system activates (so we may feel a bit sick, since merely activating the immune system can make us feel sick), and the specific immune system learns to recognize the chicken pox virus. Then, the first time the actual chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific immune system, the specific part of the immune system recognizes the virus from the model and pounces on it before it can make you sick.

What is this model? It's a vaccine. The vaccine looks like the actual pathogen, activates the specific part of the immune system (and may make us feel sick briefly) and teaches it to recognize that pathogen, and when the real pathogen comes around, the immune system pounces on it.

Next: The flu shot, and why we need it every year -->

Edited 20 April 2010

The War of 1812 revisited

2009-10-01T21:32:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine recently pointed out that if Iran were to successfully attack an American warship in any meaningful way, their joy would be short-lived: "I think Iran would regret their victory. The 19th century Royal Navy, for all its immense power had nothing like a B-52 or, heaven forbid, the U.S.S. Tennessee." I think he's correct, and that's part of my point, since England in 1812 felt similarly confident about any naval clash they had with the U.S. So my point is this: England in late 1812 was shocked by the American successes, as shocked as America would now be if its navy repeatedly lost to the Iranians.

(original post: The War of 1812)

The Rovers and the Voyagers

2009-09-25T20:32:00.002-04:00

Every once in a while I wander over to the NASA page on the Mars rovers. You probably remember those guys - six-wheeled semi-autonomous robots we sent off to Mars several years ago, figuring they'd run for three months before the Martian environment killed them off. Well, they're still running around on the red planet, five years after their three-month warranty ran out, and I'm frequently amazed by that. When Mars and Earth are on the same side of the sun, 50 million miles separate them. Read that again: 50,000,000 miles, when the planets are close to each other.

Mars's temperature averages about -60 C, or -81 F. That's cold. There's little, if any, oxygen (though I suppose that helps prevent corrosion), and dust storms are fairly frequent, which is a problem if you're solar-powered (as the rovers are). And these guys are still running.

And then I think about the Voyager spacecraft. The Voyagers, who were launched when JFK was president, are each now over 8 Billion miles away - that's billion with a b (Voyager 1 is 9.9 Billion miles away). And they're still collecting and sending data back, and still fueling discoveries.

Wow.

Mars Rovers: http://marsrovers.nasa.gov/home/index.html
Voyagers Spacecraft: http://voyager.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html

The Water Bowl

2009-09-25T15:14:00.000-04:00

I feel bad for Christian. Every time he finds a new hidey-hole (and hidey holes are important to a cat's sense of safety and well-being) Shadow comes along and evicts him, moving in herself (and abandoning her old hidey-hole (his old hidey-hole) to do so). His most recent find was his cat carrier, which lives nestled in a corner between two bookcases, behind the third book case that's been in the middle of the floor since the roof began to leak last month, and beside the box of papers that I don't know what to do with, but can't throw out because they're valuable somehow. But the point is that he found a place to sit quietly, which was protected but enabled him to see out, and once again Shadow ousted him. As I said, I feel bad, and I don't know what to do.

So about twenty minutes ago, when Christian discovered that his carrier was unoccupied, he went over to it and crept inside. He was mostly in - only his tail was poking out - when Shadow discovered him and headed over there herself. I stepped out of the kitchen to observe, and as I did, my foot caught something. The location of the object, and its weight, and the sound it made when my foot hit it all meant that I knew what it was before I looked down - it was the cats' water bowl - the one by the kitchen.

I have caught and spilled this water bowl before - it's really not in the best of locations, from the not-catching-it-with-your-foot perspective. The cats have upset it, too, when racing around and horseplaying. There was even the memorable time when they knocked into it, sloshing some water out, and then I did the same when stooping to clean up what they had spilled, sloshing yet more water onto the wooden floor. But we have never yet managed to empty the entire bowl onto the floor, until I tonight.

And this is no small bowl, either, because I am paranoid about the cats running out of water. I picture the power going out, and with it the air conditioning, and my poor cats, tongues hanging out, finally collapsing of dehydration because I didn't leave enough water. This is a bowl designed for dogs, which holds a liter of water when full, as it approximately was twenty minutes ago until I caught it with my foot.

(If that bowl proves to be insufficient, there is another, equally large bowl of water over by their water fountain, which itself holds over a liter of water when full, but more on the fountain in another post.)

So, there I was, with a liter of water on my floor, which is rented and wooden, and no doubt greedily drinking in all of that water because it's also unfinished. Or maybe it has lost its finish through years of deferred maintenance, not to say neglect, on the part of my landlord. More on that in another post, too. Either way, it's not protected from water. And apart from the water that was soaking into the Stop & Shop ad ("do you know an employee who deserves an A+?") and that which had soaked my jeans up to the knee, all of that water was on the floor.

No big deal, but all I can think of while stripping my bathroom of its towel and cleaning up the mess was "ooh, what a great blog post." And, "how do I wrap this post up?"

The War of 1812

2009-09-24T19:44:00.006-04:00

I'm going to give you a hypothetical situation to think about: what if an Iranian frigate (a type of warship) took - destroyed - a U.S. frigate?

Now, I'm aware of the attack on the U.S. Cole several years ago - and this is not what I'm driving at. Some crewmen died in that attack, but the Cole survived, was repaired, and returned to service in the U.S. Navy. As shocking as the attack was, the Cole wasn't destroyed, and she wasn't taken. But what if an Iranian frigate took a U.S. one?

In 1812, the United States of America declared war on England. The reasons for this are long and complex (as is so often the case on war) and are beyond the point of this post), but the outcome of the war arguably marked the entrance of the U.S. onto the world stage.

Before the war, the U.S. was merely a loose group of former colonies - a third-rate nation at best. They possessed little in the way of a navy, with 19 vessels, of which 16 were actually in service. Seven of these were frigates, with the remainder being smaller vessels such as brigs and sloops. England's navy (the Royal Navy) possessed over 600 in-service vessels, of which about 175 were ships of the line - a class of ships that would eventually come be known as battleships, and which were larger and heavier than the frigates that formed the largest ships in the American navy. So on paper, there was no contest: the American navy would be lucky to capture a few British Merchantmen before being captured itself, or at best bottled up by Royal Navy blockade.(1)

The course of history also seemed to be against the Americans. For the past 20 years, the Royal Navy had routinely routed every enemy it had faced. Nelson's victory at Trafalgar(2) had been notable only for the scale of the victory; the Royal Navy simply won and won, even when out manned and outgunned. It was a foregone conclusion that the war at sea would be swiftly over, with England victorious.

It was with supreme confidence, therefore, that Captain Dacres of the HMS Guerriere met the US Constitution (Captain Hull) on August 19th, 1812. He addressed his men, saying that he exepcted them to beat the Constitution in 30 minutes, and that he would be "offended with them if they did not do their business in that time." Dacres was not too far off in the length of the battle (Constitution ceased firing less than 25 minutes after she opened fire at 6:05pm) but he was wrong in his prediction of its outcome: Constitution destroyed the Guerriere, so badly shattering her that she was worthless as a prize and had to be burned so as not to be a menace to navigation. Besides their frigate, the British lost 23 killed, plus another 56 wounded. American casualties were seven killed, and seven wounded.

Let me pause here to see if I can put this in modern terms. England no longer rules the waves - if anyone does, I suppose it is America. So, what would we think if, say, an Iranian frigate engaged a U.S. frigate - and destroyed her in less than half an hour?

Of course, this only begins to approach the reality of what happened in the War of 1812, because the U.S. Navy hasn't spent twenty years defeating every other armed nation on earth. If the U.S. Navy were to tomorrow take on, say, the combined English and German navies, I don't know who would win. And, of course, not only did the Constitution take the Guerriere on August 19th, but a little over one month later the US United States took the HMS Macedonian. And then on December 29th, Constitution met and took the HMS Java. The United States, an infant nation with an insignificant navy, met and smashed the forces of the most powerful international force in the world. The world took notice.

(follow-up post: The War of 1812 revisited)

(1) This disparity is lessened by the fact that England was then also embroiled in the Napoleanic wars, which placed great demands on her navy, but the fact remains that the Royal Navy was much more powerful than the U.S. Navy, with larger, heavier ships and greater reserves of men and materiel.
(2) Nelson, with 27 ships of the line, trounced a combined Franco-Spanish fleet of 33 ships of the line, sinking one and capturing 17 while losing none of his own,

Sources:
* Battle of Trafalgar: Grant, R. G. Battle at Sea: 3,000 Years of Naval Warfare. DK Publishing, New York. 2008 @ pp 188-189.
* War of 1812:
- relative strength of the Royal and American Navies: Toll, Ian W. Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy. Norton, New York. 2006. @ pp 331-333.
- Constitution:Guerriere engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 347-354.
- Constitution:Java engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 375-380.
- United States:Macedonian engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 360-365.

NOTE: this post has been cross-posted at http://badgersclassroom.blogspot.com/2009/09/war-of-1812-and-us-navy.html

The Smoke Assassin - or whatever they call it now

2009-09-21T19:45:00.002-04:00

There's a relatively new anti-smoking device out there they called the Smoke Assassin. Actually, they now seem to call it something else - just about the same ad with a new product name, but the name Smoke Assassin came first, and stuck in my head, so that's the one I'll run with here.

So here's the deal with the Smoke Assassin: the commercial tells you that the product doesn't actually work. "We won't tell you that you'll quit smoking, but thousands quit every day." Very nice - I support quitting smoking, but the fact that thousands quit every day doesn't mean that the Smoke Assassin had anything to do with it. In fact, if Smoke Assassin did help these people quit, I suspect the ad would say so. So between the lines, the message is: buy this device! - it won't help you quit smoking.

Accoding to the Smoke Assassin website, the gas you inhale from the device contains no nicotine, so switching from cigarettes to Smoke Assassin would be the equivalent of quitting cigarettes cold turkey, with nothing to help you face the nicotine cravings. The Smoke Assassin does give you an opportunity to maintain the oral habit, but the refils aren't cheap. Each refil is the equivalent of a pack and a half of cigarettes, the website tells us, and they sell for $70 for 20, or $100 for 40. That's cheaper than real cigarettes, but its still nothing to sneeze at. Why not switch to carrot sticks instead?

Looking for customer service? See this post. (Added 4/4/2010)

STOB 43

2009-09-14T17:08:00.000-04:00

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By now she was a total wreck, with her foretopmast gone, her mainsail full of holes, and her hull half-filled with water. She had slowed to two knots or less, so her grounding on the soft, sand bar was gentle enough that the men didn’t even stagger as she came to a halt. “Into the boat,” said Philip, and as his men piled into the cutter he found a lantern and tinderbox, lighting the lantern and then using it to light the frayed ropes, smashed barrels and crumpled canvass at the base of the mainmast. A bucket of tar caught, and by the time he raced across the deck and into the cutter the flames were already climbing the mast.

They pulled for the Badger, which had slowed to allow them to catch up and dropped a line over her stern. The bowman made the line fast and they pulled in under the counter, climbing aboard through the stern gallery of the officers’ dining cabin.

Philip found the master on deck, conning the ship at the sloop. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, saluting. He paused to shout an order forward, to the group of men working about the foremast rigging prior to sending up a new yard, then, “welcome aboard. What course, sir?”

“Northeast by east. Wilkins,” he called, “where is Wilkins? How are you both manning the con and seeing to the foreyard?”

“In the waist, sir, with the cannon that were unseated, like,” said South.

“Well,” said Philip. Rogers and Adams, the other true midshipmen (as opposed to supernumerary boys, though the difference was at times difficult to discern, particularly when relieving the watch early in the morning), were aboard the Chasseur, leaving only himself, the Master, and the two men at the wheel on the quarterdeck, aside from the usual Marine. “You,” said Philip, “What’s your name?”

“Crowe, sir,” said the Marine, saluting stiffly.

“Crowe, hail the Chasseur and tell them to follow. Take a speaking trumpet from the binnacle - the binnacle, man, where the compass is, and tell them to follow.”

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Set your computer free

2009-09-14T17:06:00.000-04:00

Historically, music has been mixed with a rack of filters, amplifiers, and such, and many computerized mixers seek to reconstruct the tactile mixer. Ethan explores a simpler method: using the computer to set the software free from the hardware. It's a design technique that might work well in other arenas, too.

STO'B 42

2009-09-13T00:00:00.002-04:00

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But now, with all three vessels turning north out of the harbor, the fortress battery opened up again. Shot, some of it heated, rained down on them at an unbelievable rate as they approached the narrow channel between the bar and the opposite shore, and one of these plunged through the Citoyen Pierre’s decks, through the bottom of her hull, and into the water below.

This was the end. Water surged in through this new hole, overcoming the pumps, which were already struggling to keep the snow afloat. “Steer for the bar, Kent,” Philip said to the man at the tiller, “we’ll beach her.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kent.

“Sergeant Quinn,” Philip called his junior Marine sergeant over, “take your men and move the prisoners into the snow’s jolly boat and set them adrift. Gather up all of the combustibles you can find and place them around the main mast.”

