Chapter 17

Monday, August 26^th, 1991

139 Meadow Ln

Novato, CA 94947

Kate frowned at the numbers on the sheet she had spread out on the table and laboriously worked to fill the cells on.

Dan came in the kitchen from the garage/shed, and fetched a glass of water, dropping the work gloves on the counter. Seeing his wife, her hair pulled back in a sweatband, blue workshirt with sleeves rolled up, calculator in hand, concentrating on the sheet, he grinned.

"After harvest, we'll get a computer with a spreadsheet program," he promised.

Kate looked up, seeing something in the distance, then focused on him. "We're going to be in cash-flow trouble, Dan, unless we pick ourselves."

He gave her a steady look. "Okay. Why?"

"I called the labor brokers in Stockton. We need to have just over fifteen tons of Pinot assayed and to the auction by the time it ends, the eighth of October."

Dan nodded. The longer the grapes stayed on the vine, the more sugar they gained, ceteris paribus, meaning unless something drastic happened, like an unexpected hot spell or the irrigation dried up. And that's another problem, we really can lose our water here, Dan knew. Don't go borrowing trouble, boy. Waiting too long to harvest could make the wine too alcoholic.

And yet, if the grapes were picked too soon, they'd dry, unless they were refrigerated. Refrigerated storage cost money. Insufficient sugar content would bring a lower price at auction.

One of the figures that had gone into the financing of the vineyard was the expected yield for 1991, at just over thirty-two thousand pounds, twelve thousand pounds per acre. Dan and Kate had six acres in trellis and irrigation, with room on the westward-facing slopes for twenty more, and some southern-exposure folds in the hillsides would add some space for varietals. Only forty-five percent of the trellis had vines established and bearing.

They'd missed the contract season, meaning they hadn't sold the crop to a winery (or wineries) based on the expected volume of the crush, the term for the bulk grapes, before the harvest. Now, they were hoping to sell at auction, for a price of around $1400 per ton.

"I need to pay a flat rate of one hundred and sixty dollars a day per head to the broker, since we're so far from the Central Valley they have to drive them out here. Each worker can pick, say, nine hundred pounds a day on the first pick, we want the harvest in with two picks," Kate meant each pass through the trellises, two passes through gave nearly-ripe bunches a chance to ripen in the days it took to complete a pass. "Figure four hundred a day on the second pick. To make our target, then, if my math is right," and here they shared a smile, because Kate's math was always right, "we'll need 10 laborers, plus a machinery operator, for five days. If we spread it out a little..."

"Yeah," Dan nodded. "So ... this pick, what, we'll gross about twenty-two thousand, say? We'll need to pay," Dan closed his eyes for a moment, " ... forty-seven hundred or so for five days, nine heads, at fifteen cents a pound." He opened his eyes, and found Kate looking down at the sheet, then at him, and she shook her head, smiling.

"We can't afford that without selling more stock. Our retirement fund's kind of gone, not much left." Kate made a face. She said, "This is our retirement, I know," to forestall Dan. "Hurry up and get elected, we need the income."

Dan shook his head. "What's the going rate for labor? It can't be that much, that'd be ... three hundred a ton. It's got to be lower, lots lower."

Kate shrugged. "The brokers wouldn't guarantee a poundage per day per worker. And we need to contract soon, or they won't have any workers. And, the rate will probably go up as we get closer to harvest, and we'll incur travel costs, and..." she trailed off. "We need to be a bigger operation."

"Or keep a permanent workforce," Dan muttered.

Monday, August 26^th, 1991

235 Montgomery St, Suite 239

San Francisco, CA 94104

John Mattes had introduced the Gunny to the office staff, shown him where the kitchen and head was, then left him in front of his computer, a telephone with too many buttons, a window, and a door.

The Gunny stood, regarding the view outside the window for all of a minute, then snorted. The computer ... would have to wait a little, though he was curious to know what it was good for – not in general, but specifically for his job. The phone he simply shook his head at.

Carefully, he hung up the suit jacket, and made precise work out of rolling up his cuffs. Outside his door was a thirty-ish brunette, who looked like she might have a sense of humor. Beyond the guardian to his door was a larger office area, with a number of earnest-seeming people, intent on doing the Gunny knew-not-what.

"Busy?" The Gunny had stepped outside his office to visit the guardian of his portal.

"No, not really. I'm free of most of what I used to do before becoming your assistant," the brunette answered.

"I'm called 'Gunny'," he offered.

She nodded. "My uncle was a Marine, and I've seen the TV show. You don't look like Gerald MacRainey, but more like that linebacker for the Raiders. I'm Becky."

"Well, I'm not exactly overworked yet, either, Becky," he told her with a smile. "Can you show me what people are doing around here?"

An hour later, the Gunny had a better picture of what the office was doing: managing the operations of a Fortune 1000 company, which was an appellation the Gunny had only heard of in television advertisements. While she showed him how the telephone worked and how to look at internal email, the Gunny made small jokes with Becky, and found she did indeed have a sense of humor.

Later, she showed him how to find the various project reports on the shared drive, one of many terms the Gunny had heard for the first time today.

The Gunny spent the rest of the day reading.

13:10 PDT Monday, August 26^th, 1991

NROTC, Room 152

Hearst Gymnasium

University of California, Berkeley, CA 94720

Lenore was fairly certain she'd be able to find her way around by Wednesday, the start of classes. There'd be time to keep her 'meet and greet' appointment with her NROTC Battalion leadership, and still make it to the office in Alameda NAS before the end of the day.

She wondered what the meeting would be like, as she trotted up the steps to the gymnasium. She ducked into the restroom/locker room, and quickly changed into her summer whites. A few moments later she arrived at the NROTC offices, where the Yeoman asked her to wait for the Battalion Executive Officer (XO), a full Commander.

"Come in, Candidate," the Commander gestured to her from the doorway to his office. He didn't seem to react to Lenore's choice of uniform.

"Aye aye, sir." Lenore wasn't sure what to expect, but the situation didn't seem to call for the reporting to a senior officer protocol that the Chief and the Gunny had drilled into her.

"Have a seat," he told her, and promptly sat down in his own chair. "What's your mission here, Sailor?"

Lenore blinked at the form of address. "Graduation, sir." The answer was easy; she'd read the papers she'd been given in orientation.