Molly took longer than usual to reach home in suburban Falls Church, a pretty village of family homes and bright New England churches. The town was just far enough from the city to feel like an escape. She turned from East Broad Street onto Cherry, feeling as if she had finally escaped the madness of a world embodied in grueling traffic. The street was dark and quiet, bounded on either side by plain houses, well kept yards and natly trimmed hedges.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Seventeen
Traffic was heavy along Arlington Boulevard out of Washington. It was already dark. To the west, as if black ink had been spilled across the turquoise sunset, a storm was building. It was warm for an autumn day, but the scent of rain carried hints of a cold front behind the storm clouds. Molly’s gaze followed the ceaseless line of crimson taillights and felt father away from home than she had all day.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixteen
Molly was anxious as she waited to see Director Hallman. She had hoped to have the preliminary lab results from Bernstein’s autopsy, but they had been held up without explanation. Without the results the case she was building for a deeper investigation into the Congressman’s death was based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and a few momentous leaps of faith. That Molly could see that a trail led somewhere definitely was based more on faith than fact. Still,Bbsed upon the evidence she had seen, Bernstein’s death was likely connected to the other two deaths Asgari had shown her. As flimsy as the evidence was, Molly felt sure she could still make enough of an argument to pursue a case, and at least stall for enough time to flush out a few leads until the lab results came in.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifteen
The Iranians have already protested,” said Ambassador Spurlock. “They are calling this a blatant and illegal infringement upon their national sovereignty.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fourteen
It was perhaps a misleading word to describe the White House Situation Room as just that. It was a complex. On the ground floor of the sprawling West Wing, a busy operations center funneled information from around the planet, analyzing and prioritizing events twenty-four hours a day; a nerve center processing the unfolding history of the world.
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirteen
Doug was sitting at the dining room table. The room was dark but for the ambient eggshell light off the porch sep. The light was softened by the rain that ran in rivulets upon the window. Through the open window a chill wind embraced Doug. The wind carried the thumping surf just beyond the tall pine and birch at the back of the yard. One arm was hooked over the back of the chair. In the other hand Doug swirled a snifter of amber Armagnac.
It was his third glass that evening, and the warm bite of the spirit perfectly reflected the autumn chill, as if they were lovers swept into a moment of attraction. Together they proved the appropriate juxtaposition to the numbness wrought by the week and the day. From the other room, almost lost to the wind and trees and surf, came a languishing Nick cave melody. It was one of Jane’s favorites. The word fell like fat raindrops, running away with the blessedly remorseful piano melody:
And no more shall we part
It will no longer be necessary
And no more will I say, dear heart
I am alone and she has left me
And no more shall we part
The contracts are drawn up, the ring is locked upon the finger
And never again will my letters start
Sadly, or in the depths of winter
And no more shall we part
All the hatchets have been buried…
He was thinking. He was thinking that one spouse would one day outlive the other was implied in marriage. It is the burden few dare entertain in youth, but grows steadily with the sunset of lives. A good loving man prays he will be the one left to fend alone, while quietly dreading the ultimate weight of that loss. Doug sighed at the thought, and sighed mournfully. He closed his eyes tight against threatening tears and downed the last of the Armagnac.
There was a sound from the family room behind him. Gentle hands fell upon his shoulders. Doug’s heart fluttered with emotion. For just a moment he expected to find Jane standing there, ready to console him. He looked up and in the half light that fragmentary illusion seemed complete. It was enough that he nearly burst into tears of joy.
“Startle you, Dad?” Megan asked softly, as if her voice was a quality of the wind and distant surf. Doug didn’t answer right away. He studied the empty glass in his hand for a moment.
“No, honey, just thinking.”
Megan went around to the window and pulled it closed, shivering at the cold. She was still in the dress she’d worn for the funeral. Megan slid into her usual chair at the long dining room table and sat.
“Want to be alone?” she asked, sweeping a hand across the smooth polished wood, as though exploring it. Her hand paused in front of her mother’s chair, as if expecting Jane’s hand to reach out. Doug weighed Megan’s words. It wasn’t an easy question.
“You okay?” he changed the subject.
“Worried about Dana,” she replied softly, tears threatening.
“Is she…”
“She’s up in your and…in your room.”