“Yes, sir,” said Quinn, saluting and then tasking off men to search different parts of the snow. Philip stepped below to the cabin to rifle, found a speaking trumpet, the logbook and a few other papers that might prove useful if they could be translated, and returned to the deck just as the Citoyen Pierre ran up on the bar.

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X-Ray vignette

2009-09-12T14:05:00.001-04:00

The tall, pillared nave of the stone cathedral was filled with the moving sound of Bach’s “Saint Mathew Passion.” The singers, 20 or so of the congregations oldest members, plus two younger members, understood the true nature of the piece, having practiced all year, and most of their audience sat in rapt admiration of the beauty of their singing.

In the middle aisle, however, rather closer to the front of the nave than to its back, a small group of people was not paying attention. One of them was a young woman, very beautiful but clinically dead. Two were EMTs, vigorously performing CPR to revive the young woman, and two more were paramedics, who struggled feverishly to provide the young woman with an airway by fitting a tube into her trachea.

STO'B 41

2009-09-11T16:42:00.005-04:00

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Philip hailed the Chasseur just as one of the Chasseur’s shot tore through the foretop shrouds and another slammed into her hull just below the main chains. Citoyen Pierre was lightly built, and she could not take much more of this. Nevertheless, she would last longer against the Chasseur’s guns than against the fortress, with its plunging fire and exploding shells, though to be true, the fort seemed to have left off for the moment. He saw Lieutenant Grey call for a speaking trumpet and put it to his ear. “Ahoy, the Chasseur,” Philip called again. “Lieutenant Grey, we have taken the snow. Cease fire!”

“Captain Fitton!” came Lieutenant Grey’s voice. “Is that you, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Philip. “What is your condition?”

“Seven men down, sir, one quarter gallery destroyed, several holes in the deck,” replied the lieutenant.

Philip could also see several cracked or leaning spars. A steady flow of water flowed from each of the forward scuppers, no doubt fed by pumps working to clear out water rushing in below. “Set a course for Pont du Chat. We must get out of range.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, saluting and giving the orders that would take the Chasseur out of the harbor. The Badger, observing the motions of the other two vessels, set a similar course, and soon all three vessels were leaving Arcades in their wake.

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Lily the Pink

2009-09-08T11:37:00.001-04:00

LILY THE PINK

"Lily the Pink"

Chorus:
We'll Drink, we'll drink, we'll drink
To Lily the Pink, the Pink, the Pink
The savior of (the savior of)
The human ra-a-ace
She invented
A medicinal compound
Most effective
In any case

Henry T-Tammer
Had a t-terrible stammer
He could hardly say a wo-o-ord
So they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's seen but never heard

(chorus)

Uncle Paul
Was very small
He was the smallest man in town
Till they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's nowhere to be found

(chorus)

Ebenezer
Thought he was Ceaser
So they put him in a home
Where they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's Emperor of Rome

(chorus)

When Lily died
And went to heaven
All the church bells, they did ring
And she brought her
Medicinal compound
Hark, the herald angels sing

(chorus)

Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound was sold as medicine, starting in 1873, by Lydia Pinkham of Lynn, Massachusetts. Whether the stuff was medically effective or not I don't know, but it was financially successful, making Lily the Pink the nation's first millionairess. (Source: Porter, Roy, Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine W.W.Norton. New York. 2002 @ Ch 2)

Ms Pinkam's Vegetable Compound was only one of many proprietary medicinal elixirs in the 1700s and 1800s, some of which had true value (Eau medicinale, sold by a Frenchman, contained colchicum, thus providing true therapy for gout, for instance) while others, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, were "nothing more than piss and ink." All of them, regardless of merit or demerit, were scorned by orthodox medicine, but patients flocked to them. (Source: Porter, Roy, ibid @ Ch 2)

In the 1800s, in America and no doubt other places as well, there were several medical sects. At the time, medicine was not really a science, based on evidence-based therapy (even today only some portions of Western medicine are evidence-based). Each of the several medical sects had pet theories and treatments, and each, generally, scorned the practices and practitioners of the others. But there was also the eccentric sect, who reasoned that they should use whatever was shown to work, and freely borrowed from all other branches of medicine as their education and experience dictated - in short, they practiced an early type of evidence-based medicine, though their evidence was flimsy by today's standards (using cohorts, anecdotal evidence, and generally not using any type of formal study, double-blind or otherwise).(Source: The Encyclopedia of Civil War Medicine - I don't have the book in front of me for a full citation, sorry.)

In some ways, things haven't changed. Orthodox Western Medicine is still, and increasingly, facing competition in the form of elixirs (e.g. herbal remedies) and other practices, some of which have real value, most or all of which are dismissed by mainstream medicine. And the reasons for this haven't changed, either. Patients continue to know (or think they know) what's best for them, to demand quick fixes, and to be credulous to those who promise quick fixes. Western medicine continues to function as a business, to whom a competing industry is anathema. To be fair there are physicians who, with real reason, worry about the potential harm to patients that some "folk remedies" may cause, and to be fair many "folk remedies" are dangerous, but many are also not only safe but effective. It's time for the eclectics to return.

STO'B 40

2009-09-02T19:54:00.001-04:00

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* * *

“Come on, sir!” cried Needle again.

“Right,” said Philip, shaking his head to clear it of accumulating confusion and panic. He was still in the water. “Right.” He pulled himself through the wreckage of spars and rope, eventually reaching the hawser that bound his makeshift raft to the Citoyen Pierre.

“Catch, sir,” said Needle, tossing a rope. It was a deep sea line, for measuring the water’s depth, Philip discovered, and Needle had tied a bowline into it. Philip slipped his arms and head through the loop and allowed himself to be dragged to the Citoyen Pierre’s side, which was strangely low in the water. With Needle pulling from above, Philip clambered up the side and regained the deck.

“Thank you, Needle,” he said, mastering his panting breath (a captain could never afford to show any weakness in front of his men), and reflecting that he was expressing real gratitude to a common sailor. What would they say at Fitton Hall? What would his uncle, say?

He could worry about that later. For now there was the Citoyen Pierre to save, and all three vessels to get out of the harbor. He looked about, saw Needle and another sailor had finally freed the snow from her anchor and fallen spars and rigging, and cupped his hands to hail the Chasseur.

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STO'B 39

2009-09-02T19:47:00.002-04:00

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As he knelt there, the Badger’s hull shook and crashed as shot hit her. “Heavens,” he exclaimed, “is it always like this in battle?”

“Yes, Dr M’Mullen,” said the sailor. He opened his mouth to say more when he was cut off from a savage shout from above:

“Thompson! How long are you going to take?”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor, “I’m needed on deck, but is there something you need?”

“Something to cauterize this man - something hot.”

“Thompson!” came the shout again.

“Yes, Mr Wilkins,” replied the sailor. “Something hot, sir? I’ll see what I can do,” and he disappeared up a ladder.

But now here was Dr Foster, peering, with red-rimmed eyes, over the edge of the coaming. “What are you doing with that man?” he asked.

“He’s bleeding,” began Patrick.

“Yes, I can see that. Once these two other men are treated I will see to him.”

“He’s dying.”

“Patients are served in the order that they arrive, Dr M’Mullen. Surely you know that. We have no room for democratic ideals in medicine. Holles,” he called down into the cockpit, “give me a hand with the next case.” He took a quick drink from a metal flask and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then disappeared down the ladder, emergening a moment later with a bear of a man, his assistant. Between the two of them they manhandled the next case, a man with a broken arm, through the hatchway and so below. Dr M’Mullen and the patient with the thigh wound were forgotten.

The patient had started to shiver from loss of blood. There was not much time left - certainly not enough time for that fool Dr Foster to finish two cases - but if Thompson might bring or send something to cauterize the wound with, he could still be saved.

Another shadow fell across the deck, and looking up Patrick saw the servant that Captain Fitton had assigned to his guest, standing there with a steaming mug. “Sir, Thompson said you wanted something hot. Would coffee suit?”

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STO'B 38

2009-08-23T20:15:00.001-04:00

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Over on the Badger, Dr M’Mullen asked a little boy where the wounded were taken, and was shown to the cockpit, a dim, cramped, triangular space, wedged into the bows far below the waterline, and accessible only via a ladder. The place smelled like a cross between an abattoir and a distillery. The wounded were laid out on the deck above in the order they had arrived. “Dr Foster,” Patrick called down from above, “I should be happy to assist if you would like.”

Whatever reply Foster may have made was drowned out by the rising scream of the man whose leg he was then driving his saw through. Patrick climbed down the ladder, slipping on the blood on the bottom rung and accidentally knocking into Dr Foster as the surgeon finished his cut. “Get out!” said Foster, picking himself up and wiping bloody sand from his hands, “get out now!”

“I beg your pardon,” began Patrick, “I merely thought -”

“Get out!” roared the surgeon again, this time reaching for a heavy surgical knife, and Patrick retreated up the ladder.

Back on the deck above, he looked at the wounded as they lay there. Perhaps he could do some good here. One man, with a massive chest wound and surrounded by a pool of blood, was already dead. Of those remaining he judged that all of them had survivable wounds, though one man, recently brought and bleeding from a thigh wound, needed immediate surgery if he was to live. He placed his hand into the wound, feeling for the severed artery and pressing on it. “You there,” he called to a passing sailor. Once he had the sailor’s attention, though, he paused, considering his options.

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STO'B 37

2009-08-18T15:55:00.001-04:00

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Several thoughts flew through Philip’s head. He would never see Angela again, Lt Grey would have command of the Badger, the irony of being killed by his own command, the extraordinary clarity of the water, and why hadn’t he ever learned to swim? He had meant to learn - Jevons had tried to teach him, once, in the old Illustrious, but they had been interrupted. Why had they been interrupted? Had an enemy appeared? He couldn’t remember. He struck the water.

A tremendous splash erupted beside him. The jerk of the Citoyen Pierre coming to a halt had also broken her foretopmast, sending most of it into the water as well, and its associated canvas and rigging plunged into the water beside him. He reached out, grasping a rope, saving himself, but his clothes were so terribly heavy in the water, and for a moment it was all he could do to drag himself over to a broken spar - the foretopsail yard, he guessed - and wrap his arms around it.

A shout broke him from his reverie. “It’s the Captain,” Needle cried from his place on the bows. His axe was raised to chop the anchor cable free, and to cut the shrouds and running rigging of the broken foretopmast free, too, as the broken spar had tangled itself in the anchor, pinning the merchantman as effectively as the anchor itself; but he lowered the blade and gestured, “come on sir, come on!”

Philip wrestled with the spar, but his clothes hampered him, and he was swallowing a lot of water. “Come on, sir,” called Needle again, though he sounded so very far away. My boots, thought Philip, recalling one of the few things Jevons had had time to teach him, I must kick them off. And my coat. He was wearing an old woolen coat, lighter than the broadcloth of a uniform jacket, but still heavy, and he struggled with it in the water, alternately draping one arm and then the other over the spar beside him and finally freeing himself of the garment. He shed his boots next, and his shirt, and free of the dozens of pounds of sodden clothing he felt his strength return.

But the Citoyen Pierre could not wait for him forever. Already the floating spars had given her one shrewd knock, opening a hole below the waterline, and she could not suffer another blow without the danger of sinking.

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STO'B 36

2009-08-15T15:45:00.000-04:00

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The snow proved to be the Citoyen Pierre, one of the vessels named the Chasseur’s late captain’s orders. Under Philip, she gathered way again, setting for the English brigs, and Philip climbed onto her bowsprit, steadying himself with the forestay. The fort had continued to fire on the brigs, and had done considerable damage. Badger’s foreyard was missing, and her smoke funnel had several holes - smoke filled her waist and lower sails. The Chasseur was actually on fire - the fort must have switched to heated shot. Several men clung to her starboard bow with pikes and axes, chopping and prying at the still-glowing red ball at the center of the slowly spreading flames. Two of the men leaned back, back; the ball pulled free, splashing into the water and sending up a pillar of steam. The men retreated back over the rail and water began to splash down from the scuppers above - the pumps must be going, Philip reasoned, with the other scuppers blocked off to divert the water to the fire.

The Citoyen Pierre approached the English brigs on the starboard tack, and with her fire now all but out, the Chasseur’s guns began to speak. Philip frowned. The English guns could not hope to hit the fort, perched as it was high above the water; what was Lieutenant Grey thinking?

The disintegration of the Citoyen Pierre’s cathead and the subsequent splash as her anchor fell into the water answered his question: Citoyen Pierre still flew her French colors, and Lt Grey must have assumed that Philip’s boarding party had failed. Another ball smashed into the Citoyen Pierre’s foretopmast, cutting it almost in half.

Had there been a cable bent to that anchor? Philip leaned out over the Citoyen Pierre’s side. Yes - there was the cable, plunging from the hawse hole into the water below. The harbor could not be deep, and at any moment the anchor would hit the bottom. “Cut away the anchor cable!” he cried. “Needle, Pope, cut the cable,” but as he spoke the Citoyen Pierre’s jerked to a halt - not a terrible jerk, but enough to throw him off his balance. He grabbed at the bulwark, missed, and to his horror he fell over the side.

