Rain with a sour smell. Not to worry, though you might wind up with it — primarily a race against your own skin. The skull is showing. The jerking horses in the old footage, bound to end badly. Psychic hardening, I suppose. Poetry is arranged by sound. I can say no more. A beloved relative from out of town was arriving the next day with a brand new infant who would be tense, disoriented and distraught at discovering herself uprooted from her familiar bassinet and plunged into a great metropolis seething with cutthroats and cheap chiselers. People ought to get out more, play cards more, fight more, fall down more. But we don’t need each other to watch a film, streaming overhead. At your behest, I stood behind the statue, peeking over its shoulder at live persons, catching something of their tenderness. They’ve been marinating, the young and the tough. Meanwhile you should all have live blood cell analysis.
The Islamic Alliance had spent years studying and learning Nato’s air assault techniques, always searching for weaknesses. The Egyptians and Saudis had all been taught first hand. No wonder they were able to give the first wave such a bloody nose. From Hardy’s Cyprus package thirty-seven aircraft were shot down. The other three packages and two Israeli equivalents had fared almost as badly in similarly sprung traps. A total of 106 Nato jets and 22 Israeli jets were lost. The silence of the air defences and the patience of the commanders had been richly rewarded. For the second time in a week the air campaign was suspended. With the loss of a total of five Death Stars, even the operations of the B-2s and F-117s were halted, their invisibility now very much past tense and clouded with uncertainty, while the way ahead was considered. The Islamic Alliance had moved every single SAM between dusk on the 30th and dawn on the 31st. ‘Air supremacy’ was replaced by ‘air denial’. The Alliance had won another round.
The roots of this failure could be traced back to a combination of the information revolution of the 1990s and a complacency about the problems posed by a sizeable opponent that was more reactive and flexible than the Iraqis in 1991, and the North Koreans and Serbs in 2002. The West had singularly failed to heed the warning signals. While more and more money was spent on tactical, operational and strategic information-gathering systems the complementary infrastructure required to sift, assimilate and then disseminate to the decision-makers and war-fighters remained woefully inadequate. The generals remained bullish, repeating worn-out phrases such as ‘Information is power’. What they failed to see was that the whole system was creaking under a flood of information. Throwing more computers and complex software at the problem actually slowed the whole process down as the information had to pass through an increasing number of interested parties before getting to where it was needed in a timely fashion. The revolutionary idea of a ‘military information buffet (much like a cybercafé)’, where all information and intelligence was freely and immediately available to all end-users, who would be able to take exactly what they required for their missions when they required it, were rejected on grounds of security.
By Margaret Frazer. In Shakespearean Whodunnits, ed. Mike Ashley.
That was easy enough to answer. “Because everything and everyone HAD turned against him.”
“No! They hadn’t! Bolingbroke is not so universally beloved as he likes to think he is. Among the things that I found out before …” He gestured to the walls he’d earned by plotting Bolingbroke’s death. “… was that not everyone dispersed in despair when they heard the rumors, the way the Welsh did. There were men held on to hope. For one, hardly two days’ ride away from us at Flint there was a small army of Cheshire archers who would have come if they’d heard where King Richard was. But they never heard. Why not? We sent out scouts and messengers enough!”
I didn’t answer him. What was there to say? One of my duties from our last days in Ireland had been the royal messengers and messages.
“And come to that,” Carlisle said, with the passion in him suddenly gone cold, turned measured and deliberate, “how did Bolingbroke’s men come down on us so straight? There are half a dozen castles, at the least, in striking distance along that piece of coast. Why did damn Percy come to Flint first of all?”
The code TL61P belongs to a Hotpoint dryer;
You’ll find out nothing if you look
it up through the sky in the screen, the vault
of exchangable passion, Vertigo at
the horizon prostrate as an outstretched
cheek; but in the mouth that grows
in capacity behind that overflow,
Nobody can take away the word for it:
love, the provisional end until death;
TL61P its unconditional perfected shadow
opposite; Now go back to the start.