The Crucible. Joaquin De Torres
burnt, and dismembered they would just stare at her with smoldering, black eye sockets. Some of them would try to move, walk to her or hold out their black, twisted hands, beseeching her to help them. Some would even speak, and it was always the same words that came from their tortured, grotesque mouths: “Come back! You must come back! You must do it again!”
“NO!” Her eyes flew open angrily. She turned off the water. “Not today.” She stepped out of the steam, wrapped herself in a towel and moved to the mirror. She grabbed her brush and untangled the cord of her blow dryer as the housephone began to ring in the living room downstairs. But like the other calls in recent days, she let the machine answer it. Brushing and blowing out her shoulder-length, black hair relaxed her.
Kristina let the towel drop to the floor, pausing to study her lean 34-year-old figure. She was physically stunning. With thick, shoulder-length black hair, large brown eyes under thick black brows; full, carved lips, and strong, noble nose and chin, she was often mistaken for a model. At six feet, her long neck, rigid posture and square shoulders made her statuesque and regal.
She began her routine of self-examination. She massaged and pressed her breasts with her fingers checking for lumps. Nothing. She turned to the side and inspected the profile of her breasts which lifted high and full upon her ribcage. Twisting slightly she eyed the long groove that channelled down her back to the dimples on her heart-shaped buttocks. The rest of her body was just as immaculate, from the race horse-like tautness of her legs to the sheer plunge of her stomach from her solar plexus to her pubic hair line. Satisfied that her twice-a-week aerobics classes and two-mile runs were doing their jobs, she pulled on an oversized sweatshirt and went downstairs.
Being an officer in the U.S. Navy, Commander Kristina Torres had to stay in shape as a model for her subordinates, an example of professional and physical excellence. But she was more than that.
Despite her rank, position and responsibilities she remained humble and genial to all. Witty, animated and adventuresome, she never let the child inside her grow up. It was that child that allowed her to work effectively with the countless directors, administrators, technicians, idiots and assholes in her field. Kristina was a magnet; drawing them in, dissipating their egos and arrogance, and bringing the best out of them. She carried herself with so much unpretentious humility that one would never know that she had three Master’s degrees, an IQ of 187 and was working on two PhDs simultaneously. She neither felt any sense of entitlement, nor flaunted her intellectual superiority over others. Vanity, ego and pride were beneath her. It would be her work, above all things, that defined her. Advanced mathematics, physics and software engineering came as easily to her as symphonies did to Mozart. Wearing a lab coat surrounded by whiteboards covered with logarithmic equations was her comfort zone. And as much as the demons would terrify her in the solitude of her own home, her work center was the place they dared not enter. Her work was her invincibility, her sanctuary and the cornerstone of her fame.
She entered her den which was a smaller version of one of her work centers. Basically, a working office with wall-to-wall books, plants, a drafting tables, and stacks of written notes. On one wall hung a huge white board with various mathematical calculations written on it. In the center of the room was a sectional glass-top desk.
“Activate.” With her single verbal command, all three laptops and the large flat screens connected to them powered up.
The left screen displayed the Global Weather Channel where it began cycling through weather systems across the world, finally settling on Kristina’s preselected location of the Pacific Ocean. The right screen displayed a split screen with two documents on either side ready for editing: her two PhD theses, one on Atmospheric Effects on Shipboard Weapons Systems for the Naval War College; and the other on Cryogenic Anti-Conflagration Theory for MIT. The center screen displayed a screensaver photo of a naval ship firing missiles and engulfed in white plumes of smoke. At the bottom of the photo which filled the screen was the title: U.S.S. Gettysburg – Naval Testbed, WEPS-ONE. The e-mail icon pulsed then was followed by a female voice.
“You have mail, Kristina.”
“List mail, please.” The voice recognition program accessed her inbox list. She scanned it and located the line she was looking for.
“Open mail, Torres.” The massive screen split into two windows, one with an open white screen and another with a digital image of a gentleman in his early sixties, wearing a khaki naval officer’s uniform. A row of four silver stars gleamed off both shirt collars. She smiled at the image, then left the den and went into the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of water and an apple from the fridge. Her forehead and torso were still perspiring from her hot shower, but the house’s hardwood floors felt cool under her bare feet. Moving through her dining room she picked up the stack of mail sitting on the table that she had dropped there the day before.
She thumbed through the large corporate envelopes just checking the senders. The names were all familiar: McDonnell Douglass Corporation, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, NASA. She knew what they wanted. Then there was the stack from the universities: Cambridge, Oxford, Berkeley, Harvard, Stanford, MIT--who wanted her to become dean or assistant dean of their research and engineering departments. These same companies were on her e-mail inbox list, as well. She laid the stack back down and made her way to the table stand where the phone and message machine sat. The number two pulsed in the LED window. She depressed the PLAY button and sat on the sofa. Stretching her long legs on the coffee table, she pointed her toes like a synchronized swimmer towards the massive TV. She sipped at the water bottle as the messages played. The first beep sounded.
“Hello, Miss Torres. This is Patricia Berry, executive vice president for North Star Global Technology, human resources department. How are you today?
“Our president Joe Bender can’t stop talking about the possibility of you working with us. Your résumé is phenomenal, and your reputation is, of course, renowned. We would like the pleasure of a meeting with you. Please call, text or e-mail me at your convenience so we can set this up. All my information is within the packet I sent you last week. Just ask for me, Patricia. Flight, hotel and rental car accommodations would be our pleasure, Ms. Torres. If you have any questions concerning the job, pay, anything at all, please feel free to call me. Thank you again. Good-bye.” She took a bite of the apple as the second beep sounded.
“Hello, Ms. Torres! This is Doug Russo of Lockheed Martin Corporation again. How are you, ma’am? I’m pleased to inform you that we would like to substantially increase the salary amount on our original offer letter to $2.7 million per year, and include a $300,000 sign-on bonus.” Kristina shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“We understand the competition for your work is extremely high, so in addition to the increased salary, our company is offering you a company car, and a $10,000 monthly personal expense account. We understand you’re not due to leave the Navy for another five months; however, we’d like to offer you a two-month salary advance on top of the signing bonus, even before your separation date. We are all excited about the possibility of working with you. Please call my cell or e-mail me at your convenience. Good-bye now.”
Three successive beeps indicated that no other messages followed. She got up and walked over to the plate glass window of the family room and pulled open the curtains. Her eyes moved calmly about the other courts of houses sitting on the Seven Pines property. Her house sat high on a cul-de-sac with five others, overlooking the flame-hued leaves of autumn that engulfed the sleepy community of Columbia, Maryland.
Two point seven million. That’s the highest offer so far; then why am I not happy?
She understood what her skills and accomplishments meant to the defense contracting world. She considered the $80,000 annual salary the Navy paid her as an O-5 and shook her head. The disparity in pay was staggering and laughable. She had to acknowledge that there were choices that had to be made about her life.
Face your fear! She thought of this, too. With a shortage of qualified ship drivers in the Navy, and the volatile political and military situation on the Korean Peninsula, she would be a welcomed sight to the other frontline commanders. Almost a third of the Pacific Fleet combatants were now equipped with weapons and electronic systems that she herself designed. Ship command