The Loyal Nine (7 page)

“I have big news,” started Julia as they waited to be seated. “We earned a Marconi.”

The
Boston Herald
was one of the oldest daily newspapers in the United States. Founded in 1846, it had been the proud recipient of eight Pulitzer Prizes. Julia’s rise at the
Herald
was meteoric. Following her graduation from Boston University, she was immediately assigned to cover Senator John Kerry’s 2004 campaign. Through some remarkable investigative reporting, she uncovered voting irregularities in Florida and Ohio, which stemmed from dual state registrations. Julia earned a Payne Award for ethics in journalism.

Later, Julia was named the first political editor in the paper’s history, consistently delivering a libertarian viewpoint. The journalist community panned the move as risky, warning the shift would reduce the
Herald
to “tabloid status.” Their analysis couldn’t have been further off the mark. The
Herald
was rewarded with a tremendous surge in its circulation. By 2012, its circulation increased at a time when most print media outlets had declined. Even the
“Old Gray Lady,” the
New York Times
, had reduced its staff. Once again, the
Herald
was rewarded for its efforts by being named one of the “10 Newspapers That ‘Do It Right’” by the newspaper industry magazine—
Editor & Publisher
.

Unfortunately, Julia’s stewardship of the
Herald
’s editorial content was not given the proper credit by her counterparts, since the
Herald
often contradicted the mainstream media’s left-leaning bias. Scorned by the establishment, she dug deeper into the numbers, motivated to prove them wrong. When the marketing department reported a surge in online readership of the
Herald
’s political content, she found what she needed. In 2013, Julia launched the Boston Herald Radio network, which broadcast locally on the AM band, but more importantly reached an audience of millions worldwide via their website. The overnight success of the venture sent the media pundits scurrying. Eighteen months later, Julia was ready to share more big news about her career.

“Sargent, party of two?” asked the perky hostess.

Sarge smiled and nodded affirmative.

“Right this way,” she added.

The wait staff at Stephanie’s was crisply attired with starched white button-down shirts, burgundy ties and waist-high aprons. Sarge always admired a well-run restaurant operation, especially one with well-trained staff. A restauranteur may have found the best location, perfectly designed, with a fabulous chef, but if a guest was not greeted by a smiling face and the proper level of attentiveness, the restaurant was doomed to failure. Sarge and Julia were seated at a cozy table next to the window.

“Angie and John will be your servers this evening. Enjoy,” said their hostess, handing a menu to each of them and a wine list to Sarge.

Sarge settled in and admired Julia. He could get used to
this.

“Tell me more about your Macaroni,” said Sarge, knowing he was about to be abused for this.

The swift kick in the shin from her red-soled heels was his answer.

“Ouch,” exclaimed Sarge.

“Shut up or I’ll do it again,” said Julia. Sarge knew she meant it.

“Good evening, I’m John,” said John the server.

“And I’m Angie,” said Angie the server.

“We’ll be happy to serve you this evening,” said John-Angie in unison.
Shtick, I like it.

“This evening we are featuring two of Stephanie’s favorite comfort foods—a pumpkin cider-brined pork chop served with a maple bourbon squash and a stuffed twice-baked potato, or you might prefer our fabulous Irish beef stew, served with mixed root vegetables,” said Angie.

Sarge and Julia were noncommittal as they examined the menu. Sensing their need for additional time, John suggested an appetizer.

“Perhaps we could start you out with the pan-sautéed crab cakes, or everyone’s favorite—baked macaroni and cheese balls.”

“I think we’ve had enough talk about macaroni tonight,” said Sarge, trying to keep his composure.

He made eye contact with Julia, and they both started laughing at the Marconi reference.

“Sorry, guys, inside joke. We’ll both have a couple of single malts, make it Glengoyne, with a splash,” said Sarge, putting on his best “I’m sober, really I am” demeanor.

“Yes, sir,” said John. “I take it no appetizers this evening?”

“No, thank you. We’ll take a moment to look at the menu,” said Sarge, still avoiding eye contact with Julia.