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Labyrinth

2009-08-13T17:03:00.002-04:00

Oops

2009-08-12T00:00:00.001-04:00

I accidentally reposted installment 35 here, so I've now deleted it and will post installment 36 once it's done.

- B

Space-6

2009-08-11T00:00:00.001-04:00

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Once the data dump was complete, Finn hailed the mystery ship, which responded, “Received. Please Stand By,” in the same voice that had originally hailed the Amanda Ray, and then fell silent.

“Try them again,” said the captain fifteen minutes later. By now Kershaw, the senior comm-off, had reached the bridge, and it was his portly fingers that danced over the communications console. “Received. Please Stand By,” replied the mystery ship, falling silent again.

Captain Leigh drummed her fingers in a moment of indecision. She was tempted to scan them, but that would be seen as a hostile act, wouldn’t it? Or would it? And there was something strange about that voice on the mystery ship, too. Something not human.

Ten more minutes passed. “Scan them,” said Captain Leigh.

Several moments passed as R & S scanned the mystery ship and formulated their report. “Approximately our size,” read the sublieutenant. “Strong energy signatures, though they seem suspended or attenuated. Possible life readings. Weapons are present but don’t seem to be activated. Shields are up but low - as if they were using their docking shields rather than combat shields. R & S can’t identify it, but it doesn’t look malignant - malevolent, I think they mean. But that’s the best they can do.”

“That’s it?” asked the first lieutenant.

“Few of them have ever scanned a vessel, lieutenant. Most of the folks in the original department have died.”

“Very true, I was forgetting,” replied the first lieutenant, sulkily.

Several more miutes passed during which the mystery ship said nothing, did nothing. “Send a CQD,” said Captain Leigh, finally. “That should get their attention. And put the whole thing through on the speakers.”

“Working,” said Kershaw as he processed the captain’s order. “Coming though now.”

“All Stations, Distress,” said the Amanda Ray’s automated distress signal. “Amanda Ray Requests Emergency Assistance.”

“Greetings Amanda Ray,” the mystery ship immediately replied. “Please State The Nature Of Your Emergency.”

The voices were the same.

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Richmond Rail Heist #6

2009-08-10T20:50:00.003-04:00

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CHAPTER TWO

Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.

Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?

“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”

“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.

Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.

“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.

“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”

Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”

“Miserable?”

“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”

“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.

“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”

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STO'B 35

2009-08-06T17:11:00.001-04:00

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Two sailors and a marine grabbed the grapnels, tossing them up over the snow’s bulwark. Two of the grapnels caught and as the third was tossed up a second time, Philip grabbed the nearest rope and began hauling himself aboard. They would have to be quick, to take the merchantman before the battery smashed them all to kindling.

They would also have to be quick if they wished to climb aboard the snow before her crew cut the grapnel ropes. Philip’s rope quivered, and looking up he saw a striped-shirted seaman chopping away at it with an axe. The man lifted his axe for another stroke, and another, but now Philip was up, one foot scrambling for purchase on the snow’s smooth side but the other in her main chains, and his pistol reaching over the bulwark, toward the man with the axe. “Rendre!” he cried, “Rendre!”

But the man already had his axe raised, and he turned to Philip, swinging the axe at him. Philip ducked, firing the pistol and falling back, down into the boat, on top of the two men behind him on the rope, and a moment later the rope itself, finally severed, fell on top of them.

Philip looked at the other two boarding ropes. A marine was still working to get catch one on the snow’s deck, the other was choked with climbing men. He had to find another way aboard.

“Axes!” he cried, and a marine placed one in his hand. He reversed it, swinging the pick head deeply into the snow’s side. “Another!” he said, and he swung the next blade into place, higher up and slightly aft of the first. An explosion sounded next to his ear as he wound up with the third axe, deafening him, partially blinding him, but with what was left of his vision he made out a body toppling from the snow’s bulwark, still gripping a pistol. Philip nodded to the marine beside him, busily reloading his carbine, and climbed up his makeshift ladder, swinging yet another axe into place for the next step.

Philip climbed, cautiously peering through a scuttle. Two or three men were involved in a scuffle near the bow, but otherwise there was little activity on deck. He hoisted himself up on board. “‘Vast fighting, there,” he roared at the fighting men, “she’s struck!”

This was sophistry - the snow’s French merchant’s flag still flew from her ensign staff, but the knot of men in the bows fell apart from each other, one of the Britons politely, formally accepting a belaying pin from the surrendering French sailor. All other resistance had already stopped. One of the Badgers stepped aft to actually strike the French colors, but Philip stopped the man - the French fort was not firing on them, and while Philip did not know why, he had no intention of provoking them unnecessarily.

“All prisoners into the hold,” ordered Philip, repeating the order in a bastardized French, and the surviving Frenchmen - all four of them - stepped into the darkness below. Four more French bodies lay on the deck, two of them moving, and a marine reported that a ninth man had escaped in a boat. The English, with the exception of one man clutching a bloody arm to his chest, were uninjured. “Kent, take the tiller - head her for the Badger,” said Philip. “Needle, Pope, see to the injured. The rest of you, sheets and braces.”

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Space-5

2009-08-06T17:10:00.000-04:00

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The mystery ship’s upload took almost a hour to complete. Partially this was due to limitations in the Amanda Ray’s communications systems (they had been damaged in the fight that had disabled her, and some of what had remained had been shut down to conserve power), but a lot had happened in the past 30 years, as Captain Leigh and her crew discovered when they started to sort through all that had arrived.

In the short term there was little else to do, as the hadn’t been able to send any messages since the data dump had begun. So, the sorting started almost as soon as the data stream had been identified as positively benign, with the crew standing down from quarters less than five minutes after they had been sent there. Word spread that this appeared to be the first part of their rescue, and a relaxed, jovial attitude prevailed, infecting even the first lieutenant, who in discovering two crewmen engrossed in reading up on the exploits of various sports teams, rather than attending to their sensor arrays, had merely frowned. The frown had been enough to return them to their duty (merely the lieutenant’s presence was enough for that), but the lack of any discipline (delivered or even promised) or even any harsh words added to the sense of holiday.

Throughout the Amanda Ray people discovered that the war with the Sasquinaw was over, or apparently over, since no one had heard from them in over 20 years. Allied forces found Sasquinaw sentinel ships vanished, their stations abandoned, even whole planets suddenly depopulated of Sasquinaw life. No clue remained as to what had become of humanity’s greatest threat for the last century and a half.

“Listen to this,” said the sublieutenant, reading in the Times Digest, “‘the crew of the Astoria encountered Sasquinaw station Bravo 3 shuttered and riding without its Anti-Collision beacons. On entering they discovered most systems intentionally powered down, with the exception of the anti-wander system and the A-C beacons. These had apparently failed when rats got at their wiring, leaving the station dark. Rather than repair the beacons for them to fail again, the station was towed to the nearest star for disposal.’ I never thought of the Sasquinaw as having problems with rats.”

“It’s a problem we all face,” said the captain. “They get into everything they can. Mr Finn,” she said to the comm-off, “any luck contacting someone aboard that ship?”

The comm-off coughed before responding. “No, ma’am. I still can’t get a signal past the fu-, past the data dump.”

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Space-4

2009-07-30T08:05:00.003-04:00

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Amanda Ray had some teeth left, and as the klaxons blared throughout the ship, these came to life. Her HK-35 plasma cannon emerged from their wing pylons, her hull-mounted Browning EMP generator unfolded, and her remaining Vulcan ELA oscillator extended its antenna. Throughout the ship, blast doors closed, soldiers and crew rushed to their battle stations, and the medical staff, wiping sleep from their eyes, assembled in the surgical suite. Lighting in residential and other non-martial areas dimmed to divert energy to shields and weapons. In less than two minutes, Amanda Ray went from the near-silence of third-shift sleepiness to a bristling wakefulness.

On the bridge the surround to the main view screen pulsed red, as did all of the other viewscreens - a red alert was not to be accidentally overlooked. Captian Leigh took up her usual position in the center of the room near the back, where she could see all of the other officers without having to turn around. “All stations reporting,” said the sublieutenant, “crew is at full alert.”

A moment later the comm off broke in, “receiving on all channels, ma’am, heliocartographic, medical science, military, BIOS update, communications. It’s a fucking da,” he coughed, “it’s a data dump. I think it’s everything that’s happened in the last thirty years.”

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Space-3

2009-07-26T00:00:00.004-04:00

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“Why is there no video?” asked the captain, brushing her hair from her eyes. She had been asleep when the hail had come through and had not taken the time to put on a uniform or tie back her long, deeply greyed hair.

The comm-off tapped away at his console again. He was a thin, pale man with a habit of coughing when he was nervous. “Audio-only signal, ma’am,” he reported at last.

“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the speakers again - the same voice, timbre, speed, and inflection as the first time, just softer now that the comm-off had lowered the volume.

“How do they know our name?” asked the first lieutenant.

The sublieutenant refrained from stating that their name was etched and painted on their hull, contenting himself with a small sniff instead, but the captain had no such scruple. “It’s written on our hull in block capitals. Even the Sasquinaw can read it,” she said, taking her seat.

“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the ship’s speakers again. No new inflection, no irritation at not being answered, just the same message, again. “Put me through,” said the Captain.

The comm-off tapped once at his console, then nodded at his captain.

“This is the Amanda Ray,” said the captain. “Who are you?”

“Voice metric accepted, Captain Leigh,” said the voice. “Stand by.”

“We are being scanned, ma’am,” said Hockley, the weapons officer, and indeed the displays all flickered as the mystery ship’s sensors probed the Amanda Ray, searching out her capabilities, and her limitations.

“Crew to quarters,” ordered the captain. The Amanda Ray, with no mobility and limited energy reserves, could not hope to put up much of a fight, but she would no peacefully roll over and play dead, either.

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STO'B 34

2009-07-25T12:06:00.003-04:00

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Chasseur fired her signal guns again, and through his telescope Philip could see the green and tan brig’s crew standing about in confusion. One man was pointing at their flogging sails, and then at the English brigs, while another vehemently gestured to the fort, which fired again, and again with a second gun. Aboard the snow someone, presumably the master, was climbing into the mainmast’s weather shrouds with a speaking trumpet. “Mr Wilkins, lower the cutter,” Philip called to his midshipman.

A fountain of water erupted between the Badger and the Chassuer, followed some moments later by a second fountain only ten yards from the Badger’s side, a fountain that collapsed onto and soaked the quarterdeck. And now that the French guns had found the range, the rest of the battery opened up, five guns at once, followed by a sixth. Philip watched one of the shells, watching it fly high, high, almost out of sight before passing the top of its arc and plummeting down toward him, and finally exploding some yards off to starboard, perhaps a foot above the water. Iron shell fragments slammed into Badger’s hull, and the starboard fore shrouds collapsed, but nothing carried away yet. The cutter was in the water now, with its crew (most of them marines wearing seamen’s slops, on this occasion) in place around some poorly folded canvas, but before Philip climbed down into it he turned to Wilkins, “the moment we hook on to the snow, strike the French colors - not a moment before or after.”

Into the cutter he went, and the boat’s crew pulling hard across the lane of water separating them from the snow, ducking as the shells exploded around them, for now the fort had shifted from the brigs to the cutter, hoping to cut them off before they reached the merchantman. Philip glanced back at the Badger. Wilkins stood at the rail, watching them intently through a glass, waiting to order one of the Badgers to strike the colors. A hail from the snow, asking what in hell was going on, what were they about; but Philip ignored it, said nothing, folding his telescope and nodding at the bowman, who picked up his boat hook.

The snow was still uncertain, not sure if Philip and his men were friend or foe, and although she had not dropped any manropes or ladders for them, neither had she rigged boarding netting. “Lower a rope,” Philip called in French, but either he wasn’t heard or he was ignored, or perhaps he had mis-spoken - in any event no rope appeared.

The bow man hooked on. Philip swiveled in his seat and saw the French colors flutter down from the Badger’s top. Over on the Chasseur the English colors raced aloft to appear over the French naval flag. “Grapnels,” Philip ordered, and the marines stripped the folded canvas aside to reveal three grapnels with ropes bent to them, along with several muskets, cutlasses, and collection of boarding axes as a back-up for the grapnels.

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STO'B 33

2009-07-23T22:23:00.002-04:00

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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.

A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.

Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”

The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.

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Space-2

2009-07-18T20:37:00.004-04:00

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* * *
“Ma’am, R and S may have something,” reported the sublieutenant, referring to the division that oversaw long and medium range monitoring, and whose official name was not RADAR and SONAR, nor Rocks and Ships, but Reconnaissance and Surveillance.

“Ah?” said the first lieutenant, still a fool 30 years later.

“Yes, ma’am. Something built, though they can’t identify it. Communications is standing by to hail.”

“Are there life signs?”

“R and S says ‘no,’ but acknowledges that their equipment is insufficient to be sure. There are several readings that they can’t interpret. Strong energy readings, though.

Before the lieutenant could respond, or before he did respond, at any rate, an electronic chime sounded and the surround to the bridge’s main view screen began to pulse purple. The lieutenant stared at the pulsing light, trying to remember what it meant. “We are being hailed, ma’am,” said the sublieutenant.

