The Ordeal: A Cautionary Tale

By David Lindauer

In the near future, when burgeoning populations will make competition for scarce resources a matter of national interest, what measures might governments take to assure fair distribution? What rules could they enact to balance population and resources? To what extremes might people and organizations go to claim their personal share of resources?
But, more importantly, will YOU be prepared for your Ordeal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481749619

David Lindauer

Harry Lindauer (1918-2006) served as a U.S. Army Intelligence officer in World War II, the Korean War, and the War in Vietnam. During his retirement, he prepared extensive typewritten notes that have formed the framework for this book. David Lindauer - himself a former U.S. Army officer - is the only person who could have compiled this first part of the story of his father's life. A long-time resident of Germany and painstaking military historian, David has researched Army records, World War II histories and Lindauer family archives to develop a comprehensive picture of Harry Lindauer, his family's background, and the rich and varied history of the unique little town from which he came. David has written extensively on military history and topics dealing with national security. His first novel, "The Ordeal: A Cautionary Tale" was published in 2013. He currently lives with his wife, Winnie, in North Bethesda, Maryland.

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The Ordeal

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A Cautionary Tale

David Lindauer

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters contained herein and persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

© 2013 by David Lindauer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4963-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4962-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4961-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907998

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

I PREPARATION

II THE ORDEAL

III THE ADVISOR

IV A GATHERING

V AN INTERVIEW

VI THE MEETING WITH MONTGOMERY

VII A TRYST

VIII POST COITUM…

IX A JOURNEY BEGINS

X THE JOURNEY CONTINUES

XI THE PEOPLE

XII JOURNEY’S END

XIII PASSING BETWEEN THE TWO

XIV RUNNING INTO THE WIND

XV AT THE MARKET

XVI ENCOUNTER

XVII A MEETING WITH ANOTHER ADVISOR (MANNY ROSTEN)

XVIII PREPARATION

XIX THE ORDEAL

Dedication

To my whimsical and wonderful W.

Purveyor of the brightest smiles

Supporter of my craziest dreams

I

PREPARATION

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Tom Brennibor awoke that morning with a tiny, barely discernible, yet definite, sense of dread. He couldn’t figure out why: He had survived a dozen of their Ordeals, and passed each one with flying colors. He even had a smug sense that they could never get him—he was too good at gaming the system, just as he had maneuvered and finagled his way through college and into his post-graduate years. It was simple, he thought: You merely figured out what the examiners wanted—and you gave it to them. It sounded so easy. But his sense of foreboding didn’t abate. So he figured that he might as well get up and get prepared.

A quick shave and shower, and Tom began to get himself psyched up for his big day. He had faced these Ordeals before, and always came through with flying colors. Still… you never knew.

He glanced briefly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He would never pass for anything less than sixty-five; but his regular sessions on treadmill and bicycle bore definite results. Aside from a tiny trace of lower belly fat, his trunk looked reasonably firm, and the muscles of his torso actually had retained some definition. Not bad for a 72-year-old former academic, he thought wryly.

But standing around admiring himself was not going to prepare him for today’s trials. He dressed speedily, clothes he could doff quickly when it came time to change into sports attire later. And then it was time for some breakfast.

His daughter-in-law, Susan, was in the kitchen, but his son, Gene, was not. Somehow Tom was not surprised. When he first began going to the annual Ordeals, he wrote off his son’s absences as coincidence. Now, after more than ten years, Tom detected a pattern in his son’s behavior. Perhaps he just couldn’t face the possibility that after such an occasion, he would never see his father again.

But Tom was still puzzled by the reason for his son’s absences. They had never been that close, and when Tom had abruptly walked out on Gene and his alcoholic mother thirty years before, it had created a hiatus in their relationship, a seemingly unbridgeable gap in affection and trust that had taken both of them nearly twenty years, first to acknowledge, then to approach warily, and finally to strive to heal together.

But sometimes Tom wasn’t sure just how completely the breach had been filled. His son was cordial, even affectionate on occasion; but there continued to be a hint of wariness that warned of deeper feelings not yet brought to the surface and addressed openly.

