“Yes Sir. I’ve already taken care of that.”
General Matthew Dowe was sitting at attention behind his polished oak desk. There aren’t many men a General in the United States Army has to answer to, but he was talking to one now.
“I sent you a memo the last time he called. There was no reason to bother you with it, then. He was hoping he could make this conversation as short as possible.
“This time he wants action. Well what should I do? Yes, I already have someone on the inside.
He covered the receiver and took a long deep breath. Thank God this is over the phone, he thought to himself. He wasn’t up to a confrontation with this man.
“Yes Sir. I realize that. I won’t do anything then. Sorry to bother you.”
The connection broke before he could get those last words out. He hung up the phone and clasped his hands on the desktop in front of him. Betraying a friend was not his style. He hated it, but he had no choice. Besides there were no friends in business or war, these days those concepts were interchangeable. You can’t have one without the other. The only difference is the battles are fought with pen and paper, not guns and soldiers.
The General opened the bottom drawer, and took out a bottle of twelve-year old scotch. He poured himself a stiff glass half full. He sat back and took a big long drink, rolling the golden liquid around his tongue.
“There’s no room in this world anymore for friends,” he said to no one. He finished the drink in one gulp, and refilled the glass.
“Good Luck Joe!,” he raised his glass to his former friend.
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