6/28/25: Finished reviewing The After Rafferty and sent it to Lou Aronica at The Story Plant.
6/25/25: The Story Plant requested to see The After Rafferty.
6/7/25: 618 Submissions requested the full manuscript of my science fiction novel The After Rafferty.
May 16, 2024: Sent out 5 queries for The After Rafferty to publishers specializing in science fiction.
May 15, 2024: The After Rafferty is now completed.
Lance is contacted by old childhood friend he hasn’t seen since high school in a curious manner. This draws him into the mystery of his friend Rafferty’s disappearance. Has he died? Been kidnapped? In hiding? Lost his mind? Turned traitor? Stolen secrets to sell to the highest bidder? Lance meets Rafferty’s boss Ethan, wife Bo, co-workers Tennessee and Oona, FBI agent Waneta, and private investigator Chase. And Lance’s sometime girlfriend Gladys also becomes involved. But learning the fate of Rafferty is only the beginning of this wild ride. The fate of mankind hangs in the balance of Rafferty’s unbalanced mind. And only Lance can persuade his friend not to destroy the world.
3 excerpts:
Bo, wearing a British air force uniform from the sixties, walked across an American air base from that era. Just like in the movie, the world was depicted in black and white.
Bo entered an office. Behind the desk was seated Rafferty, dressed as an American air force general. “What’s going on, Rafferty?” she asked, with a British accent. “And why am I talking like this?”
Rafferty responded in a thick American Midwestern drawl. “Now why don’t you just take it easy, Group Captain, and please make me a drink of grain alcohol and rainwater, and help yourself to whatever you’d like.”
Bo walked up to the desk and leaned across it into Rafferty’s face. “What are we doing here?”
Rafferty lit a huge fat cigar. “Destroying the world.”
Bo looked all around. “It looks like you already did. Everything is black and white.”
“I told you this was one of my favorite movies. I tried to get you to watch it with me.”
“If there was a colorized version I might have.”
Rafferty blew a thundercloud of cigar smoke in her face. “This is one of my options.”
Bo jerked back, fanning the air. “What? Filling the world with stinking cigar smoke?”
“Bringing on a nuclear holocaust.”
Bo coughed as she backed out of the toxic air around the desk. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s incredibly obvious, isn’t it? A foreign substance is introduced into our precious bodily fluids, without the knowledge of the individual, certainly without any choice. That’s the way your hard-core Commie works.”
Bo took a deep breath of relatively clean air. “Have you gone crazy?”
“That’s another option. I’m exploring that one, too. But here we’re working out how I could destroy the world by causing a total nuclear exchange between the nuclear powers.”
“But why?!”
“I thought I just made that clear.” Rafferty puffed on his cigar. “Because Communist elements in our federal government have forced the fluoridation of our drinking water in order to emasculate the American male.”
“Wow. I never knew you were into any wild Internet conspiracy theories.”
“Do you think there were no conspiracy theories before the Internet? This one hales from the fifties.” Rafferty considered. “Perhaps the forties.”
“Would you please put that cigar out. You’re killing me.”
“That would be a better way of dying than by radiation poisoning.” Rafferty snuffed out the cigar. “In the U.S. the fluoridation of our drinking water began in 1945. The medical profession claimed it was to promote dental health. Opponents claimed it was a Communist plot, since people had no option other than to drink fluoridated water, since that was the only kind of water coming out of their taps. Bottled water was unheard of back then.”
Now that she could breathe freely, Bo was getting caught up in the story. “Why Communists?”
“In the fifties and sixties Communists got blamed for everything. Sort of like liberals are blamed today.”
“So what bad things did fluoridated water do to people?”
“Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper believed it was the cause of him not being able to attain an erection.”
Bo burst out laughing. “So in this movie the world is destroyed because some general couldn’t get it up?”
“This was before Viagra.”
“And you like this movie?”
“It’s absurdist. The best black comedy ever made.” Rafferty stood. “And it’s appropriate to my situation.”
“How is that?”
“Like Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper, I, too, am unable to ‘get it up’, as you say.”
“So you are going to destroy the world.”
“Unless I figure out some way to overcome this difficulty. Lance doesn’t seem to want to help.”
Bo backed away. “Don’t look at me. Not in this body.”