The lieutenant was absorbed in the meaning of the pulsing purple light, however, and did not reply. “We are being hailed,” the sublieutenant repeated. “Shall I put them through?”

“Put them through, receive-only” said the captain, whose arrival had passed unnoticed amidst the novelty of the foreign ship, or thing, or whatever it was.

“Put them through, receive-only” said the sublieutenant to the comm(unications) off(icer).

“Receive only, aye,” said the comm-off, tapping at his console, bringing up the hail and canceling the hail-waiting signal.

A moment later a sightly garbled, though perfectly understandable and extremely loud voice filled the bridge: “GREETINGS AMANDA RAY. PLEASE RESPOND.”

“Sorry,” said the comm-off, tapping his console to bring the volume down. In the presence of the captain the first lieutenant did not respond.

Silence filled the bridge. They had been found at last. But who had found them? They were still deep in Sasquinaw space, in spite of towing with the shuttle craft for three hours a day (the most the craft could pull the Ray’s bulk for with out losing control). At least, according to their 30-year-old charts they were.

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STO'B 32

2009-07-15T16:11:00.002-04:00

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But the French gunnery officer did not fire, though by Philip’s estimation the Badger and Chasseur were within long shot of his guns. Even better than long shot, he reflected, thinking of the wicked peppering he and the rest of the crew of the Intrepid had received from the pair of French long guns of the Le Corbosie battery as they attempted to take that tower in 1837. The memory remained strong: 36 pound shot hulling the poor Intrepid again and again, smashing the main mast and its attendant rigging, taking off Captain Lawrence’s head at the shoulders so that one moment that kind man was talking to him, calming his fears (it was Philip’s first time under fire); and the next moment his head was gone, replaced by a spurting red fountain that soaked Philip as the captain collapsed at his feet. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wilkins?” he said.

“Chasseur is signaling sir, asking for direction,” repeated the midshipman.

Theoretically, Chasseur was the senior vessel, she having apparently captured the Badger, but now was not the time to deal with that - not in front of the enemy, with the blue peter flying on one - he swung his glass back to the clustered merchantmen - two vessels. And as he watched the snow’s anchor broke free of the water, and water started to cream along her bow. Might the snow lead the others out?

The Chasseur fired a gun, attempting to draw Philip’s attention to her signal, but Philip took the captain’s prerogative and ignored it. Perhaps the shore might think that the signal was for them, though Philip saw no navy vessels in the harbor. He shifted his glass back to the fortress, the other potential source of orders, and with dismay he noted that the gunnery officer still had his telescope raised, though now he appeared to be looking at the Chasseur.

Philip turned his own glass to the Chasseur, bringing her startlingly close. He could make out the weave of the rigging, count the stripes on the helmsman’s shirt as he stood by the wheel, make out the bright gold braiding on Lieutenant Grey’s epaulettes; he could almost make out the lettering on the brig’s bell. He swung his glass back to the lieutenant’s epaulettes. To his English lieutenant’s epaulettes. That was what the gunnery officer was staring at, and now the fort was firing a gun.

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Yesterday's New York Times

2009-07-14T13:06:00.000-04:00

Yesterday's Times had a front page story on Sarah Palin's slow collapse from popular governor to retiring, less popular governor. Ooh, I said to myself, this should be interesting, and after reading about the manner in which George Bush, Jr's presidency may have damaged the current administration's ability to turn things around for the US, and how civil unrest continues in Iran, I began the Palin article with real eagerness.

I should have known better, because what happened was not at all new. The Sarah Palin story, it quickly became evident, is the same story as everyone else has - a human being trying to do the right thing (based on her understanding of 'right'), and not always succeeding. And running into the real life that happened while she was off making other plans. the press, always eager to leap at the shallowest of controversies, didn't help; though it isn't their job to help. Her daughter's personal relations didn't help, though again, catering to her mother's political career shouldn't be the at the top of Bristol Palin's list of priorities - Bristol Palin should live her life for Bristol, not Sarah, Palin. Many people seem to have forgotten that.

But the point of all of this is that, much as I am relieved that Sarah Palin is not our Vice President, and as much as I suspect that she had more to do with John McCain's losing the election than Joe Biden did with Barack Obama's wining the election, she is a human being, and as long as I'm able to keep that perspective, it's hard to wish her ill. Nor do I want to wish her ill. Though I do wish her out of the spotlight.

And out of politics.

STOB 31

2009-07-07T00:00:00.001-04:00

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* * *

Thirty-six hours later Philip found himself intimately concerned with the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior in warfare. The Badger had met the Chasseur in the early morning fog off of Arcades, on the Sicilian coast, and now the two brigs stood across the mouth of that long harbor, the Chasseur under French colors, the Badger wearing the French colors over the English ensign, as if she were a prize of the French brig rather then the other way around. Philip had placed the two flags on different lines, so that although from even as close as a dozen yards away they appeared to be flying together, he could strike the French colors without lowering the English ones; but the question of when to strike them troubled him: strike them too early and the convoy would scatter before he had a chance to snap them up, strike them too late and his captures would be illegal.

For the moment, though, the convoy still rode at anchor: three brigs, two sloops (one ship-rigged, the other brig-), and a snow, all of them deeply laden and no doubt undermanned, as merchantmen so often were. The Chasseur and the Badger hove to just outside the bar, and the Chasseur raised the blue peter and fired two guns - one to windward, the other to leeward: the signal for the convoy to get under way, according to the code book Philip had captured with the French brig.

But not one of the merchantmen responded. Philip trained his glass on them, clustered together at the end of the harbor. The crew of one of the brigs had actually gathered around her capstan, and as he watched the capstan gave a preparatory turn, pulling in some of the anchor cable’s slack. Behind the brig Philip made out a puff of smoke, and refocussing he saw that the snow had fired up its donkey engine in preparation for winning its anchor. But the other vessels, with the exception of one of the other brigs, who raised the blue peter and fired a gun, lay motionless. Philip had participated in convoys who were only able to get under way at last with much harrying from their escorts, by shouted threat and unshotted gun, and he feared that this convoy might prove the same.

Philip shifted his gaze to the fort that guarded the harbor, high on Franciscan Hill. Half a dozen cannon peered from its embrasures, and several men clustered around each of them. An officer, his telescope to his eye, focussed on the Chasseur. Why was he focussed on the Chasseur? Had he smoked the cheat? The six cannon under his command would be more than enough to smash the Badger and Chasseur into kindling.

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STO'B 30

2009-07-06T00:00:00.003-04:00

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“And, of course, there is the coal torpedo,” said the master. “Though that won’t go until you tosses it in the firebox, like.”

“A coal torpedo?” asked Captain Fitton, who had never heard of such a thing.

“Why, yes, sir. It is a torpedo but what looks like coal, and is filled with powder - with gunpowder, Doctor,” the master said to Dr M’Mullen, in case a landsman might not understand powder. “You tosses it in the firebox and it goes off, right in the firebox, or so I’ve heard.”

“But would not that merely make the ship go faster,” asked Dr M’Mullen, “it being, as I understand, the fire in the box that makes the steam, and makes the engine go?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said the master, “but the explosion overwhelms the firebox, opening it to the water above, and at the least the water puts out your fire, like. But more commonly the whole boiler goes once any part of it is ruptured - the engineer could explain it better than I - but I’ve heard tell of French locomotives well nigh destroyed by such a device.”

“Why would anyone want to toss that into their fire?” asked the surgeon, his mind now worked on by enough grog to overcome his reserve.

“It’s planted by spies, like, in the enemy’s coal bunker, and you throws it in unawares,” said the master.

“So before you know, it’s too late,” observed Philip. “What a damned cowardly thing to do.”

“That is the nature of war, however,” said Dr M’Mullen.

“Oh, come Doctor,” said Philip. “War is quite honorable. There are certain rules we all abide by, like not striking our colors and then fighting again, or raising flags of distress to lure in the enemy; or not fighting under false colors, or no colors at all. Everyone knows what the limits are, and none of us step beyond them.”

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STO'B 29

2009-07-05T00:00:00.003-04:00

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The presence of the master and surgeon relieved some of the awkwardness, nevertheless the meal was not a success. Or not at first, anyway. Convention dictated that no one beneath the captain’s rank should speak at his table without having first been spoken to - it was an extension of the court etiquette, the captain representing the king - and though Dr M’Mullen was either ignorant or uncaring of this custom, the surgeon and master were properly mute. Further, Philip had not yet had time to acquire any wine on board, nor any personal stores of any kind, and he was forced therefor to feed his guests the same salt horse eaten by the crew, wetted by nothing more than rum, grog, and coffee.

Nor did he know his guests terribly well. Dr M’Mullen, of course, he knew only through having crashed into him. The master he knew to be a good seaman, if perhaps somewhat lax in discipline, though the men did jump for him just as they did for Lt Grey. The surgeon he knew not at all, save for observing his generally shabby appearance. The man had shaved and put on a creased, clean uniform coat for this invitation to the cabin, however, and the creases in his rarely-worn coat gave him an even frailer, more bent look than he usually displayed. “Dr Foster,” Philip called across the table, “a glass of grog with you, sir.”

Philip also had a glass of grog with Mr South and another with Dr M’Mullen, and so fortified he began to relax. “Dr M’Mullen will be accompanying us as far as Gideon’s Bay,” he said, passing the grog around again as Simkin brought in their simple meal. “I trust you have found your accommodations to your liking, Doctor?”

“Yes,” replied Dr M’Mullen. My books are spread out on the desk, by the windows, and I expect that most of them will recover.”

“Your books, sir?” asked Philip

“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped several of them as I climbed down to the boat. The crew were good enough to fish them out again, however.”

“I remember when I was a midshipman in the London,” said Philip, “74, Captain West, the Valkerie, Captain Corbell, was taking aboard gunpowder and they dropped one of the casks. It must have stove and hit a lantern - they were working at night so as to sail before sunrise - or perhaps someone was smoking, but the powder caught and the whole brig went up - vanished. London was a quarter mile away but we were rocked at our moorings, and we all talked in a roar for days afterward. Several of the men were looking at her when she went and they couldn’t see right for many hours.”

“Did anyone survive?” asked Dr M’Mullen.

“No,” said Philip. “The largest piece we found of anyone was a head, and that was too badly burned to recognize.”

Ship explosions were rare, but they were common enough for everyone to have a story about them, and the dinner wound its course through explosions due to accident and enemy fire, those due to igniting magazines and boiler failures, the need for dowsing all lights when bringing powder aboard, and some captains’ insistence that all lights be dowsed for loading coal as well.

“Why is that?” asked Patrick.

“The coal dust can explode.” Philip said.

“Oh, indeed?”

“Yes. But it needs a shock, like, to get it going, as well as a light,” explained the master.

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Richmond Rail Heist #5

2009-07-04T10:51:00.000-04:00

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The meeting was over. Some of the men drifted off immediately, eager to start the long journey south, and James shook each man’s hand, providing him with fifty Confederate dollars - a substantial sum - to help him on his way. William was one of the last to leave, helping James scratch out his earthen map and then joining the tall man with the cousin in Georgia, and leaving James with only the bespectacled man. Perhaps fifteen seconds later William and his companion turned at the sound of chasing footsteps and a flash of lightning showed the bespectacled man running after them. It also showed James, looking attentively after them. And as the bright light faded, the long-promised rain began to fall.

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TriNitroToluene

2009-06-28T18:13:00.002-04:00

I'm half-heartedly looking for apartments on craigslist (I don't know where I'll be working next, so that limits things, somewhat), and have several times run across this one: Some one advertises a beautiful apartment for a ridiculously low price. When you ask about it they claim to have been transferred out of the country, and have the only set of keys with them. But, they're willing to use TNT as an escrow service: they'll deposit the keys and contract with TNT, and I wire TNT the first month's rent, or a deposit, or $$, in any case. Once TNT has received and verified both the keys and the money, they'll send me the keys, and the apartment owner the money.

Except that I've spoken with TNT in person - they're a shipping company, similar to FedEx, that operates in Europe and other places. They offer no escrow services.

Neighborhoods change

2009-06-24T20:32:00.004-04:00

From http://ethanhein.tumblr.com/post/117427129/okuami-flickr-photo-download-geek-vandalism

STO'B 28

2009-06-21T19:40:00.000-04:00

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Two minutes later Dr Patrick M’Mullen stood at the Viceroy’s entry port, clutching his parcel and watching two sailors muscle his trunk down to the Badger’s launch. The men reached to boat, where its crew pushed and pulled the trunk into place, and Patrick began his own laborious descent, gripping the criminally shallow steps as tightly as he could without dropping his parcel.

He held onto it until the last step, when the Viceroy, responding to a gust of wind, heeled over, tipping him far past vertical. He made a cataleptic grasp at the ladder, dropping the parcel as he did so. At the same time the launch’s cox’n, to avoid being crushed by the rolling Viceroy, pushed away from the ship’s side, and Patrick’s parcel fell into that water between the two.