“I’m worried about you guys,” he said.
Megan’s brow faltered. For all her strength she was just holding things together. “I’m okay.”
“So proud of you through all of this, sweetheart.”
Megan chewed her lip, sporting that same refusal to be ruled by emotion that Jane used to criticize Doug over. She looked to the window. Doug watched a thought materialize in her eyes and waited in anticipation. Even still, he wasn’t entirely prepared for it.
“Will you ever get married again?”
The thought had not even occurred to Doug. Even after Jane was told she was terminal he had never once considered a time after. He never once imagined that he would one day have to take stock of his new life. What would it mean to the girls? Was it a way of selfishly assuaging his own loneliness and need? Did it break the vow he’d made to her the day of their wedding? Was ‘till death do us part’ only a mortal contract absolving and releasing the survivor upon the other’s death? These were not questions he could form a proper view of just yet, even as they assaulted him at every turn.
It was his third glass that evening, and the warm bite of the spirit perfectly reflected the autumn chill, as if they were lovers swept into a moment of attraction. Together they proved the appropriate juxtaposition to the numbness wrought by the week and the day. From the other room, almost lost to the wind and trees and surf, came a languishing Nick cave melody. It was one of Jane’s favorites. The word fell like fat raindrops, running away with the blessedly remorseful piano melody:
And no more shall we part
It will no longer be necessary
And no more will I say, dear heart
I am alone and she has left me
And no more shall we part
The contracts are drawn up, the ring is locked upon the finger
And never again will my letters start
Sadly, or in the depths of winter
And no more shall we part
All the hatchets have been buried…
He was thinking. He was thinking that one spouse would one day outlive the other was implied in marriage. It is the burden few dare entertain in youth, but grows steadily with the sunset of lives. A good loving man prays he will be the one left to fend alone, while quietly dreading the ultimate weight of that loss. Doug sighed at the thought, and sighed mournfully. He closed his eyes tight against threatening tears and downed the last of the Armagnac.
There was a sound from the family room behind him. Gentle hands fell upon his shoulders. Doug’s heart fluttered with emotion. For just a moment he expected to find Jane standing there, ready to console him. He looked up and in the half light that fragmentary illusion seemed complete. It was enough that he nearly burst into tears of joy.
“Startle you, Dad?” Megan asked softly, as if her voice was a quality of the wind and distant surf. Doug didn’t answer right away. He studied the empty glass in his hand for a moment.
“No, honey, just thinking.”
Megan went around to the window and pulled it closed, shivering at the cold. She was still in the dress she’d worn for the funeral. Megan slid into her usual chair at the long dining room table and sat.
“Want to be alone?” she asked, sweeping a hand across the smooth polished wood, as though exploring it. Her hand paused in front of her mother’s chair, as if expecting Jane’s hand to reach out. Doug weighed Megan’s words. It wasn’t an easy question.
“You okay?” he changed the subject.
“Worried about Dana,” she replied softly, tears threatening.
“Is she…”
“She’s up in your and…in your room.”
“I’m worried about you guys,” he said.
Megan’s brow faltered. For all her strength she was just holding things together. “I’m okay.”
“So proud of you through all of this, sweetheart.”
Megan chewed her lip, sporting that same refusal to be ruled by emotion that Jane used to criticize Doug over. She looked to the window. Doug watched a thought materialize in her eyes and waited in anticipation. Even still, he wasn’t entirely prepared for it.
“Will you ever get married again?”
The thought had not even occurred to Doug. Even after Jane was told she was terminal he had never once considered a time after. He never once imagined that he would one day have to take stock of his new life. What would it mean to the girls? Was it a way of selfishly assuaging his own loneliness and need? Did it break the vow he’d made to her the day of their wedding? Was ‘till death do us part’ only a mortal contract absolving and releasing the survivor upon the other’s death? These were not questions he could form a proper view of just yet, even as they assaulted him at every turn.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twelve
The Pave Lows took off separately. They dropped low, nearly to sea level, and swung north, using the ships for cover. Ten minutes later they rendezvoused north of the group before turning southeast, running hard and fast for the coast. West of Hendurabi Island, a featureless patch of sand, the Pave Lows corrected course once more, charging strait for the coast.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
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