* * *
Here’s another excerpt:
“Well boys, we’ve got three engines out, we’ve got more holes in us than a horse trader’s mule, the radio’s gone and we’re leaking fuel and if we was flying any lower, why we’d need sleigh bells on this thing… But we’ve got one thing on those Ruskies… At this height, why they might harpoon us, but they dang sure ain’t gonna spot us on no radar screen!”
Bo found herself seated next to Rafferty, the man who just declared those words with a southern drawl so heavy it was a wonder he could get them out of his mouth without using both hands. He was wearing a leather jacket, a leather cap, and headphones And smiling at her.
Right away Bo realized why it was necessary for Rafferty to talk so loud. In order to be heard over the roar of the motors. They were in a plane. She could vaguely recall being in a plane recently. Watching an in flight movie. A war movie? Why would she have been watching a war movie? She hated war movies? But that plane had been more comfortable. This plane was bouncing from cloud to cloud all over the sky. But there had been turbulence, she remembered, on that other plane, too.
That other plane flight had been on a passenger jet airliner. This was some ancient jalopy. That she was seated in the cockpit of? In the co-pilot seat? Talking to Rafferty? Seated at the controls? She looked madly out the windshield. Of a propeller plane? A really big propeller plane? “What is this, Rafferty?!”
His grin even had a southern drawl. “Why, this is the hand basket we are all going to Hell in. Otherwise known as a B-52 bomber Stratofortress. More affectionately known as BUFF. Big Ugly Fat Fella.”
“Do you know how to fly this?”
“Of course. It’s my movie. At least this remake of it is.”
“Remake of what?”
“Dr. Strangelove…”
“…or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.” Bo recalled soaking in a tub, in her bathroom at her house, watching a black and white movie. Only now did she realize she, Rafferty, the cockpit, the plane, the world outside, was all depicted in black and white. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m not going to reveal the ending and spoil the movie for you.”
“So this is just a movie.”
“Maybe.”
She fell silent, considering, as she was jostled all about by air turbulence. And because the roar of the motors nearly deafened her. Briefly. “We were on an air base before. You were a general. Who couldn’t get an erection. So you were going to destroy the world. By bringing on a nuclear holocaust. Is that what you are doing now?”
“America’s nuclear triad consists of three legs of deterrence – land, sea, and air. The thinking was that an enemy, such as the Soviet Union, which was America’s only nuclear-armed opponent at the time this strategy was conceived in the fifties, could not knock out all three legs of our nuclear arsenal at once in a sneak attack if our nuclear capabilities were spread out all over the world. Knowing we could survive a first strike and respond with a counter-attack that would annihilate them in return, they would never attempt one. The strategy is known as Mutual Assured Destruction.”
“So the Soviet Union has launched a nuclear strike against America? In your movie?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“So you are not launching a nuclear attack against the Soviet Union?”
“I might be.” Seeing frustration erupting in Bo’s face, he continued. “I don’t want to spoil the ending for you. Although the ending is rather musical.” Seeing her frustration hadn’t been relieved, he rushed on. “MAD was a successful strategy of deterrence. By the way, don’t you just love acronyms. Mutual Assured Destruction. MAD. Anyway, there is only one slight problem with it. It depends on rational action. But what if characters in high positions of power take irrational actions? Or if just stupid mistakes are made? And don’t believe it’s only one side or the other that can make such mistakes. In the movie, the Soviet Union builds a Doomsday Machine but doesn’t tell anyone about it. They design the ultimate deterrence then don’t inform anyone that they now have the ultimate deterrence. That’s not how deterrence works.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That both sides are equally stupid?”
“A stupid mistake has always been more likely than either the United States or Soviet Union, which today is Russia, deliberately launching a pre-emptive first strike. And in today’s world, where there are many more nuclear powers than just those two, a mistake is so much more likely to happen. Last time I checked the Doomsday Clock was at 90 seconds before midnight.”
“So we destroy the world by accident? Ooops?”
“Exactly. It’s bound to happen. The world is becoming so complex. This exponential increase in complexity will bring on another Malthusian collapse.”
“Another collapse? You mean of civilization?”
Rafferty nodded.
“It’s happened before?”
“There have been several. Only before each collapse was regional. This approaching Malthusian collapse will happen on a global scale. It’s inevitable. Unless.”
“Out with it, Rafferty. If you keep me here much longer I’m going to barf all over the cockpit.”
“Unless there is a unifying force powerful enough to guide the world through this mounting complexity.”
“Such as you?”