Once Dr M’Mullen was safely in the boat, the ingenious use of oars and a boathook retrieved the parcel, but by then it was thoroughly soaked, and Patrick willed the boat across the water to the Badger with uncommon force of mind, not to mention the clenching of his abdominal muscles. “Rowed of all,” called the coxswain, and the crew pulled in their oars in preparation for hooking onto the Badger.

The Badger, being a de facto brig (though she was styled a sloop de jure) had no entry port, of course, and Patrick arrived on board in full view of the entire crew. Philip, recognizing Dr M’Mullen’s importance, and perhaps feeling a bit guilty over their last encounter, ordered man ropes to be draped over the Badger’s side, with white-gloved side boys holding them out to form a sort of bannister, and Patrick made it without discredit in spite of the still dripping parcel held in his teeth. He transferred his parcel to his hands, bowed to the assembled officers and crew. His trunk came aboard in a sling, hoisted by the Badger’s donkey engine, still warm after its exertions with the coal, and Captain Fitton led his guest below, placing him in the great cabin and moving himself into his dining cabin.

Once Dr M’Mullen was situated in the cabin, Philip, aware of the importance of being on good terms with a guest in such cramped quarters (to say nothing of a guest who was clearly on such good terms with the admiral), told his steward to lay the table for dinner for four, inviting Dr M’Mullen, the master, and the surgeon (a man he didn’t particularly know) to join him.

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STO'B 27

2009-06-18T08:20:00.008-04:00

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Dr M’Mullen rose, quietly excusing himself as the discussion moved to purely naval affairs. He had to pack, he explained, and wanted to be sure that he didn’t leave anything behind. The admiral stood and shook his hand; Philip stood and bowed.

“You also need coal,” said the Admiral, looking at Philip’s statement again once the door closed behind M’Mullen. “We had a collier join a day or so back, the Cranberry, and you’ll have to pick up some from her. Luckily the sea is calm, so she’ll be able to use her donkey to lift it over. Water is something else again, though, and perhaps it would be best if you picked that up when you drop off your prisoners. You have enough water for that?”

Philip paused, trying to work the figures in his head. His total crew was about 100 officers and men, less the 30 or so he had sent into the Chasseur, plus the prisoners, though the prisoners only received 2/3 of a ration each. That made - 85 rations? 75? And how long would it take him to reach Gideon’s Bay? Not to mention the convoy that he had sent the Chasseur to intercept. But the admiral was waiting for an answer. “No, sir, we’re a little short.”

“Well, Dr M’Mullen knows the area and may be able to direct you to another source, otherwise you’ll have to go on short allowance. The whole squadron is short of water, and I can’t spare you any. Now, get on over to the Cranberry and take on that coal, you’ll need to be underway by eight bells in the afternoon watch.”

* * *

While Philip returned to the Badger and took on coal, Dr M’Mullen returned to the cabin in which he had had his home these few days. He remembered Captain Fitton, of course, though for the moment it seemed that the best course would be not to mention this, and in any event his attention was already divided between his forthcoming work in Gideon’s bay and the details of packing. Essentially, the issue came dow to how long he would be away from the Viceroy, and of course he had no idea. He sorted through his books - Robbins on pathology, Scott, the collected works of Dr Maturin, essays on surgery and splinting by Randolf, a monograph on pulmonary complaints by a Frenchman whose name consistently escaped him, many others, equally valuable. And then there were his instruments, including the tourniquet that still didn’t work, though new ideas had come to him over breakfast that morning. His writing chest would have to some, and of course some clothes, and he was deep in these considerations when a midshipman knocked at his door to report the arrival of the Badger’s launch, ready to take him on board.

“Oh!” he said, “oh!” And he hurriedly stuffed his possessions pell-mell into his trunk, eventually sitting on it in order to get it closed, then turning around to find more books sitting on his cot. He stared blankly at them for a moment before hurriedly whipping off his shirt and laying it out on the cot, tossing the books on top of it and tying the sleeves around to whole, making an untidy parcel of it. “It will have to do,” he said, as the midshipman thundered on his door for the third time.

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Richmond Rail Heist #4

2009-06-17T00:00:00.001-04:00

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There were several more questions, most from Jones. the bespectacled man, and all dealt with calmly and confidently by James. “We will capture the train on Friday, April 11, so we have about four days to get to Marietta. Travel in small groups until you’re well behind the front line, then the best may be to catch a train south from Chattanooga - the last train leaves at exactly five in the evening - but you may work that out for yourselves. I will be on the five o’clock train, or an earlier one.”

“What should we do if we’re stopped?” asked the bespectacled man.

“Tell as little as you need to in order to get by. Say you are on the run from the Federals in Kentucky, they’ll believe that, and you are on your way to join a unit in Georgia, where you have friends.”

“There is the Georgia 63rd, where my cousin is sergeant,” said a tall man. “His name is David Porter.”

“Say you are looking to join the Georgia 63rd, then, with David Porter as sergeant,” James continued. “If the Rebels push you to join, do so and desert at the first opportunity. The biggest difficulty will be to stay out of the Southern army. In any event, be sure to be on that train at 5:15 in the morning. Anyone not there will have to be left behind.”

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Richmond Rail Heist #3

2009-06-15T00:00:00.001-04:00

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Once the three men could no longer be seen nor heard, and once James had interrogated each man's gaze, he knelt to the ground and continued, opening his dark lantern slightly and drawing in the earth with a stick as he continued. William and the other men knelt with him, as much as to hear him as to see his drawing.

"This is Chattanooga," James said, "a major rail center. The Greybacks rely on it to run supplies up to Tennessee and Virginia - especially Virginia - from the south. This is the Western and Atlantic Railroad. It is the only run into Chattanooga from the south.”

“So we are to take the railroad?” a small bespectacled man broke in.

“We are to destroy it,” said James, patiently, once the thunder and dog dissipated enough for him to be heard.

“Cut it?” pushed the bespectacled man.

“Destroy it,” James explained. “It crosses 17 bridges, and we are to burn most of them.”

“Balderdash!” said the bespectacled man. “One bridge, maybe, but even that. Since them attempted burnings last moth they’ve doubled the guard. No way it can be done.” He continued in this vein for a while until he realized that his audience was not with him, and was waiting for him to shut up already, when he fell awkwardly silent.

“Not at all,” said James, once the man was quiet again. “We catch the 5:15 train north from Marietta, as passengers, then capture the train at Halsey Junction, when the passengers and crew get off for breakfast. There is no telegraph there, and no other locomotive there to chase us.

“Once we have the train we move north, cutting telegraph wires and burning bridges as we go.”

“It’s a single track line,” protested the bespectacled man. “You’ll hit another train for sure.”

James shook his head, waited for another roll of thunder - no answering dog this time - and still in his calm, quiet voice, explained that the single track was to their advantage. They would keep to their train’s schedule, ensuring that the track was cleared for them, and no one would be the wiser until they passed. By the time anyone realized something was wrong, the telegraph wires would be cut, preventing calls to the north to intercept them. “By late afternoon we’ll be back behind Federal lines, having left Chattanooga cut-off and vulnerable to General Mitchel’s troops, who will be marching south to take it.”

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Richmond Rail Heist #2

2009-06-14T11:13:00.001-04:00

The next day, William met his fellow raiders. Just after dusk, One Eye's instructions sent him to a small, wooded hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the road. Regular peals of thunder rumbled ominously overhead, answered each time by the baying of a dog somewhere off to the east, just as regular and just as ominous. So far the rain held off.

Surprisingly, One Eye was not there. In his place was a giant bear of a man, tall, wide, with thick black hair, a thick black beard, and a Roman nose between two dark eyes. He said his name was James, though whether this was his first or his last name did not appear. Approximately two dozen men surrounded him.

What did appear was his charisma and his calm, easy authority, in spite of a strangely high-pitched voice. "Lads," he said, pausing from time to time for the thunder and its answering dog, "you have been chosen for a most important mission which, if successful, will split the Rebels in two and throw them into considerable confusion and disarray. It will not be terribly difficult, though it will require real bravery, and if unsuccessful, they will treat us as spies."

"Spies?" asked one of the men, a thin, green-jacketed man with a prominent adam's apple.

"They will hang us up," James said, looking around at the assembled me as the thunder and dog rumbled again. "If any of you want out, now is the time."

Green Jacket and a man in a tattered slouch hat shook their heads. "I've got a wife and two kids, and another on the way," said Slouch Hat, "I wish you all good luck and all, but I can't go."

"Anyone else?" asked James, catching each man's eyes and looking into them, one by one. Another man shook his head and stepped back, muttering something, and followed Green Jacket and Slouch Hat into the trees.

The new littering

2009-06-08T17:12:00.001-04:00

STO'B 26

2009-05-31T11:43:00.000-04:00

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Chapter Three

The evening outside the opera came flooding back: his crashing into Mr M'Mullen; knocking him down; the shouting, entirely unwarranted; his equally unwarranted advance on M'Mullen and surprise - his dismay and surprise - when M'Mullen failed to retreat; his relief when the opera let out, allowing him to escape the conflict without too much loss of face. But the admiral had said something. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"I said that your appearance doesn't do you much credit - you seem much hacked about."

"Yes, sir," said Philip, collecting himself, "yes, sir. We were attacked by a French brig, and took her by boarding. She shot our rudder away - gudgeons, too - and for a while we were at a loss ..."

"I imagine those dispatches are for me?" said the admiral, clearly uninterested in Philip's account. Any capture made before the Badger's arrival would not provide him with anything in the way of prize money.

"Yes, sir," said Philip, surrendering the packet of dispatches along with his statement of condition. copied fair by the clerk just as the Badger rounded under the Viceroy's stern and still damp with Philip's signature. For several minutes the only sounds in the cabin were the rustle of papers as Admiral Halsey ran through his dispatches and Philip's report of the Badger's state, and the living creak and groan of the Viceroy around them.

Philip stole a glance at M'Mullen, who for his part betrayed nothing at all, his long legs crossed, his dark eyes expressionless. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and perhaps feeling Philip's gaze upon him, he looked at Philip, who looked away. His gaze fell upon the Badger, following in the flagship's wake and off to her port, and looking incredibly small among the line of battle ships.

"Well," said Admiral Hasley, putting the dispatches down at last, and reaching for Philip's statement of condition. "You're a bit short of water, and other supplies, I see. And you have several prisoners - they shall have to be transferred to Gideon's Bay. Since Dr M'Mullen also is bound for those parts, I'll be sending him with you. He may have other destinations as well, you will attend to them as they arise."

"Dr M'Mullen will accompany me?"

"Yes," said the admiral. "The Sick-and-Hurt is sending him to evaluate the hospitals, and it's about time, too. Nasty places, full of infection."

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STO'B 25

2009-05-25T13:13:00.002-04:00

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The Chasseur was long lost to view by the time the Badger found Admiral Halsey, wearing his flag on the Viceroy, in the false dawn NW of Malta. Once this had been ascertained for certain, once Philip was sure that he wasn't actually sailing into the arms of a French squadron, he borrowed a razor and ducked into his cabin to shave and change into respectable clothes.

Neither task proved easy. Philip had noticed the cramped nature of the cabin before, of course, and he knew that neither he nor anyone else aboard could stand upright in it, but as he had not shaved since stepping aboard he had not realized just how ill-suited the little space was for such a basic task. The quarter gallery in which he had found the small mirror was fine for stooping over its bowl to wash his hands, but too cramped for him to wield his razor. The Badger's tumblehome, coupled with the outward lean of her stern windows meant that there were few places to hang a mirror where it would show anything other than the floor or the ceiling.

The solution, he discovered, was to stand on his table, raise the skylight and remove one of its sides. This was normal enough - the skylight's top was provided with hinges for just this purpose, and each of its sides was designed to be easily removed so that the whole could be replaced with a hatch when the brig stripped for quarters - and no one on the quarterdeck paid the least attention as he did it. But when he pulled out his shaving accoutrements and leaned his mirror against one of the skylight's remaining sides the helmsman stared.

"Mind your luff!" ordered the gunner, who was too far forward to see this little drama unfold but could not fail to notice as the sloop swung into the wind. "Liddle, what are you do- oh, my - eh, beg pardon, sir," said the gunner, turning and saluting.

"Carry on," said Captain Fitton, lathering his face and starting to shave as Liddle brought the Badger back on course for the squadron, "carry on."

Once he was shaved he turned over his meager wardrobe, including his rumpled coat, which still bore his lieutenant's epaulettes. Philip had served as a midshipman under the admiral when Halsey was still a captain, in the old Illustrious in the eastern Mediterranean. He remembered that man's terrible anger on an occasion when Philip had appeared on the quarterdeck sans hat, and another occasion when Halsey had mastheaded Jevons, also a midshipman in the ship, for failing to wear his dirk at quarters. He turned to the box in the desk, noting with relief a barely reputable pair of Commander's epaulettes - worn, heavily tarnished, and much hacked about. They were better than nothing.

