Miles was wearing a strange costume for a retired Navy Patrol Aviation Captain. Splash was confused, since he was between romances. Rocket and Melissa clearly had plans for a lavish luncheon at 801 Chop House up the road, and the kids—who can’t afford such things—had a plan for chocolate, wine and flowers outside in the afternoon when the temperature paradoxically vaults from a degree or two below freezing to nearly sixty.

The weekend forecast says maybe freezing rain tomorrow, but we will take this as a certain invitation to Spring. And Love.

Which is why Miles was attired in his cassock and mitre and waved his rotary wand at the crowd.

“In view of the day, the Daytona 500, and a tenuous morning peace, I want to get the latest Epstein thing out of the way. After all we have watched on the flat-screen for the last eleven-teen years, the release of three million files on what that rascal has been up to—and who he was doing it with—came out. We know about the things he was convicted for, the dozens of victims who are now willing to reveal themselves, and the connections that caused the Chief Legal Counsel of Goldman Sachs to announce her resignation.”

Rocket looked at his watch. The Chop House was going to open in a few minutes, and it being a triple holiday AND Saturday, the adult festivities were perfectly acceptable—even if a little early.

“The Epstein thing is pretty amazing. The new scandals about a dead guy may also bring down **Keir Starmer’s British government. But the reason we are going to mention this once—and only once—is the appalling accusation this morning that rape, murder and child molestation may not even be close to the worst of those.”

“What do you mean?” asked Holly. She was looking demure this morning and casting a look at Keith from the George Mason Communications School.

“Like why the scoundrel ordered hundreds of pounds of sulfuric acid delivered to his private island.”

Splash stirred and reached for his steaming mug of Flat Yank coffee. “So what? That also dissolves all sorts of agricultural stuff.”

“Like the bones of children you might have had for dinner?”

Miles waved his mitre to shut up that line of investigation. “That’s it. I can report to the Chairman that we have reviewed millions of pages of documents and found one item worth mentioning—even if it could be bogus. Isn’t there stuff this morning that is more uplifting?”

Rocket looked away from Melissa, who was primping at the south end of the conference table. “While it is still morning, anyway. I heard they are going to award the Congressional Medal of Honor to the SPECOPS guy who led the team in Venezuela. For the Maduro snatch.”

There was some nodding by the veterans at the table as Splash cleared his throat and continued. “For you guys who remember, the USS Jerry Ford is expected to leave the Caribbean and travel to the Middle East as part of negotiations with Iran. Some of us have been there for those unexpected times away from home.”

“Plus, the Government shut down at midnight last night.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be the lead item in discussions this morning?”

Miles shook his head and waved the wand. “Enough. Talking about the government is just going to lead to three million redacted digits about a guy we prefer being where he is—however he got there from that jail cell.”

That commenced a discussion about impending lunch. The 801 Chop House is just two minutes south of HQ, and despite the price, is always inviting. It is normally a later-afternoon adventure, so there was talk about opening the Galley pantry for a snack to start festivities.

That ushered in talk about what was the best bet for lunch at the 801, a place known for excellent—if pricey—sustenance. Consensus leaned toward the 801 Cut, bone-in Prime Rib as a decent entrée, though a minority opinion from the Zoomers thought the 16 oz. wet-aged Ribeye might be worth a try.

Then the table turned to whether Israel was going to whack the Hamas militants reorganizing in Gaza against the treaty—and when the special operations people are going to march across the roof of the Maximum Leader Palace in Tehran to bring the Supreme Leader the appetizer. We are not sure whether closure of at least part of the government—like TSA and the Coast Guard—will hang that up.

We would like to have that settled before dinner, but we haven’t even decided yet on the dessert course from lunch.

Love first. Headlines later.

Copyright 2026 Vic Socotra