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We lived in a large home on the hills outside Los Angeles. My father had moved out two years ago, just after I turned 16. He and my mother still collaborated, but now by phone, fax and e-mail. He was now living in New York and wintering in the south of France. I knew why he left but was puzzled by it. His life-style and perversions were certainly well accepted in LA, and certainly no worse than what was going on in this house and neighborhood. He had left my mother's bed when I was 14 and moved into what we called the caba-a. It was their office at the time. Now it was a three-room suit with large bedroom, a full kitchen, a gigantic bathroom and a sitting room. A perfect place for a teenager who craved a little privacy.I entered the main house through the open French doors. The house was patterned after an Italian villa, with tile floors, high ceilings, tile roof, and about 5000 square feet. As I walked in I spotted my mother across the room at the coffee service. She had her back to. I slid the cooler and office under my feet as a leg rest, pulled the seat belt tight and waited for takeoff. The seats had a minor head rest, so I closed my eyes, leaned back and waited for the takeoff.“Ma-am, Ambassador Jones, the Captain would like you to sit in one of the extra officer’s seat during takeoff,” I thought about asking if they had an officer’s seat for all my men but decided against making waves.I climbed the stairs to the flight command center, sat in my appointed seat and fastened the multipoint seat belt. Moments later the tug moved the C17 into position to depart Morton Field. A few minutes more and we were airborne. It was 0800, just 14 hours to go.I stayed in the seat until we reached cruising altitude and then they announced that it was OK for my people to move around. I asked about phone and computer use. Satellite phones were the only thing that would work. Computers could be used but there would be no internet connection, which I expected. I moved back to.
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