You could hear the muttering early on a spectacular clear morning in Virginia’s Piedmont. You already know what it sounded like as people looked at clocks, mystified that an hour of restful rejuvenating sleep had been sacrificed to the people in Richmond and Washington who seem to still be living in some old time of crisis when clocks on the plows went “tick tock.”

Splash had reset five devices and replaced three batteries on various devices and was still muttering “Spring. Ahead, darn it!”

He did not actually use that term, but the Chairman’s Legal and HR departments have issued a joint directive to ensure language comports with time, or something. We don’t understand, so (Expletive Deleted) it. Melissa had turned on the flatscreen to see what outrage was being perpetrated in what country. She had been expecting something from Ukraine, and of course there was. But there was more.

The big news was the death of a News guy. Somewhere near the capital, we understand, and another strike on a facility very near the Polish border where replacement rockets are being shipped in from NATO suppliers. Splash was smoking outside, watching the fresh bright sun work its magic on the still frozen inch of still white stuff transforming itself back into liquid form.
Loma was watching from the comfort of his comforter. “It isn’t that darn attack. It is the other one. That is the news.” He went back to muttering.

Rocket was more organized and had both all-weather slippers on. He called out over Loma’s prostrate form in the metal bed next to the one he occupies. “Multiple ballistic missiles slammed into the US base in Irbil. In Iraq. Scale, size and accuracy appears to be bigger than what the militia groups were using.”

“So who did it?” Loma actually began to move.

“Current reports are that they might have been Fateh-110 rockets. Those are in the Iranian inventory.”

Loma was actually coming awake. “The Iranians? I thought those guys were the crisis afterTaiwan, not before. I have it written down as Ukraine, Taiwan and then Iran.”

Buck was awake and had put on a vest and a clip-on bowtie for holy services. “Given the size of the explosions, that seems highly probable. You forgot the talks about the Iranian nuclear program are stalled, and Tehran is sending some signal of displeasure by shooting accurate weapons from their supporters in Syria. Or somewhere.”

“Isn’t that where the Russians are causing trouble? I am having a hard time keeping this all straight.”

“That is part of the point. We are hysterical about gas prices because the Saudis aren’t pumping enough after we stopped. We were energy independent for a while, but then decided not to be. It is obviously Putin’s fault.”

“But how could front line Iranian weapons be in Syria? Isn’t it more likely they were fired from western Iran?”

“That is a problem. If they were fired from western Iran, it was an attack on US forces. It happened a day after the US and EU suspended talks on the new Joint comprehensive Plan of Action with the Iranians.”

“With the Russians acting as intermediaries to help them get a omb they can hit Israel with.”
“Not so fast. You need to do the checker-board thing for me, and the Attorney is still asleep, so you can be clear and direct.”

Splash growled, and then began to move his hands laterally as though maneuvering things on a playing surface. “Russians hit Ukraine. Iran hits US troops in Iraq after talks break down in Vienna. US and EU buy Russian oil. Russia offers to mediate Iranian talks.” He raised his hands almost in a gesture of bafflement. Or surrender.

DeMille returned from the kitchenette with a steaming mug of Chock Full o’ Nuts. He stood suitably tall for his first remarks of a new day of multiple crises. “We could be seeing the first moments of a major escalation of what was yesterday’s conflict. Today, it is not just in Ukraine, but now the Middle East. Mr. Putin is in trouble with the sanctions, an ongoing war, and a relationship with Iran.”

“Isn’t there a home front component on all this?” Splash looked around to ensure the Attorney was not there to put a damper on discussion. “Isn’t an attack on US forces enough to stop appeasing Iran by dropping sanctions on their nuclear program while importing Russian oil we should be producing ourselves? Will this be a wake-up call?”

Slash looked over at the clock. “I suppose we will have this all straightened out tomorrow morning. Except for re-setting the clock on the truck dashboard. That is always the last one to be changed, and we could be an hour late to important errands.”

“We’ll have to wait and see. I don’t see how this attack can go unanswered.”

“Which one? The one in Ukraine that killed an American journalist, or the Iranian attack in Iraq that killed US diplomats?”

The course of the discussion was disorienting and had several people waving their hands as though they were preparing to take flight. “The distillery is not open on Sundays,” said Splash. “But I took care of that crisis yesterday. And remember, we are now significantly closer to Happy Hour than we were when we went to bed.”

He smiled. Melissa frowned. Rocket just flapped his arms a little faster.

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