“We have breaking news out of the Middle East,” the CNN announcer began, in the gravest possible tone. “There are unconfirmed reports that several of the American personnel held by the Iranians are dead. The report comes from a credible source within the Iranian foreign ministry, speaking with the Arab-language network, Al-Jezeera, said that four of the detainees were dead, but gave no immediate details. That same source indicated that a number of others had also died. CNN was unable to confirm the reports independently, and it is still too early to speculate that this might have been part of some possible rescue plan. The united States maintains a substantial military presence in the region, and it is not out of reason that a rescue mission might have been launch from Iraq or Afghanistan, an act, CNN’s military consultants agree, would be risky…”
The news swept through the nation. It was picked up hot off the wires by Rightwing talk Show hosts, who immediately speculated about all sorts of wild and unsubstantiated theories. One syndicated host out of Utah, a demegoging,-self inflating, ex-Top Forty Disc jockey who jumped on the Talk syndication bandwagon in the late nineties, accused the President of outright cowardice for not immediately carpet-bombing Tehran. A Republican loudmouth former Congressman renewed a post-September-11 call to Nuke Mecca. The Major News networks, the so-called Liberal Media according to Right Wing hosts like Rush Limbaugh, Laura Ingraham and the blustering imp, Mark Levin, were already using terms like enemy and adversary to describe Iran, to the delight of their corporate parents who were heavily invested in the weapons and war industry. They would belittle the spontaneous anti-war protests that would spring up around the country, choosing the most foolish among them for their broadcasts. Viewers around the nation would see a rabble of students, long haired teens, hysterical and ragged kids, never seeing the professors, doctors, housewives and veterans protesting the coming war. The video of two anarchists throwing a newspaper box through a Starbucks window in Baltimore would play again and again.
Even the government spoke with competing voices; one side talking of restraint and rationality, the other almost hysterical with cries for war and vengeance. Strange that the rational side never quite got to the proper arguments so many thinking Americans came to immediately. Just as they had during the lead up to the war in Iraq, those “proper” arguments would wait until the war, or something like it, was well under way.
All this was, of course, an endless circle, like two snakes feeding off one another. The media is a pimp; as much disease as a symptom of a misdirected society. It fed off a population that, insulated from the desperation of much of the world, could afford knee-jerk reactions to international turmoil. When the results of those reactions washed up upon her shores, America could rightly claim to be a victim. They were as woefully ignorant of the outside world, as many around the planet were of the average American. It was easy to grow frustrated and impatient with a world that seemed to intrude upon the blissful excess and blindness of American life. The world was a place to be feared, or so they were told. Foreigners, the media decried, were as the invading hordes and barbarians falling upon Rome’s beleaguered frontiers two thousand years before. It was echoed and promoted by the media, but the nation’s citizens were just as culpable in its reach and its abuse. Despite the pretend blustering of talk show hosts and personalities. The media was not the traitor of the people, but one in the same with them.
But the lessons of nationalist fervor are never learned on the eve of war, just as man never questions the excess of his pleasure during an orgy. Nationalism is the self-inflicted perversion of true patriotism. It is means to an end for someone, and the road to an end for the gullible populace. With history as a lesson, like a long stroll through a graveyard, it wasn’t certain the nation would make those same fatal mistakes, but with each passing moment that reality became a little more certain.
Showing posts with label The Big Blue Sky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Big Blue Sky. Show all posts
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-two
It was opulence of the sort Molly had never experienced. Set against the city lights on the far shore, the tall and sleek Marmara hotel shone like some modern palace. She paused, climbing from the little red Mercedes taxi, her expression reflecting that awesome first impression.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Big Blue Sky: TEN
John “Mac” McCallister was a small but solid man, with the broad shoulders and physique of a competive swimmer rather than a soldier with thirty-four years in the Special Forces. His face was carved as much by a lifetime at war as by the perspective that ultimately peace was the goal, and that the purpose of men like John McCallister was to become obsolete in the world. A round pair of reading spectacles, which he found himself relying upon more and more, gave him a studious appearance. The father of four girls, McCallister had been married to the same fiery and tirelessly faithful Israeli woman he fallen in love with while on tour in Lebanon back in Eighty-four. A study in contrasts, McCallister had a ready smile, endless patience, disarming gentleness and a penchant for excruciating detail. At a glance one might easily mistake him for a Little League Coach or Driver’s Ed teacher than man who had fought and killed men in battle.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Nine
Chief Petty Officer Green’s mind spun through a stunning volume of scenarios. In this room, this close to the hostile Iranian coast there was no room for error, and certainly no room for blind reaction. The United States was not at war, at least not a shooting war, with Iran. It might come to that, Green knew, but he wasn’t going carry on his soul a mistake or misjudgment that started it either. Not that he had ever shied from a fight. He’d had his share growing up in the Projects, but he had never once thrown the first punch. Beside him, the AC saw the tension in Green’s face.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Fourth book in the challenge
Three down and two to go! Down to the wire now and I am definitely feeling the pressure.
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
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