Through the Cease Fire

Yesterday—apparently—the world order ended. Or nearly did. In any case, it paused long enough for Section Leader Miles to organize things at Socotra House into manageable pieces. We are, as you might expect, busy.

The end had been scheduled for yesterday, which explained the crowd in the conference room. On a normal news-and-sports cycle someone would have been assigned to stay up late, track the splash, and perhaps lead a celebratory migration to Mr. Day’s Sports Bar in Clarendon. Seventy televisions, wall to wall. If civilization is going to collapse, it ought to do so in high definition.

Miles, who has deployed people and aircraft into actual crises, treated this one the same way: organization first. The Creative Team was split into watch sections. Detachment ALPHA drew the late shift, monitoring events on the big screen until sleep—or extinction—intervened.

That set the tone for the morning meeting.

We were short on content. No one had filed anything suitable for an extinct readership on an ashen planet. The Old Salts filled the gap with stories—Combat Search and Rescue after Vietnam, when the missions were over but the obligations were not.

They spoke of Jack Graf, shot down on a spotter mission, and of what followed: resistance, capture, escape, and the long shadow afterward. Rex, then with Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, had worked the coastal war—coordination, integration, the slow tightening of supply lines under Operation Sea Lords. It worked, mostly. But it left questions. CSAR among them.

Jack never came home. Vice Admiral “Rex” Rectanus carried that fact the rest of his life, right through the withdrawal in 1975 and beyond. Some debts do not expire with policy changes.

It is a story worth telling—particularly in a week that also featured the successful recovery of two F-15E airmen deep in Iran. A good-news/bad-news cycle, depending on your taste for irony.

The picture above is Jack, shortly before the shoot down. Which brought us back to the practical matter: what to publish for a world that might not make it to the afternoon edition.
Dierdre solved part of that problem by declaring it lunchtime.

She has assumed the role of culinary tradecraft officer, working from recipes left by the late Jinny Martin, whose credentials included Moscow, Paris, and the kind of last-minute hosting that begins with, “A Romanian delegation is on the way.” It translates well to life in the Fifteen-Minute Counties—fast, efficient, and potentially compromising over dessert.

No sausage rolls this morning. Splash, still waking up, found that unsettling. The world itself seemed only lightly toasted compared to what Dierdre set down beside the three-gallon thermos.

Taco Puffs.

Golden pastry cups, filled with a dense, unapologetic chili mixture under melted cheese. “Two bites,” she said, and demonstrated. She was not wrong.

“Did anyone see the fight last night?”

That restored order in a sense, a balance between one place and another. Discussion followed.
A draft headline about “Peace Breaking Out Worldwide” was quickly withdrawn.

“The Iranians let one tanker through the strait,” Miles said. “Then stopped the rest.”

Holly frowned. “We already have three books in progress. Now you want another war?”

“No,” Miles said. “Sports section.”
The Atlanta Braves and the Los Angeles Angels had settled their differences in the traditional manner—charging the mound and emptying the benches. It was, by consensus, the most dramatic event of the afternoon. Civilization’s collapse had, after all, been postponed until the 21st.

Inline image
He froze a frame on the screen. You could see it coming—the pitch, the reaction, the collective decision that things were about to get worse before they got better. Or not better at all.

Angels designated hitter Jorge Soler took exception to a high, inside pitch from Braves starter Reynaldo López. Exception was taken physically. The benches followed.

Miles clicked the screen off.

“Detachment ALPHA stays on watch,” he said. “In case the world ends this afternoon instead of yesterday. Scheduling issues.”

There will be, one way or another, something to write about tomorrow—through the cease fire.

Copyright 2026
Vic Socotra – Purveyor of glib words to the world


Vic Socotra – Purveyor of glib words to the world