Dad: Should you be eating a full meal the morning of your ordeal? His daughter-in-law’s face disclosed a certain amount of palpable concern. What is the test like?, she inquired in a voice that tried to sound calm and non-committal, but nevertheless expressed her worry. To be concerned about your father-in-law’s mortality is saddening; to be confronted with your own is a devastating blow. Somehow Tom knew that her unasked questions masked the latter feeling. No one wants to be told when they will be forced to face death; even when it was packaged in a socially approved (and government-sanctioned) setting like the Ordeal.

He liked this woman that his son had married. Not especially pretty, she had an infectious laugh and a lively intelligence that he admired.

And she knew how to argue. Sometimes late at night he heard Susan and his son arguing. But he noted that in the course of the arguments, she never belittled Gene or mocked his opinions. But she stood her ground when it made sense, made tiny strategic retreats when necessary, and gauged which fights were important enough to win, and in which she could let her husband appear to be the victor. Tom thought that was very smart of her.

So Tom patiently answered her questions. Yes, he was eating; he needed a bit of fuel to keep him energized during the Ordeal. And the test was a series of comprehensive questions and physical efforts culminating in an evaluation session. And having faced these things, including the government’s pre-tests, a dozen times before, he didn’t feel that he had to be particularly worried.

There was no point upsetting her by sharing his earlier taste of foreboding; Susan seemed thoroughly concerned and even frightened as it was.

Tom grabbed the small bag with his athletic clothes, got his bicycle out of the garage, and began the gentle, three mile ride to the conveyor station. Someone had once told him that there had been a time when bicycle riders had been required to wear protective head-gear. Those had been dispensed with and deemed unnecessary and annoying precautions.

The conveyor that would carry Tom into the GCMA¹ ran on the rails that used to serve something called the DC Metro. But that transportation company had had separate railcars running on a schedule; the conveyor that replaced it was essentially a constantly moving-platform—you hopped on, you hopped off. And since the Traffic Congestion Elimination Ruling more than 20 years ago, a regulation that had essentially banned motor vehicles from the GCMA, the conveyor was the most convenient means for getting into the city and its nearby surrounding region.

A pretty girl on the conveyor smiled at him. At more than three score years and ten, Tom was of sufficient age and introspection so as not to read too much into that smile. Years ago, a smile like that would have meant, I like you. or Ask me out for a date. But that had been more than thirty years ago. Now, it was more likely to mean, You seem like a harmless old codger. or Do you know your zipper is down? than anything resembling an invitation. Tom had once been mistaken when he responded to just such a smile ten years ago. The woman’s mocking laughter and undisguised revulsion still echoed in the deepest recesses of his psyche, and he had resolved never to make that mistake again. So all he did was to smile back.

The conveyor ride was uneventful, with none of the stoppages or service outages that seemed to plague the mass transit system more and more frequently.

The building that Tom now approached was remarkable in its ugliness. Some well-meaning architect had designed the Bureau of Resources Management to suggest a welcoming shelter by having the façade of its upper stories extend further out than the ground floor so that the overhang gave some idea of shelter from the elements. All he had managed to convey was impersonal enormity and the cold exercise of limitless power.

It also didn’t help that although the side facing the Potomac River had large floor-to-ceiling windows, the three sides facing the city were devoid of any apertures (or, in fact, of any relieving features at all). Local comedians joked that the lack of windows prevented passers-by from hearing the screams of the people inside being put through their ordeals.

But, in his twelve previous excursions into the innards of the imposing building, Tom had never heard anything remotely resembling screaming. Still… he didn’t think the joke was particularly funny.

Once Tom entered the building that housed the Bureau of Resources Management, he was struck by how friendly and welcoming it seemed. All of its color schemes were in shades of pastel—warm, inviting, and almost glowing. Electronic scrolling messages kept up a constant stream of great news regarding resource allocations: How many people had been saved from starvation; how many riots or small wars had been averted by the forward-thinking and beneficial auspices