As John-Angie tucked tail and hustled off, Sarge thought it safe to look at Julia and found this to be in error. She had both cheeks puffed out like she just swallowed a mouthful of baked macaroni and cheese balls. Damn, it was on again, he thought as the both of them burst out in simultaneous laughter.

“Now listen,” said Sarge, leaning back in his chair. “You are causing a disruption in this establishment, and we may get kicked out.”

“Me,” defended Julia. “You started this whole
macaroni
thing. Are you going to let me tell you about the Marconi or not?”

Angie delivered the fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky to the table.

“Give us a little time before we order, Angie,” said Sarge, sharing a clink of the tumblers with Julia.

His first sip of full-bodied Scotch went down smoothly, not that he expected any different from the Glengoyne distillery.

“This is a
big deal
,
Sarge,” began Julia.

“I know, Julia. I’m well aware of the prestige associated with a Marconi. Congratulations.”

The National Association of Broadcasters established this award in honor of Nobel Prize winner Guglielmo Marconi over twenty-five years ago. The Marconi Award recognized radio stations and broadcasters for their excellence in a variety of categories. The award had never been given to a predominantly Internet broadcasting medium, until now. In yet another first for Julia, and the
Herald
, the Marconi Award for News/Talk Station was granted to the Boston Herald Radio. It was a
big deal.

“We received the call today from the NAB announcing the decision. When we were included in the call for entries back in May, I didn’t think we had a chance,” said Julia, lifting her glass for a toast. “They’ve never granted a Marconi to an Internet broadcast. We’re the first.”

“I am so proud of you,” said Sarge, clinking her glass and taking a sip.

He could see his words warmed Julia, further recognizing the deep-seated effect on her. Her talents and accomplishments amazed him.

“As you know, the concept of taking Internet radio to this level had less to do with winning awards and more to do with the dissemination of information worldwide. Our
friends
,”
said Julia, with a nod of her head toward downtown Boston, “were very supportive of the project when we approached them in 2012.”

There it was, the reminder—the
aide-memoire.
Their lives were dependent upon an association, known only to a few, that prevented a normal relationship. Sarge leaned forward to speak.

“You and I have discussed this many times. I am proud of what we have accomplished with our
side work,
” said Sarge with a hushed voice. “But I get the sense our participation is going to escalate in a big way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Julia, her inquisition interrupted by their servers.

“So, what may we serve you for dinner tonight?” asked John.

They both scrambled to take a last minute look at the menu.

“I will have the Asian yellowfin tuna salad, please, and another cocktail,” said Julia, noticing Sarge’s smirk.

Sarge ordered the Irish stew.

“What?” asked Julia, after the servers disappeared.

“Asian, imagine that. I could have taken you to Panda Express,” said Sarge, spreading his legs apart to avoid the expected kick—which he did.

“Ha!” exclaimed Sarge proudly.

“You’re adapting,” said Julia, bringing her heel down on his toes.

“Hey!” squalled Sarge.

“Do you think I only have one cannon to fire, Monsieur? Do you want a war? I will give you a war!” said Julia, switching to a French accent.

“
Je me rends
,” said Sarge in French, raising his white cloth napkin in surrender.

The two had a good heartfelt laugh. He really missed her and vowed to do something about that.

“Speaking of the French,” said Julia, changing the subject slightly. “They seem to have brokered a peace in Ukraine.”

“Maybe,” said Sarge. “It seems to me they gave the Russians everything Putin wanted, including the two French-built Mistral-class warships bought and paid for by Moscow. The price tag on those two battleships was one point six billion, but closing the deal was more symbolic than anything. The administration used words like
ill-advised
when criticizing the sale, but it came down to economics for the French. They need the euro.

“The Eurozone’s finances are in shambles,” continued Sarge. “Spain, Italy and Greece are technically bankrupt. Their national debt to GDP ratio is approaching two hundred percent. It’s unsustainable, yet these three countries refuse to implement any form of austerity measures. Germany and France have coddled them for too long. They no longer fear any repercussions for their fiscal mismanagement.”

“So the sale of the ships to the Russians was about economics?” asked Julia.

