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“When shepherds quarrel, the wolf has a winning game.” — German proverb

Axel

Panting, with three minutes to spare, I adjust my tie before opening my office’s ornate conference room door. As I unbutton my suit jacket to sit, Special Agent Trever Johnson nods, indicating he’s ready. Meanwhile, my boss grimaces while he dims the lights.

My teammate waits for the attorney general and the director to finish, then starts his presentation. “The increase in online chatter has led us to believe there’s going to be a significant event in the next few days.”

Once the projected image on the screen switches to cite his sources, Scott Hunter, to my right, clears his throat. “Most of our analysts concur. It is some kind of bomb.”

“Nuke?” I pose the question for the benefit of the senate members in the room.

Shaking his head, Trever pretends to think it through. “Possibly, but a non-nuclear, electromagnetic pulse attack is more likely. We’ve counted our inventory while checking those of friendly nations but have yet to find any missing.”

In the blink of an eye, the mood in the room shifts. The attorney general is unconcerned except for the tight grip on his pen. The junior member of Homeland Security pales and glances at the other faces around the table, trying to gauge the seriousness of the threat. Arms crossed, my boss leans forward and taps his fingertips.

When the FBI director’s mouth lengthens into a tight line, I figure the implications have sunk in. “We need more funding, more people, and more data to make sense of what we are hearing.”

No one argues, which means my team has done their job well. Perhaps we can stop this latest attempt to send us back to the stone age. Good God, the stakes have never been higher. I feel powerless.

During our fifteen-minute break, the director pulls me aside. “Call Slate at Patten Securities. If you enlist their help, I’ll sign off on the costs.”

“Thank you, sir.” My poker face in place, I allow my tense shoulders to inch away from my ears.

Finally, the meeting ends. Finding an empty office, I call Slate. After discussing the possibility of the total annihilation of the United States of America, he clears his throat.

“Wulf, what’s this I hear of a baby shower?”

Groaning, I roll my eyes. “Sorry. It was my wife’s idea. Our fifty-something neighbor, a woman named Dolly DeClaire, went off for the weekend and left Gwen in charge of her cats. When her friend didn’t come home, my better half decided she should investigate.”

“Did she just play the are-you-forbidding-me card?” He sounds as exasperated as I feel, if not more so.

Of like mind, I don’t hold back. “Of course, she did. Then, she trumped it with a deuced, all-the-other-husbands-have-agreed .”

Slate curses, whooshes out a sigh, and slams a door. “I assume you have vetted the place?”

“Yeah. The Canadian shell corporation that owns the retreat is under investigation. Nothing else was a red flag.” Since I’ve had some concerns myself, I brace for the onslaught of questions.

“Shit. What kind of trouble are we talking here?” I had no idea the unflappable Slate had a weakness. Clearly, it’s his soft spot for his lovely, now pregnant wife, Lilac.

A newlywed and stepdad, I mirror my friend’s frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to access the files, but lacking just cause, I can’t insist.”

“Huh. I’ll see what I can do. Hold on, Suds is calling.” After his voice disappears, I rasp my hand across my beard, wondering what could be taking so long.

A few minutes later, the Patten man returns. “Sebastian has the rest of the spa spouses on a Zoom call. He wants us to join. Hang up. I’ll text you the link.”

Ah fuck. With doomsday pending, I don’t have time to play this sick version of Survival, where your wife ruins all your friendships and calls in your favors.

Once I log in, Lucky’s scowl pops up on the top right corner of the screen. “Oi! Who the hell agreed to this bizzo ?”

While I check the Australian slang for nonsense, an equally annoyed Suds shakes his head in the square beside his. “My wife already insists I am overprotective. Y’all can believe me when I say, if we forbid her from going, forget about sex.”

Jack’s dark eyes and furrowed brows pop up on the screen. “Blake is not attending. Period.”

In the center, Slate’s brows pop up as his mic turns green. “How about you be the Guinea pig, Taylor? You be the first to tell your wife she’s staying home. Let the rest of us know how it goes.”

We all chuckle, then Suds clears his throat. “If y’all wouldn’t mind, I have something to say which should ease your minds. Nirvana Digital Detox Weekend Getaways is part of a national chain. Other than a couple of minor accidents, no incidents have been reported in over ten years.”

Not to be outdone, I add Trever’s data. “The shell corporation, Global Warning, owns the place. It appears innocuous enough… ties to Greenpeace and other tree-hugging organizations.”

Slate’s scowl deepens. “My analysts will do a deeper dive. No risk? I vote we let them go.”

One of Suds' SEAL buddies, Wheels, scratches his blond beard. “Who, exactly, is this missing cat lady?”

Feeling more responsible by the minute, I unmute my mic to defend my wife’s position. “Dolly DeClaire retired from a government job in disaster management last year. She’s in her late fifties. She drives a Buick, which most days, remains parked in her driveway. She belongs to no clubs, charities, or affiliations.”

“How about we find the old bird first, so our women don’t stick their noses where they don’t belong.” Everyone nods at Lucky’s suggestion except the ex-SEAL private eye.

Sutcliff scowls. “You think I haven’t tried? There’s not one traffic cam in the whole damn town. I asked the police chief if he’d mind reaching out to residents who might have doorbell cam footage, and he declined.”

Wheels’ brother-in-law, Hands, speaks up for the first time. “Listen. We’re getting nowhere. On the surface, the spa is legit. The townspeople love them, and there are hundreds of positive online reviews. We need to trust our women to make intelligent decisions.”

Lucky laughs. “I agree, mate. Does this mean you’re staying at home?”

“Hell no. I’m finding a hotel room. Who’s with me?” The words barely leave the SEAL’s mouth when Slate butts in.

“I already booked our rooms. We tell the wives we’ve decided to hold a dadchelor party.”

I Google the term, then smirk. “A baby shower for the father-to-be? Will we play games? Eat pink and blue cupcakes?”

“We could beat the shit out of each other if you prefer.” While the expectant dad glowers at me through the Zoom screen, Suds grins. “I’m all in. My in-laws love sitting for my kids.”

My chat window flashes.

Lucky: Send your rugrat to my place. If you kick in some money, my nanny will watch her along with my four.

After the Zoom call ends, the rest of my day is spent deciphering the rise in online chatter about a catastrophic event to end civilization as we know it.