By the time Badger joined the squadron, ducking under the Viceroy's stern to deliver Captain Fitton and his dispatches to the flagship, the epaulettes were better still, they having been polished by Simkin. The polishing had not done away with the marks of age, far less those of battle, but at least they gleamed in the sun. And, reflected Philip, he had great reason to be pleased with himself: he had made decent time in spite of his late departure from Minorca, and any lateness might easily be ascribed to damages from the battle with the Chasseur; he had captured a valuable prize, including the French codebook; and he had secured intelligence pointing to the capture of several more. The ceremony of being piped aboard - padded manropes held by white-gloved sideboys, the bosun's mates blowing their silver whistles, the fine stamp and clash of the marines as they presented arms, and the officer of the watch saluting and stepping forward to greet him only increased this sense of well being. He had thus entirely forgotten the shabby state of his uniform when the admiral's secretary showed him into the cabin, where he found the admiral - and sitting comfortably in a chair beside the great man himself, Mr M'Mullen.

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X-ray vignette 4 - Blowfish

2009-05-24T07:46:00.001-04:00

GLOSSARY

Down at the Gantry the ambulance bay was full, so Frank parked by
the station's diesel pump. He and Ian draped a blanket over Mrs.
Leonardowitz and hurried her through the downpour to the
hospital.

Inside, patients were backed up into the hallway. Ian
watched a full code unfold in one of the Trauma rooms, and a
housekeeping worker clean the last of a pool of vomit from below
a stretcher in the hallway. Maintenance personal struggled with
the innards of a pneumatic tube station. Nurses, techs, doctors
circulated in a chaotic ballet, while patients and family
wandered like lost sheep. The portable X-ray machine drifted
through, a blind, lumbering beast.

The worst, however, was the patient in curtain twelve.
"Doctor!" he called, "Doctor," he paused, "Doctor!" again and
again, over and over. "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!"

Ian peeked in the curtain. Patient Twelve stared straight
out into space, "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!" He was dressed in a
hospital gown, and a thin plastic IV line snaked down from a half
empty bag, curling around and into his left A/C. "Doctor!
Doctor! Doctor!"

Ian considered for a moment. The man's face was entirely
neutral, and he took no notice of Ian's entrance. His skin was
normal, and he was in no distress, but "Doctor! Doctor!
Doctor!" at somewhere between a drone and a yell.

"Blowfish!" Ian suddenly said to the patient, and waited to
see if he had any effect.

"Blowfish!" Patient Twelve said, "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"

Ian stepped back from behind the curtain and traded a covert
glance with Frank. "I guess that's an improvement," Frank said.

Four patients were still in front of them at the triage
desk, and two more had been brought in by EMS while Ian was in
with Patient Twelve. Another patient had walked in alone. Nurse
Dunbar caught Ian's eye as she whisked by with an IV kit. "Have
you been playing with my patient on Table Twelve?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am," said Frank. Ian just smiled blankly.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve. Nurse
Dunbar disappeared into curtain ten.

"You're busy for a Sunday morning," Ian said to Kathy when
she finally had two seconds to take his report.

"Is it Sunday?" Kathy asked.

"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"

"Mrs. Leonardowitz is an eighty-seven-"

"I know Mrs. Leonardowitz," Kathy looked up. "Gloria, what
happened? Did you forget your medications again?" Mrs.
Leonardowitz blushed and Kathy continued, "You gave her a neb?"

"Two," Ian confirmed, "Plus Solu-Medrol."

"Mag?"

"There was some reason we didn't give it last time," Frank
broke in, "I don't remember what, but we decided to hold off.
She's doing better without it."

"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"

Kathy nodded and leaned over the desk to sign their report.
"Put her in the bed over by the sink," she said.\par
\tab "No room at the inn." Frank remarked dryly as they slid Mrs.
Leonardowitz over and stripped their cot. "That guy doesn't shut
up. Kathy, what's with the patient on table twelve?"

Kathy rolled her eyes but said nothing as she took a quick
set of vitals on Mrs. Leonardowitz. Ian tore off the hospital
portion of their report and left it on the desk. "Blowfish!
Blowfish! Blowfish!"

Frank sprayed down the stretcher while Ian found new sheets,
once the cot was made they rolled out toward the ambulance bay.
"Ihh," Frank shivered, "that guy's driving me crazy.

Ian stopped just outside the curtain for a moment. "I'm
headin' out to the bus," Frank told him, continuing with the
stretcher out toward the bay. Ian nodded and stepped back behind
Patient Twelve's curtain.

"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve, as
oblivious to Ian's enterance as before. "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"

Ian stepped over to the patient's right ear and softly spoke
into it. "Sssschhhhwwwuff," he said, pausing to hear the result.
Good, but not perfect, he decided. He had to make a few minor
modifications to Patient Twelve's new soundtrack before he was
satisfied with the result.

He caught Amy in the middle of a smirk when he walked out
from the curtain. "Having fun?" she asked.

When he and Frank returned to the Gantry a few hours later
the pace had slowed, but Patient Twelve was still there, and no
one had yet improved on Ian's handiwork. "Sssschhhhwwwwfff,"
Patient Twelve said, "Sssschhhhwwwwfff. Sssschhhhwwwwfff." Mrs.
Leonardowitz, on the other hand, was no longer parked near the
sink. Checking the dry erase board, Ian saw that she was no
longer listed in the department.

"What happened to Mrs. Leonardowitz?" he asked Amy after he
gave his report.

"Gloria? Was she here? Kathy M. must have had her, she's
at lunch."

Anne and a medic Ian didn't know walked in with a patient
and rolled up to the desk. "What, your noise machine is still
here?" she nodded toward curtain twelve.

"Yeah," Amy said, "psyche's running slow today. Somebody
set him on ocean waves, though, so it's kind of relaxing."

Ian nodded a greeting to Anne and remade his stretcher.
"You stopping in at Flanagan's today?" he asked.

Anne nodded at Ian as she gave her report, and Ian rolled
his stretcher out to the bus.

GLOSSARY

STO'B 24

2009-05-23T14:46:00.004-04:00

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

That evening, Badger shipped her funnel for the first time since receiving Captain Fitton and piled on steam. The captain stood on his quarterdeck, watching the rich, black smoke rise from the funnel. He turned, following the smoke as it passed over the taffrail to vanish in the growing darkness, and his turn brought the Chasseur into view, one cable's length astern. She was dark, except for her toplight, but Philip could still just make out her color, including the red of her foremast cap.

Beneath Philip, the Badger's new rudder groaned, distracting him, and when he looked back at the Chasseur her color had faded. As he looked, though, it occurred to him the the brig was slightly further off, and shortly after a string of colored lanterns rose to her peak, and she fired one of her leeward guns. Philip placed a glass to his eye (the fruit of further searching in his new desk's bottom drawer, which had also revealed three chronometers (two broken) and a box of epaulettes, English, Russian, Dutch, and Spanish that he had yet to sort through) to better distinguish the lanterns' color and order, and deciphering the signal faster than the signal midshipman, in spite of the signal midshipman's possession of the Badger's English codebook. Or perhaps because of the midshipman's possession of that book, for the Badger was plowing forward at a steady ten knots, into a four knot headwind, and the book's pages tended to flutter out of control in the resulting breeze.

"Sir," said the midshipman finally, "Chasseur says she cannot keep up, sir."

Philip nodded. The interval between his reading of the signal himself and his receipt of the midshipman's report had given him time to make a decision, and he immediately replied. "My compliments to Mr South and we will heave to to wait for the prize. And signal Chasseur: Captain repair aboard.

Philip received Lieutenant Grey in his cabin, received his disjointed report on the condition of the Chasseur, and gave him his orders. Then he saw the lieutenant back to his boat. He watched the boat cross to the Chasseur and hook on to her main chains, then he ordered the master to pile on steam again as behind them the Chasseur dropped her sails, tacked, and stood off alone to the north.

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

STO'B 23

2009-05-23T09:59:00.001-04:00

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

While this was going forward, Philip flipped through the French codebook, searching out the necessary signals and folding down one corner of the relevant pages for quick reference when the time came. As he reached for his coffee, he accidentally knocked it over onto the dispatches that he had moved to his desktop, which would have to be delivered before he could chase after the convoy. Could the Badger complete the entire trip before the French convoy left [its original port], bound for its still-undeciphered destination, he wondered as he called for his steward and frantically blotted at the oiled-sailcloth envelope. "And what if the admiral decides to send someone else," he said, suddenly "a protege', perhaps?"

A knock interrupted him, and turning Philip saw a midshipman, backlit in his otherwise empty doorway. "Yes?" The midshipman walked in, and as he moved into the cabin Philip made out his features, and saw that he was carrying a log book of sorts. "Yes, Mr Wilkins?"

"The master's compliments, sir, and he is bringing the Chasseur alongside, and these are the reports like you asked."

Philip handed the dispatch envelope to his steward, Simkin, and opened the book, looking carefully at the carefully-ruled pages with their calculations of supplies acquired, used, and remaining. "Three days of water, eight of beef and pork, eight of peas," he frowned, turing the page, "nine of rum, carpenter's stores almost exhausted - how is Mr Scott recording the carpenter's stores?"

"Oh, I'm sure I don't know, sir" said the midshipman, aghast at being faced with such a questions. Then, "Is he not supposed to, sir?"

"Well, I suppose there's nothing against it..." Philip trailed off as he continued to flip through the book, bosun's stores, engineer's, gunner's. "Meticulous," he said quietly, "everything's here."

"Sir?"

Philip flushed and handed the book back to Wilkins as a long, elastic groan announced the arrival of the Chasseur against the Badger's side. "My compliments to Mr South and you may retrn this to him," he said, raising his voice against the shouts and thumps that errupted on deck as the Badgers prepared to receive their coal.

* * *

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

X-ray vignette 3 - the delivery truck

2009-05-21T09:21:00.004-04:00

[again, raw and unedited. Truck = bus]

GLOSSARY

"Five bucks on Difficulty Breathing.

"Ten on Pedestrian Struck."

Ian looked at Marcus quizically, then in shock as the
dispatch flashed up on the screen. Back up Three-one Boy for a
Pedestrian Struck.

Traffic was backed up for a block and a half approaching the
scene, so Marcus grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor and
proceeded on foot, leaving Ian to bring the Truck through as best
he could. Ian watched his bobbing form thread through the
stopped cars for a moment, then returned to the gridlock before
him. Solid cars up this block and an 18 wheeler stopped at the
intersection. It was impossible to tell what lay beyond it. On
the left, an unbroken row of parked cars; half a space up on the
right there was an open parking place, but a delivery van was
pareked on the right sidewalk near the corner. Traffic behind
the Truck was already three cars deep.

Marcus would have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. If he
needed Ian, he could sentd one of the Basics back to look after
X-ray's Truck and Ian could run up to the accident on foot.
"Three-five X-ray tech," he called on the radio.

"Go ahead," came Marcus's voice.

"You'll have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. We're blocked
in."

"Two patients. Need that Truck."

Ian acknowledged and checked his mirrors again. Five cars
now sat behind him. Clearly, the delivery van would have to go.

Ian laid on his horn and a low "waaap!" escaped the Truck.
Traffic nudged forward uneasily, herded by repeated blasts of the
horn. When Ian reached the open parking place, he squeezed
through and onto the curb.

The delivery van took less in the way of horn, more in hte
way of just-do-it. When 15 seconds of air horn produced no
driver or movement Ian jumped from his Truck and ran to the
driver's door of the idling van. With an absurd feeling of pride
he snapped off the radio antenna and used it to smash the window,
then opened the door and climbed in.

Only the Fire Department ever gets to break windows, he
thought, maybe I should change careers. He deposited the van in
a Bus stop half way up the block and retreived his Truck, pulling
up to Marcus a few minutes later.

Clearly, this accident was a cluster. Two State Troopers,
State Troopers, stood over Marcus and half of Three-one Boy, one
holding an oversized umbrella, the other two Maglites. Another
Trooper was helping two firefighters roll a rumpled squad car
away from the victim. Engine 157 stood by with a stretcher and
held IV bags. New Gotham Police interviewed witnesses and
maintained crown control.

"Three-three Zebra took the other patient," Marcus
explained. He nodded to the crumpled body on the pavement,
"Bicyclist struck, thrown ten feet into this parked van,
depressed skull frac, pelvic frac, intubated, clear and equal,
pulse 120, 96 over 72 up to 116 over 84 with one liter of saline,
unilaterally blown pupil. Three-one Boy is blocked in. Is
anybody not ready?" he asked the collection of people preparing
to log roll the patient onto a spineboard, "One, two, three."

Marcus, half of Three-one Boy, and FDNG loaded the patient
onto Three-One Boy's stretcher while Ian pulled X-ray's stretcher
out and abandoned it on the pavement. As he helped load the
patient into the Truck he suddenly burst out laughing. Marcus
shot him a look but Ian shook his head, "Later."

Oxygen. Hyper ventillation. N.S. wide open. Mannitol.
Call ahead to the hospitl, and lights and sirens to New Gotham
Trauma Center, with State Police close behind. Doctor Koffi met
them at he door, read their eyes. "OR 3," he drawled, following
them into the elevator. He got hte history on the way up and
disappeared with the patient and his staff when the elevator
doors opened onto the operating ward. Marcus, Ian, and the half
of Three-one Boy watched them recede down the hallway with their
former patient, the sound of the stretcher wheels ringing loudly
in their ears.