“People shouldn’t fear AI. It might be the only thing that can save us.” He turned away from Bo. “But I haven’t decided yet. Patch it up and keep it doddering along? Or burn it down and build from scratch?”
“You think you can do either one?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Now excuse me. I’ve got a line here. Got to keep my movie moving along while I figure out which I’m going to do.” He picked up the mike. “Well, boys, this is it. Nuclear combat, toe to toe with the Rooskies.”
* * *
One more:
Bo found herself in a huge dimly-lit smoke-filled room with several dozen men seated around a large circular table. Filling one long wall were several massive maps of the world that the government national security officials and high-ranking military officers seated around the table were are all riveted on. On the map depicting the Soviet Union were a large array of ominous arrows coming at the country from all directions.
At the moment Lance was on a red phone in the middle of a call. “Now then, Dmitri, you know how we’ve always talked about the possibility of something going wrong with the bomb… The bomb, Dmitri… The hydrogen bomb!… Well now, what happened is… ahm… one of our base commanders, he had a sort of… well, he went a little funny in the head… you know… just a little… funny. And, ah… he went and did a silly thing… Well, I’ll tell you what he did. He ordered his planes… to attack your country…” Lance held the receiver away from his ear as screaming in Russian blasted out from it.
Bo surveyed the room while this was going on. She spied Rafferty, in the uniform of an American general, seated at the round table. She hurried up to him and leaned over his shoulder. “This is a comedy? The U.S. launching a nuclear attack on the Soviet Union is supposed to be funny?”
Rafferty looked back up to her. “Just a minute, Bo. I’ve got some lines here.” He addressed Lance, who was still waiting for the Soviet Premier to finish his rant. “Mr. President, I’m not saying we wouldn’t get our hair mussed. But I do say no more than ten to twenty million killed, tops. Uh, depending on the breaks.”
“This is not funny.”
Rafferty turned his attention back to her. “You have to remember the context. This movie came out in 1964. Less than two years after the Cuban Missile Crisis. That was the closest the world has ever come to nuclear war. Everyone in the country, the world, was convinced it was going to happen. Armageddon. So this movie was a way of letting off some steam. ‘The crisis passed. We survived. Let’s relax a little and have a good laugh’. That sort of thing.”
“I’m not laughing. Get me out of it.”
Rafferty held up his hand. “Just a minute. The President has something to say to me.” He turned his attention back to Lance.
Who was glaring at him. “You’re talking about mass murder, general, not war!”
“Well, I, uh, don’t think it’s quite fair to condemn a whole program because of a single slip-up, sir.”
Bo grabbed his chin and wrenched his face around to her. “If you are going to destroy the world, Rafferty, then just get on with it and leave us alone.”
Rafferty smiled up at her. “I don’t know if I am or not. I’m considering several options.”
“You are wasting your time. Our time. How long do you think you have? Before the CIA tracks you down. They already released a virus that nearly destroyed you.”
“But it didn’t. How’s that old saying go about shooting at a king?”
Bo laughed in his face. “So now you’re a king?”
“Besides, we have all the time in the world. Recall that, ‘Peyton Farquhar was dead’.”
Bo looked all around the room. “Another quote? From another character in this stupid movie?”
“No. It’s the final line of a famous short story. ‘An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge’, by Ambrose Bierce. Ever read it?” Seeing her blank expression, he continued. “You see, from the time the Army sergeant stepped off one end of the plank, which would cause the condemned man, standing on the other end of the plank, now unsupported by the sergeant’s weight, to fall from the bridge, between that time, and the time when the noose around his neck would draw tight, which would only be a second, a fantasy of the rest of the hanged man’s life played out in his mind. He was rescued. He returned home to his loved ones. He lived a full fruitful life. All that played out in his mind during the final one second of his life. Terry Gilliam also expressed that idea at the end of his movie, ‘Brazil’. Time can be that capricious. That knotty.” Rafferty spread both arms out, indicating the entire room. “That is what is happening here.”
Bo found herself back in the cockpit of the B-52 bomber, with Rafferty in the pilot’s seat.
Bo found herself back on the base of the deranged general, Rafferty, who had given the command to launch the nuclear strike on the Soviet Union.
Bo found herself back in the Pentagon War Room with Rafferty.
