The Cupel Recruits Read Online Free
Author: Susan Willshire
in:
“Yes, Madame, the buses are in fact here. Captain Willingham asked that we line them in order down Flag Street so they would not interfere with visibility for his teams in any way.”
“Fine, just have them pull around right when the Governor finishes his speech so we can keep things moving. Events like this are all about momentum,” she said in an instructional tone.
“Yes, Madame Secretary,” Lela replied, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically weary. Lela spotted her father standing in a small circle of colleagues near the rear of the seating area. “Please excuse me, I’m going to check on the science team,” Lela fished for an out.
“Fine,” Madame retorted and thrust the clipboard back at Lela. Walking across the field, Lela surveyed the area once more to be sure everything appeared in order. A sole man sat in a chair in the middle of the seating area, scribbling notes furiously into an expensive leather folio. In a suit and tie, he removed his suit jacket and laid it neatly on the chair next to him. Lela’s keen sense of observation noticed the top of a tattoo peeking above his starched collar below the bottom of his perfectly manicured haircut. He appeared an academic, but something in his manner seemed familiar. ‘Probably a plant by Captain Willingham’ she mused to herself. ‘I’ve probably met the guy before. Either that or he’s just the most eager beaver in the village.’ Reaching her father and his circle of colleagues, Lela noticed they were discussing the wall of exhibits prepared by the PR team.
“Lela, they did an excellent job with these exhibits, very accurate with the topography and mineral compositions,” Mr. Aquila complimented.
“Madame’s work, Dad,” Lela smiled.
“Oh, Madame knows technical requirements now, does she?” Mr. Aquila asked, knowing Lela was the one who had to provide all the detail to make the documents accurate, “Her formatting idea maybe,” he conceded that small element to highlight the fact that the real work was done by his daughter. “Lela, this is Enam Bamidele, my esteemed colleague and good friend.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Bamidele-after so much email correspondence I am happy to finally meet you in person,” she smiled at the tall man, immediately admiring the sincere and pleasant aura about him.
“Actually, Miss Lela, we have met before, when your father and I worked together in Mexico, but you may not remember, being only three at the time.” He pulled out a stack of pictures from his shirt pocket he was kind enough to bring for Lela to see pictures of the mysterious “life in Mexico” period she’d heard so little about. Taking the photos by the edges, Lela thoughtfully examined the young, 2-dimensional versions of her parents. In the last, she was eating an ice cream cone at her mother’s knee while her parents laughed heartily with Enam Bamidele over some now-forgotten amusement; Gabriel hung from a tree in the background. She held the photos out to return to Enam Bamidele but he waived his hands in protest.
“No, no, Miss Lela, I brought those for you.” She thanked him as her mother rejoined the group after a brief absence. Lela glanced at her mother, who looked briefly at the rooftops, then at the seated man with the leather folio, then to Lela. She gave Lela a fake smile and Lela looked at her questioningly, to which her mother’s look replied ‘later’. One beauty of family was the ability to communicate nonverbally. With no pockets or briefcase, Lela carefully clipped the photos under the large stack of papers on her clipboard.
As 9 am approached, the tents and seating area filled up quickly and the small valley was alive with conversation. Non-VIP media was held back to a point 200 feet beyond the event area bordered by barricades while media with a VIP pass could access beyond that point. In the distance, farther back from the base of the hill, the array of TV trucks and media vehicles were all corralled
“Yes, Madame, the buses are in fact here. Captain Willingham asked that we line them in order down Flag Street so they would not interfere with visibility for his teams in any way.”
“Fine, just have them pull around right when the Governor finishes his speech so we can keep things moving. Events like this are all about momentum,” she said in an instructional tone.
“Yes, Madame Secretary,” Lela replied, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically weary. Lela spotted her father standing in a small circle of colleagues near the rear of the seating area. “Please excuse me, I’m going to check on the science team,” Lela fished for an out.
“Fine,” Madame retorted and thrust the clipboard back at Lela. Walking across the field, Lela surveyed the area once more to be sure everything appeared in order. A sole man sat in a chair in the middle of the seating area, scribbling notes furiously into an expensive leather folio. In a suit and tie, he removed his suit jacket and laid it neatly on the chair next to him. Lela’s keen sense of observation noticed the top of a tattoo peeking above his starched collar below the bottom of his perfectly manicured haircut. He appeared an academic, but something in his manner seemed familiar. ‘Probably a plant by Captain Willingham’ she mused to herself. ‘I’ve probably met the guy before. Either that or he’s just the most eager beaver in the village.’ Reaching her father and his circle of colleagues, Lela noticed they were discussing the wall of exhibits prepared by the PR team.
“Lela, they did an excellent job with these exhibits, very accurate with the topography and mineral compositions,” Mr. Aquila complimented.
“Madame’s work, Dad,” Lela smiled.
“Oh, Madame knows technical requirements now, does she?” Mr. Aquila asked, knowing Lela was the one who had to provide all the detail to make the documents accurate, “Her formatting idea maybe,” he conceded that small element to highlight the fact that the real work was done by his daughter. “Lela, this is Enam Bamidele, my esteemed colleague and good friend.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Bamidele-after so much email correspondence I am happy to finally meet you in person,” she smiled at the tall man, immediately admiring the sincere and pleasant aura about him.
“Actually, Miss Lela, we have met before, when your father and I worked together in Mexico, but you may not remember, being only three at the time.” He pulled out a stack of pictures from his shirt pocket he was kind enough to bring for Lela to see pictures of the mysterious “life in Mexico” period she’d heard so little about. Taking the photos by the edges, Lela thoughtfully examined the young, 2-dimensional versions of her parents. In the last, she was eating an ice cream cone at her mother’s knee while her parents laughed heartily with Enam Bamidele over some now-forgotten amusement; Gabriel hung from a tree in the background. She held the photos out to return to Enam Bamidele but he waived his hands in protest.
“No, no, Miss Lela, I brought those for you.” She thanked him as her mother rejoined the group after a brief absence. Lela glanced at her mother, who looked briefly at the rooftops, then at the seated man with the leather folio, then to Lela. She gave Lela a fake smile and Lela looked at her questioningly, to which her mother’s look replied ‘later’. One beauty of family was the ability to communicate nonverbally. With no pockets or briefcase, Lela carefully clipped the photos under the large stack of papers on her clipboard.
As 9 am approached, the tents and seating area filled up quickly and the small valley was alive with conversation. Non-VIP media was held back to a point 200 feet beyond the event area bordered by barricades while media with a VIP pass could access beyond that point. In the distance, farther back from the base of the hill, the array of TV trucks and media vehicles were all corralled
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