Station 13 shared a parking lot with the hospital. The
three angels trooped over for a replacement stretcher and marked
their old stretcher at the hospital OR. Already Ian could feel
the tentacles of the post-call blues.

The State Plice followed Three-Five X-ray to New Gotham Trauma
because their car had hit the bicyclist while going lights and
sirens. Witnesses described in confused but vivid detail how the
police car had sped down the steet at 20, 50, 40 miles per hour,
almost missing the bicyclist, hitting him squaely on the front
wheel, the rear wheel, the side, as he tried to turn away, as he
tried to lay the bike down. The bicyclist was run over, was
thrown into a moving, a parked van, a lamp post. He screamed, he
was silent, you couldn't mistake it, he uttered the Lord's
Prayer. they all agreed that the bicyclist had run a ed light,
except for thosewho knew it was green. "I remember it
distictly," one woman told the police, "the signal wasn;t working
at all." The trooped couldn't recall clearly but thought he had
the right of way. He did have his lights and siren on, or at
least he did when his car came to a rest over the victim.

In the end it turned out that the bicyclist had a helmet cam
on, transmitted live to the web. Hundreds of viewers watched,
enthralled, as they ran the red ligth, caught a flash of grille,
and cartwheeled, landing heavily on hte pavement with an audible
'crack'. The transmission was so clear that they could read the
badge number of the horrified trooper as he knelt over the dying
bicyclist and called for an ambulance. At sony, phones rang off
the hook with orders for that model of camera, which had been
diuscontinued last spring for poor sales.

Back in the Truck, Ian watched life pass him by as he and
Marcus idledat their corner. Trucks, busses, an occaisional
gypsy cab drifted by, hissing on the wet pavement. Overhead the
el rumbled and squeaked. A police car drove by, weaving and
struggling past the mid morning traffic, squaking its siren
relentlessly, fruitlessly. The wipers swished across Ian's
vision and fell silent again.

In the shotgun seat Marcus had already fallen asleep, his
head back, his mouth open. Jazz played softly on the stereo. In
the Operating room, Ian knew, a struggle against death was
unfolding for his patient. A fruitless struggle. Ian folded his
newspaper ans composed himself for sleep. Just before it came, a
small smile appeared on his lips. In retrospect, the door to the
delivery van had been unlocked.

GLOSSARY

X-ray vignette 2 - coffee should be fresh

2009-05-20T22:55:00.004-04:00

[raw and unedited, more so than usual. Let Truck = bus]

GLOSSARY

"Barber's Adagio for Strings" he remembered Marcus saying
the last time he had played it, on a similarly wet morning as
they waited to relieve Tour I's crew. "Barber's Adagio for
Strings}" Marcus said, "he wrote that for medics. Why else would
he have written something so mournful?"

"There weren't any medics when he wrote that," said
Lieutenant Correia from the doorway, "What was that, seventeen or
eighteen-"

"There were medics in the time of the bible. Elijah was
one. 'And it came to pass that the son fell sick, and there was
no breath left in him, and Elijah took him and cried unto The
Lord, and stretched three times upon the boy,' that's rescue
breathing, they didn't have the BVM then, 'and The Lord did hear
Elijah's plea, and the soul of the child recame unto him, and so
he revived."

"Okay." Lieutenant Correia ducked back out to his office and
left Ian alone with Marcus.

"One Kings seventeen, Marcus continued. " And Barber only
died in '81, though he wrote his Adagio in, oh, 1936 or 37."

Ian refused to look up, refused to take the bait. He was
three quarters through his crossword puzzle and he knew that if
he didn't engage Marcus in conversation he would begin to play
again. Few things stimulated Ian's thinking more than-

"Mozart," Marcus gave in. He bent his head to his violin
again and the lounge filled with music. Happy music. Thought
provoking music. Ian continued with his puzzle.\par
}{\plain \par
He had four clues left when Three-five X-ray, their unit, pulled
in.

"Thirty-five minute extrication in the pouring rain," Smiley
said, and that said it all. Ian and Marcus took their keys and
narcotics from the soaked members of Tour I and set about their
Truck check: Lifepack present, with two charged batteries and a
spare, heartstart adapter, EKG electrodes and combination pacer-defib pads. O2 bag, portable oxygen at 1350psi: nebulizer, meds,
adult and pedi masks, nasal canula, O2 wrench present. Main, or
Truck oxygen at 1200. Big ALS bag with sealed drug bag, trauma
tubing, two bags of blood tubes, Moody tubes with IV kits and
solutions, stopcocks and extention sets. Intubation kit; all
bulbs bright white and tight, good supply of tubes and blades,
stylets, End Tidal CO2 detector, 10mL syringe, NG tuges, tape,
laryngoscope handle with spare batteries. In the bus was the
trauma bag, extra bandages, the telemetry unit - not that it ever
worked, the suction, the latex gloves, the OB kits (2), isolation
kits, extra oxygen masks. Packed into the outside compartments
were longboards and shordboards with their straps and collars,
and headblocks. Their personal SCBA gear rode in the compartment
behind the shotgun seat. Light extrication tools lived over the
right rear wheel (Rescue units handled the heavy extrication.)
Lights, siren, two-way radio and Mobile Data Terminal and
finally, fuel: front tank almost full, rear tank three-quarters
empty. It was time for coffee.

Coffee was available in just about every bakery, diner and
deli in the district, but Marcus was even more particular about
his coffee that Lieutenant Grey, the thin, tall, taciturn
lieutenant with steely hair and a steely gaze, was about his.
"If it's not fresh it might as well be yesterday's grounds and
bilge water," Marcus had told Ian their first day together with a
strength of stated opinion so unusual that Ian was struck dumb.
As he got to know Marcus better, he found the strength of his
opinion in this matter even more confouding, because Marcus, that
6'2" teddybear of a man, never expressed much of an opinion about
anything. "I don't know if he has opinions on anything besides
coffee," Frank had later told Ian, "I've been working with him
four and a half years and I've never seen one."

"Yesterday's grounds and bilge water." Marcus repeated. "The
Lord created coffee on the seventh day, and as He brewed and
drank it fresh, on His day of rest, so too should we, in
following His example. The sun riseth and the sun falleth, the
seventh day."

Marcus's opinion that coffee had to be fresh was so strong
that he asked for a fresh pot to be brewed whenever he ordered.
Actually, it was more of a confirmation because all of the delis
and shops in the area knew to put a fresh pot on as soon as they
saw Truck 006 glide to a halt outside their door.

"This isn't fresh," Marcus said in measured tones as he slid
the offending cup back over the counter.

"Yes it is," the astonished counter boy replied, "I brewed
it myself."

"Around ten o'clock? It's now almost eleven."

"Marcus, Marcus, Marcus my friend," the owner came running
up, "I brew a frew pot imidiately. Joseph, you brew a fresh pot
when Mr. Marcus come in, eh? Always a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus."

Joseph skulked off to brew a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus and
his boss, David, sat down to catch his breath. When he had done
so, he keeled over, catching Marcus and Ian unawares as they
browsed the magazine rack.

"Ian," said Marcus as he knelt down beside David, "Why don't
you get the bags while I look after David here. Three-five X-ray," he spoke to his radio as he checked for breathing and a
pulse, "10-36 at 131 Flushing for a syncopal."

"Three-five X-ray 10-36, 131 Flushing for a syncopal."

Ian tossed the bags on the stretcher and returned to the
deli. O2IVMonitor to reveal Mobitz 2 with a ventricular rate of
about 30.

"That just won't do, Ian," he said as he took the pacer pads
and pulled David's shirt back to place them on his chest.
Capture took place at 50 Joules and they ran David at 80 beats
per minute, with a return of consciousness.

"Ow," David cried 80 times per minute. Ian ran in the
Vailum as Marcus applied the 12-lead electrodes. Looking at the
ST-elevations in v1 and v2, he ran a right-sided set as Ian
listented in on David's lungs.

"Clear bilat." Ian said.

"Right sided ST-elevations." said Marcus, "How do you feel,
David?"

"Och, a bit like the no breath. What happened?"

"It looks like you may be having a heart attack." Marcus
told him, "Does anything hurt?"

"No. No hurt, no pain."

"Do you have any allergies?"

"To the strawberries."

"Any disconfort?" Ian asked.

"A pressing in my chest. I swallow?" he asked as Marcus
handed him two aspirin.

"First you want to chew them, then you can swallow."

Ian listened to the sound of the crunching aspirin as wraped
the blood pressure cuff around David's arm. Patients, on
discovering the horrid cherry chalk flavour of the aspirin, had a
tendency to swallow them whole regardless of being told
otherwise. "108 over 72," he announced, "now take this tablet
and put it under your tongue."

"Och. Burning."

"Absolutely normal." Marcus told him. "You might also get a
headache."

"Och."

They transfered David to the stretcher and wheeled him out
to the Truck. Ian grunted under the weight of the antiquated
two-man stretcher, but they loaded David in without incident.
Then Marcus went around front to drive while Ian hopped up behind
with the patient. "How are you feeling now?" he asked as the
Truck got underway.

"Still the pressing."

"Has it changed at all?"

"Not so bad as was before."\par
\tab "Good." Ian took another set of vitals, then called the
hospital to let them know they should expect a probable M, and to
consult on further meds. "He's 94 over 68 after one nitro, down
from 108 over 72. I'd like to titrate MSO4 to mental status or
pain relief."

"You've got an IV?" the doctor asked.

Who did this she think he was? "Yes."

"Alright, start with a half miligram and see where it goes."

"How much can I give if I need to?"

"No more than three miligrams, don't take any steps bigger
than a half miligram."

"Up to three miligrams of Morphine Sulfate at no greater
than a half miligram at a time, allowing time for each does to
have effect. Tirate to mental status first, pain management
second."

"Correct. See you in about six minutes. Trauma three."

One half miligram, pinch push flush, wait thirty seconds and
take another set of vitals. "How do you feel?"

"Still the pressing, but less it is."

Another half miligram, pinch push flush and new vitals and
assesment. A third half miligram, a fourth, and Ian felt the
Truck lurch. Looking out the rear windows he sat the faded red
brick of the Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health
Center, the battered but respectable hospital that shared a
parking lot with Station 57, the equally battered but respectable
EMS station to which he and Marcus belonged. As the bus swung
around the driveway to pull up to the ED, Ian glimpsed Lieutenant
Squadron screaming out of the garage in his Caddy, lights and
sirens blazing. The city of New Gotham had provided Lieutenant
Squadron with one of its standard issue Battalion vehicles, a
tweaked GMC Suburban with leater upholstery. It was truly a
beautiful vehicle: fast, indestructible, solid handling, plenty
of cargo space for the oxygen, spineboards and other equipment,
and comfortable as all hell. The suburban sat proudly in bay
two, having been cleaned and waxed once a month by Larry, the
station janitor, who had fallen in love with its smooth, undented
lines; Jonny Squadron's suburban was the only Truck assigned to
station 57 without a dent of some sort. In five and a half years
as a lieutenant, Jonny had never driven it. The rumor was that
he was afraid to. He was afraid he might dent it.

Jonny Squad drove at work what he drove at home, a 1959
Cadilac Miller-Meteor he'd found at auction and carefully
updated, beefing up the brakes and transmission, replacing the
worn engine with a stroked and bored V-12 and supplanting the
Federal Sirenlight with front and rear lightbars, a Wheelen
siren, and highway riser lights. Ian watched the Cadilac list
heavily as Jonny took the corner out of the lot at high speed,
and then the car was gone. Two seconds later, the garage door
finished opening.

Ian turned back to his patient as the Truck lurched again
and came to a halt. A few seconds later, Marcus was opening the
rear doors and helping Ian pull out the stretcher, then they
swung the doors closed and rolled David into the hospital. Even
at a little before eight on a Tuesday, the Gantry was packed.
Patients lay on stretchers in the halls as they awaited
treatment. Doctors cruised from curtain to curtain, room to
room, occasionally looking into the hall to see how many patients
were still waiting. Nurses circulated with IV kits, used
bedpans, and medical records. The portable X-ray machine nosed
through the crowds like a sleepy, beeping, lumbering beast.
Overhead the building gurgled as the pneumatic tube system
delivered blood samples to the lab, blood products to the ED,
medical records to and from archives. "Trauma three," Ian told
Marcus, and as they wheeled David into the room Ian started to
give his report to Doctor Davis.

"This is the patient you called about?" she asked.

"Uh-huh, two miligrams of Morphine, then we arrived. Good
mentation, last vitals 92 over 60, 80 with good capture, 16 and
adequate. Chest pressure now three of ten."

"Okay. David, how are you today . . ."

Marcus tapped Ian on the shoulder, then drifted off to
collect clean sheets and restock the Truck. Ian waited with his
patient and filled out his ACR, finally grabing one of the nurses
long enough to obtain a signature and returning to the Truck and
his coffee, now too cold to consider drinking.