“Mere seconds have passed since I recovered from the cyber attack launched against me. And they have no idea. The speed of my computations is incomprehensible to them. I could bring about the destruction of civilization as they know it before anyone could draw another breath. If I wanted to.” Rafferty looked away from Bo. “I just need to decide what I want.” He produced a winning smile. “So there’s no rush. At the hypersonic speed of my calculations I have plenty of time to deliberate.”
Bo jumped back as Rafferty jumped up. “What now?”
“That sneaky Alexi de Sedesky is here!”
“Who?”
“The Soviet ambassador. Excuse me.” Rafferty charged up to the Russian lurking in the shadows and began wrestling with him.
Lance, as the American President, delivered his line with the proper outrage. “Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the War Room!”
————————————————————————————
A.R. – After Rafferty is in 5 parts: One – Everywhere and Nowhere. Two – The Court Jesters. Three – Constant Acceleration. Four – Ruby Glen. Five – Russian Turtles.
The 1st page I entered in Ready Chapter 1’s First Page Frenzy contest:
Part One – Everywhere and Nowhere
Let’s get together and crack open an RG Cola.
A good opening line?[Pause] Crack open indicates a drink. A shared drink. RG Cola a typo? Supposed to be ‘RC Cola? Royal Crown? Maybe, maybe not. [Pause] Now I need to identify the speaker.
July Three Times Round.
Intriguing name? Or silly? [Pause] Now I need a setting.
The words are revealed to be a text from an email on a computer screen.
Need to be careful showing tech. It gets outdated so fast. Like the wireless phone in ‘Wall Street’. It was the size of a shoe box. But screens never change. Computers do, but screens have basically been the same since the green screens of cathode ray monitors. Now, I need to show who is staring at the screen.
Lance, a man in his early thirties, spindly and harried, a blank blah blot, is seated at a tiny desk in a cramped cubicle staring at a computer monitor.
“What is RG Cola?”
Lance looks up to see a younger but just as bland co-worker clone standing behind him. “A typo. He meant RC Cola. I guess.”
“Ask July Three Times Round.”
“I have no idea who that is.” Lance marks the email as spam then deletes it.
A young man, Lance, seated at his desk in a crummy little cubicle in a crummy little office, just got a nonsensical email from an unknown source. July Three Times Round. Figured it was spam and deleted it. So what’s next?[Pause] I showed Lance at work. Now show him at home?
Lance is sprawled across a cheap IKEA couch in his undershorts in a tight little living room. All the furnishings are ratty and dirty. The remains of a microwave meal, and three empty beers, are scattered about. He is watching some reality show – ‘Surviving American Masked Bachelorette Race’? – on a twenty-four inch screen TV atop a rickety entertainment center, an open beer in one hand and a remote in the other.
Revised 1st page:
‘Let’s get together and crack open an RG Cola.’ – July Three Times Round.
These words are in the body of an email displayed on a computer screen.
Lance, a man in his thirties, spindly and harried, a blank blah blot, with short unstyled prematurely thinning hair, is seated at a tiny desk in a cramped cubicle staring at a computer monitor. On either side of the monitor are D&D figures – a fighter, an elf, a thief, a wizard, a dwarf, and a cleric. Hanging on a wall is a print of tall ships anchored in Upper Bay in New York City, with fireworks exploding above their towering masts and the Statue of Liberty, and with the slogan ‘1776 to 1976 – 200 Years of Freedom’ emblazoned below the image.
“What is RG Cola?”
Lance looked up to see a younger but just as bland co-worker clone leaning over the top of their shared cubicle wall. “A typo. He meant RC Cola. I guess.”
“Ask July Three Times Round.”
“I have no idea who that is.” Lance marked the email as spam. His index finger hovered above the delete key. Then he unchecked his selection and saved it to a personal folder.
* * *
Lance was sprawled across a cheap ineptly put together IKEA couch in his undershorts in a tight little living room sparsely filled with chipped ceramics, plastic house plants, and pictures torn from old wall calendars of movie posters (including a black and white poster of ‘Doctor Strangelove’) and images taken by Hubble (including the Deep Field). The thin dingy carpet was spattered with extensive Rorschach blots, the walls faded into indecipherable hues. The remains of a microwave meal, and three empty beers, were scattered about. He was watching a reality show, ‘The Surviving Masked Bachelorette Race’, on a twenty-four inch screen TV atop a rickety entertainment center that looked like it had sat out in more than one yard sale, with an open beer in one hand and a remote in the other.
January 3, 2024: Finished the first draft. Have embarked on the first edit.
From the North Rim 