“I think so,” replied Sarge. “Also, appeasement. The French are tired of fighting our battles, not that they do much anyway. As for the
brokered peace
you referenced, it’s a farce just like all of the other cease-fire accords reached the last few years. Every time a peace agreement is reached, Putin reloads and advances. This time is no different. Apparently, a deal has been reached allowing the Russians to bring ‘aid supplies’ along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, effectively creating a much sought-after land bridge from Russia to the Crimean Peninsula.

“Putin is a nationalist and he’s wildly popular in Russia right now. In fact, his popularity is widespread around the globe, except in Kiev and Washington, of course. And there’s good reason for this. Putin is principled. Everyone knows what his goals are, namely the restoration of the Soviet Union.”

“I get that,” said Julia. “Standing on your principles is a rare trait these days. Why is this land bridge to Crimea so critical?”

“Strategic geopolitical decisions are rarely made based on a single factor. Putin is an incredible strategist on the world stage, unlike our present leadership. The United States has been outmaneuvered at every turn, and Putin’s conquest of Crimea and eastern Ukraine is no exception. I believe initially, Putin thought he was
losing
Ukraine to NATO and the West. Perhaps Crimea, with its huge ethnic Russian population, was an easy and likely target to gain a foothold.

“Think about it. The actual acquisition was rapid, bloodless and highly effective because Russia already had boots on the ground, and the pro-Russian populace welcomed them with open arms. Geographically, Crimea is easy to defend. At first, Putin may have underestimated the effect of the Western-imposed sanctions, especially the Saudi’s complicity in driving the price of oil way down. But in the end, it’s all about money, and the price of oil returned to one hundred dollars a barrel.”

“That didn’t take long, did it?” added Julia.

“No, which brings us back to the original premise,” said Sarge. “The premise that there is a peace accord in Ukraine is a joke. The pause in the conflict allowed Putin to regroup and advance his goals. In this case, he receives a land bridge to Crimea, which was one of his early military strategies. But more importantly, he now has direct access to the Black Sea via the port of Sevastopol, the traditional home of Russia’s Black Sea fleet. Russian naval power in the Mediterranean will grow exponentially.”

John-Angie politely interrupted to deliver their meals. They were attentive but unobtrusive, like any upscale servers should be. Sarge surveyed his Irish stew. Stephanie’s self-described comfort food was very comfortable indeed. Julia seemed to be pleased as well because she dug into her salad. With food on their minds, they changed the subject, exchanging less serious talk about the world. Sarge melted into his surroundings, wishing with every smile and comment that he could have a real relationship with Julia. Before he realized it, John the server had deftly slipped the check onto their table in the customary American Express leather check presenter. Sarge stuffed it with twenties and sat back in his chair, noticing a group approach their table. He stood up to greet one of his students, Michelle Crepeau.

“Hi, Professor Sargent,” said Crepeau. “I would like you to meet my parents. This is my daddy, Kenneth Crepeau, and my mom, Lou.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” said Sarge, returning Mr. Crepeau’s firm grip with a handshake.

He introduced Julia, and handshakes were exchanged. “Did you folks enjoy your dinner?”

“We did,” said Kenneth Crepeau. “My Michelle has spoken very highly of you, Professor. It appears you have a real fan.”

“Well, let’s see how she feels after finals,” said Sarge to a round of smiles and giggles from Miss Crepeau.

Sarge noticed Julia studying him.

“It was very nice to meet you both. I’m sure your daughter will do fine,” said Sarge reassuringly.

Sarge settled back in his chair as the Crepeau family left, turning his attention back to Julia.
Death stare
.

“Is she one of yours?” asked Julia casually.

“One of my what? Students?” replied Sarge.

“You know,” pressed Julia.
Oh boy
.

“No, I don’t know,” said Sarge.
Buy time. Hide the legs
.

“A groupie student chick. I saw how she looked at you—
Professor
,” said Julia with her best schoolgirl voice.

Every fiber of his being screamed,
Run, Sarge, while you still can, before she breaks your legs
.

“Wait, what? No way. You don’t get your nookie where you get your cookies,” protested Sarge.
She isn’t serious, right?