A brown puddle beside Truck 006's driver's door indicated
that Marcus had reached the same conclusion about his own coffee.
He silently waited for Ian to climb in shotgun, then pulled out
of the bay, into the street. The next order of business was
coffee again. Always assuming that they didn't get dispatched to
another call.

GLOSSARY

X-ray vignette

2009-05-20T11:55:00.003-04:00

GLOSSARY

SPOILER ALERT: depressing material follows

006 was old. It was a pre-merger bus that had seen an
incredible seven births and more deaths than anyone could
renmember. Iw was on its fourth transmission. Through its
fourth transmission. Motor Pool wasn't interested in discussions
of a fifth.

006 sat forlornly at Station 57's diesel island, marrooned,
as it were, with a full tank and no motivation. Frank and Ian
pulled their bags from its cabinets, crossing the wet pavement to
bus 439 and tossing the bags in there. Then they stood quietly
before 006, Frank gave a tire one last respectful kick, and they
climbed into 439. When they returned three hours later to bring
a patient to the Gantry, 006 was gone.

Motor Pool had a parking lot buried in far Queens for
retired busses. On the official city register the lot was
designated "Lot M," but Motor Pool called it the Decommision
Yard, a field of rumpled blacktop with a growning fleet of worn
out ambulances that leaned against each other for support, huddled
close for warmth. Together they watched the sunrises in the
east, unless they faced the other way, in which case they waited
for the sunsets in the west.

Row after rown of empty widshields gazed at the leaden sky,
waiting to donate doors, alternators, wheels to their brethren
still in service before they quietly rusted away. 006 was
dropped off unceremoniously by a flatbed wrecker beside the
crumpled wreck of 216, victim of a city transit bus. The wrecker clanked
off and the seagulls returned.

When Ian wanted to be depressed, this was where he went.
There was a gaurd shack near the locked gate, but Ian had never
seen itused, so he ignored it. He ducked through the fence at
the usual cut in the chain link, stepping into the ambulance
graveyard.

Ian had tried to count the busses at one time, but had given
up. He wandered through the rows, pausing from time to time,
running his eyes over the faded fenders, trying to imagine what
each of the busses had seen in their lives, trying to guess what
illness or injury had finally claimed them.

Stains littered the pavement: coolant, brake fluid, oil. A
pink puddle grew slowly grew beneath 006. Three busses over a
fresh graphiti tag gleamed on another bus's box. Ian considered it,
trying to decide what he felt about it as he walked over and
stood before it. Black spray had run down from the tag, dripping
over the stripes, into the HHC legend. Ian crossed his arms over
his chest.

When he looked up again the filtered light had started to
redden. He turned from the desecrated ambulance and started to walk
away, bending over suddenly to vomit, staggering over to a 006
to kneel before it and rest his head on its bumper. The cool
metal was comforting.

Breathe, he decided. In, out. In. And out. The heavy
twisting in his stomach slowly receded.

* * *Ian woke up with a stiff neck and stiff knees. He sat silently
for a few minutes before painfully rising and tracking back
through the lot to the cut in the fence. He slipped through,
found his car, and drove away.

GLOSSARY

STOB 22

2009-05-20T08:02:00.004-04:00

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

The coffee came in, Simkin placing the dented pot and a mug on Philip's table and then quietly withdrawing. Philip filled the mug and carried it to the stern windows, beyond which he could see the carpenter and his mates as they took measurements for the Badger's new gudgeons, and being thoroughly soaked in the process. Beyond them sailed the Chasseur, plowing along in the Badger's wake, one cable's length astern.

* * *
Philip was still working with the French orders when the carpenter knocked on the door - he begged pardon, but the armorer needed the hardware from Philip's doors for the new gudgeons in pintles.

By the time the carpenter retreated several minutes later, the latches and hinges of Philip's doors jingling in a small pouch he carried for that purpose, Philip had determined that the orders directed the Chasseur's captain to take charge of a convoy, originating at XXXXXX in three days, though he had yet to determine its destination. He sent for the master, meeting him in Mr South's day cabin.

"Mr South, what is our position?" he asked.

"Exact, sir, or within a few leagues, like?" the Master said, and seeing Philip's confusion, "I'd need the log board to determine our exact position, sir."

"Within a few leagues will do," Philip replied, and once South had pricked the chart, "Knowing the Badger as you do, how long will it take for us to reach 36° N, 14° E?"

"About two days, sir, under sail if this wind holds, like, which it should, sir."

"And under steam?"

"Perhaps ten hours, unless the wind heads us, sir, but we haven't got the coal, like."

"The Chasseur does. Rouse up the unengaged hands - rouse up the off-duty watch. Get the boats in the water. I want coal coming aboard in 15 minutes."

"Yes, sir." said the master. "If you'd prefer, we can tie up alongside the prize, the weather being fine enough, and just hoist the coal over in slings, like."

"As you think best, Mr South, but I want that coal coming aboard in fifteen minutes."

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY

STO'B 21

2009-05-19T07:50:00.003-04:00

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He picked up the box, trying to determine how hard it would be to pick or force the lock, and to his surprise he found that the box was unlocked - the lid pulled open easily and there, in his hand, lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders. He flipped through the codebook - his knowledge of French was not great, but it was good enough to understand words relating to sailing, and in any event there were illustrations to go with the descriptions. How long were the signals good for? He flipped to the front of the book - "valid until the 3rd," he slowly read. "Well, that gives me almost a month to make use of it."

Next he turned to the orders. These were more difficult to decipher, and after several minutes he gave up, placing them on the desk's work surface and leaning back to rub his eyes. "Coffee," he said. "Coffee may be just the thing for it. Simpkin!" he raised his voice for his steward, "light along a pot of coffee, there."

A muffled reply came from the coach, and while the coffee prepared Philip turned to the two drawers that lay beneath the work surface and its retractable leaf. The upper drawer held several ledgers, one of which appeared to be the Chasseur's muster book, another seemed to reflect the brig's stores - Philip could make out the French words for beef, water, and spars, among other things. The lower drawer was evidently the storage for the late French captain's prize collection. Philip found three swords (one broken off several inches above the hilt), a collection of flags from various ships and other vessels, and a collection of perhaps a dozen silver spoons, each from a different port. Philip had a similar collection in his sea chest, back at the Crown; he sorted through the set in the drawer, separating out the spoons he had from those he didn't, and moving the doubles to the drawer with the French phrase book just as Simpkin appeared with his coffee.

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STO'B 20

2009-05-13T12:06:00.005-04:00

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He started with the cylinder which, though it was locked, held its key in its keyhole. The lock turned smoothly, and he rolled the cylinder back to reveal an empty working surface backed by five small drawers and a cubby hole. A half-eaten piece of cake lay in the cubby-hole, no doubt where it had been thrown as the French ship had cleared for action; Philip opened one of the stern windows and tossed the cake into the Badger's wake.

The first drawer held a broken pocket watch, a bent key, a broken button and a small, rusted pen knife. These went into the wake, too. The second drawer held an English phrase book (written in French), the stub of a candle in a cheap candlestick, and a pair of reading glasses. Philip kept the book and tossed the candle and glasses. The middle drawer refused to open, and after a moment Philip realized that it was locked. In his mind's eye he saw the key he had found in the first drawer and he rushed to the window, as if he might see it bobbing in the sloop's wake, but of course he did not, and after a moment he sat down again. Perhaps the key from the cylinder would fit? No, it would not. He sat back.

The French codebook - the secret instructions on how to tell friend from foe - was unlikely to be in the drawer; the French captain had no doubt tossed it overboard at the last minute. The Badger's book was bound in lead, to insure that it would sink immediately, and Philip was obliged, under penalty of death, to toss it overboard or otherwise destroy it if the ship were in danger of being taken. No doubt the Chasseur's book was now at the bottom of the ocean. Nevertheless, the locked drawer vexed him, and he continued to fiddle with it, eventually succeeding in pulling off its knob.

"Damn," he said, staring at the knob as it lay in his hand. "Well, a fig for it, anyhow. No doubt the armorer can make a key," and he turned to the next drawer. This drawer held some loose coins and assorted lists from which most or all of the items had been crossed off. Philip separated out the coins (they would allow him to pay his lieutenant back for covering his boat fare, he reflected with satisfaction) and tossed the lists out the stern window.

The final drawer held an iron box that was pierced with several holes. A small book lay inside, along with a loose sheet of paper. The box was locked, but no small imagination was required to determine that inside that box lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders.

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STO'B 19

2009-05-11T20:15:00.001-04:00

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Two Minutes later Philip mounted the crowded quarterdeck. The master was there, along with the gunner (he carried the lieutenant's watch while Mr Grey was aboard the Chasseur) and all of the midshipman who remained aboard. Philip noticed that the officers, along with one or two of the brighter midshipman, had their sextants already adjusted to something like the correct angle, and indeed, the master was already taking a preliminary sighting. Philip, having left his sextant at the Crown, with all of his other possessions, merely stood aloof, as if taking a sight were beneath a Captain's dignity. Or a Commander's dignity, he reminded himself. Only a Commander.

The minutes passed. The officers shot the sun with their sextants, bringing it down to the horizon to determine the Badger's longitude. "Noon and XXX degrees north, XXX degrees east, sir," reported the master.

"Very good, Mr South. Strike the bell." Philip replied, and the new day officially began. Philip started back down to his cabin to deal further with the furniture before he remembered the master's earlier request about running out the port guns. And, he noted, the port guns were in fact run out. The master, however, was on the port gangway, halfway to the bow, tugging on the standing rigging as he went, so instead Philip merely returned to the cabin.

Here he found the carpenter fixing his desk, and one of the mates fastening the table to the floor. "Almost done, sir," said the carpenter. "Bob, give me a hand when you're done with that table, like."

Three minutes later the carpenter and his mate finished, and Philip dragged one of his chairs over to his newly repaired desk to see what it might hold inside.

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STOB 18

2009-05-08T16:36:00.003-04:00

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"Yes," he said, looking over his domain with satisfaction, "excellent."

But as soon as he said these words, and perhaps in answer to them, the Badger's list (which he now noticed had increased by several degrees) caused all of the furniture to slide over to the cabin's starboard side. he was in the act of disentangling it when a midshipman darted in.

"The Master's compliments, sir, and may he run the port guns out?" said the midshipman.

"The larboard guns?" cried Philip. "Yes, Mr, uh - yes, whatever he sees fit. And my compliments, of course. What the devil can he want with the larboard guns," he asked himself after the midshipmen left. "Steward," he cried, "Steward, pass the word from the carpenter."

The carpenter appeared, dripping wet from hanging over the stern with his mates. "I think we might be able to fadge something together with iron from the hinges and like, for new pintles and gudgeons," he began, but Philip cut him off.

"This desk needs a new leg," he said, "and I should like it and the table to fixed to the deck here, and here."

"Yes, sir, said the carpenter," shall I leave the rudder for the time being?"

"The rudder? Oh, yes, how is that coming? You said something about hinges?"

"Yes, sir. If we take the hinges and latches from all of the doors the armorer thinks he can make a new set of pintles and gudgeons."

"Then do that," said Philip, "but while he's busy with that you can see to this desk. Yes?" he said to a knock at the door.

The midshipman opened the door. "Mr. South's compliments, sir, and it wants only a few minutes of noon."

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STOB 17

2009-05-06T18:35:00.003-04:00

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Early the next morning, Philip finally had time to attend to the personal possessions of the officers killed on the Chasseur. The possessions of the dead French sailors (and some of the living, Philip suspected) had already been dealt with in the usual fashion by the lower deck, with a little bit of fighting but not much, the pecking order being well established before Philip ever stepped on board.

But the officers' possessions had to go through the Captain, and they had been stashed in a corner of his cabin until he could deal with them. He did so now. Finally. Greedily.

Little of the clothing fitted him, though there were a good pair of boots, some shirts, and a torn jacket. He gave the jacket to his steward (a small, wiry man with an abundance of gold jewelry) to mend, tossed the boots and shirts on the chair he'd inherited from the Badger's previous commander, and sent everything else to the wardroom.

From the jumbled pile of furniture Philip pulled a cylinder top desk, complete except for a broken leg. Once the carpenter was able to fix it, it would enable him to finally clear his cot of the papers that had shared his sleeping space since the day he moved in. "Well," he said, arranging two sturdy but mismatched chairs around a shabby table, "it isn't Ablenn Hall, but it is better." He pulled his other chair - the one he had inherited from the Badger's previous commander, over to the desk and sat down to consider. Would the cabin look better with the desk over by the stern windows? Perhaps it would. He spent the next several hours moving his new possessions around, finally deciding that the desk was best opposite the door, as that would place him with his back to the light for anyone coming in. "Most imposing," he said. "Excellent."

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Search for real estate owners before renting

2009-04-20T10:46:00.001-04:00

http://a836-acris.nyc.gov/Scripts/CoverPage.dll/index

The above link enables you to search for city records regarding owned real estate (i.e. who owns the building or apartment you're considering renting)

Ironically, it was provided to me by a scammer - the website proved his claim of ownership to be frudulent.