Commentators would comment for days to come at how utterly exhausted the President appeared. No amount of make up or lighting could erase the terrible toll it had taken on him, and upon everyone who had struggled through the crisis. Was this the end, or the end of the beginning. Sitting at the desk in the Oval office, his back was straight and his brow furled. He brought a hand to his mouth, cleared his throat and blinked twice before beginning.
“My fellow Americans, this evening I intended to announce the commencement of military operations by land, sea and air against the Islamic Republic of Iran. Instead, I have ordered our armed forces in the Gulf back to a cautious but defensive, rather than offensive, posture. The Iranians have also pledged to stand down as both our nations step back from the brink. In the interests of peace, knowing full well that a war would result in untold destruction and deaths, the United States is taking the Iranian Government at its word.”
With those words the president seemed almost relieved.
“Let me be clear. Without a doubt, the American people have longstanding and substantial grievances against the government of Iran. They should make no mistake that we will seek redress for those grievances. We have demanded, and we will not rest until there is a full and complete accounting regarding the deaths of our service men. Just before this address I received assurances from the Chinese government, acting as an intermediary, that the surviving member would be released immediately. At this moment a Georgian aircraft is in route to Tehran to fulfill that gesture by the Iranians. Through our Chinese partners Iran has agreed to an independent commission which will conduct a thorough investigation into the incident.
He paused and took a deep breath, gazing into the cameras at the whole world for a painfully long moment. It was as if the words to follow were tortuous to him.
“It has come to my attention that a plot by a small number of people was enacted for the purpose of drawing the nation to war for the purpose of personal profit and greed, without regard to the loss of life in both nations. International arrest warrants have been issued for a number of individuals, as well as Umberto Shosa. So rather than a call to arms, tonight this is a call to action for the American people to take back their nation from the corporate interests that have only their bottom line and not the nation as their ultimate interest. Americans can no longer be passive observers to the political process in their nation, without losing all that has been fought and bled for over the last two and a half centuries.”
He took a deep breath, appearing as troubled as he was tired. The President stood, unbuttoned his suit coat as he came around and leaned on the desk. The words came as much as a confession as a concern.
My fellow Americans, I cannot do this for you. Your government has become so entangled with the interests of big business that each of us who holds public office are guilty, if not directly then by association, by accepting the status quo. We, in public office, have lost the purity of our Constitutional ideals. I cannot change this alone, and without real grassroots actions I cannot state too strongly that you will lose your country and become slaves to corporate and business interests.”
He stood straight, pushing a hand in his pocket.
“This night we grieve our dead and count our blessings that, for now, war has been averted, because in the end war is the failure of all good reasoning. Tomorrow turn the rage and passions whipped up through these last few days into resolve against the true enemy. Not the enemy against whose flag and land and people we prepared to meet in battle, but against the enemies of truth and clarity and the individual. Thank you, and good night…”
THE END
Showing posts with label W.C. Turck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label W.C. Turck. Show all posts
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Seventy-two
The brutal realization that this was all but over found Waverly all at once. That he this former American hero was now shown to be a traitor was the bitterest pill. Doug noticed it, as if cloud had passed across him, as if the air had suddenly left him. He seemed to age in an instant and had now become, in Doug’s eyes, decrepit. A man’s sins always find him.
But ego makes fools of men. The once-upon-a-time patriot was now a fugitive with rapidly dwindling options. Still, Waverly was hardly ready to concede defeat, even in the face of it. He was desperate for the retribution his crimes would bring, for his own life and for the sudden wish to take all this back from the place where everything had gone wrong. a cornered man is a dangerous man, but a man who traps himself against the world will fight to the end rather than face his crimes.
He still held the gun on Doug, resting it in his lap, a finger covering the trigger. Doug felt distant from the world outside the car, which seemed oblivious to the coming calamity. To one side of the street the great expanse of Lake Michigan, its blue-green waters touched by tiny white caps from a strengthening wind. It was warm enough that there were joggers and bicyclers about. On the other side of the road, facing the tall white stones of Calvary Cemetery, like some peaceful city of the dead, a city Doug feared he might soon join.
“I know everything,” said Doug. “It will be simple for anyone to follow that trail, and all of this will be exposed.”
“Look like I give shit what you know?”
“No feeling for starting a war and destroying the lives of millions for money?”
‘’it is about the money!” Waverly pounded the dashboard. The war is the marklet, death and misery and refugees on CNN the selling points.”
“How can you justify that? How do you live with yourself?”
“You know everything, like you said. You figure it out.”
The road bent, running straight among the deep canyon of old brownstones, apartment buildings and full gold and rust autumn trees. The traffic deepened and slowed through carefully staggered and timed traffic lights.
“And you see me as the enemy?” asked Doug, steering around a truck waiting to turn.
“Anything standing in the way of what I want is the enemy.” Waverly motioned off to the left, towards a narrow side street and an alley running behind a small Italian restaurant. Iy was an abrupt act, as if Waverly had thought of it only that moment. “Turn down that alley. This is where you and I come to the end our road.”
Doug had to break hard, the back end of the little white Honda fishtailing a bit. The action drew angry shouts and honks from passing cars.
“Going to kill me?” Doug split his attention on the oncoming traffic and figuring a way to escape. Waverly snapped back the bolt on the submachine gun.
“Needed you for a hostage, that’s all,” he said. “Now you’re a liability.”
But Doug wasn’t ready to die just yet, and not without a good fight. He hit the gas and swung into the path of an oncoming delivery truck. But the driver swerved at the last second. Rather than smash through Waverly’s door it tore away the front end in a stunning eruption of glass and motor parts and metal. The Honda spun away like a top and was smashed from the rear by a second vehicle.
Even tensed and expecting the collision, Doug was stunned by the force of it. The airbags exploded in the men’s faces, with the force of an openhanded slap. The gun flew from Waverly’s hand, winding up at his feet beneath the collapsing dash.
Doug instantly went for the door handle and pulled hard. The door refused to budge. He cried as panic rose like a torrent and threw himself against the door until it fell open, spilling Doug onto the hard pavement. Behind him, Waverly was just coming around, momentarily knocked unconscious by the wreck. He looked over to where Doug fought and kicked to untangle his legs from the seatbelt. Waverly reached for the gun, pushing against the dash to reach it. He found it just as Doug managed to break free, now fighting for his feet in the road.
Waverly managed a long burst from the Bushmaster, blowing out the windshield as he sprayed the street with bullets. They skipped off the street around Doug, and slapped into the delivery truck, wounding the driver and ricocheting everywhere. Doug stumbled and fell, as Waverly struggled from the wreckage, but as up quickly and running down the street and out of sight.
But ego makes fools of men. The once-upon-a-time patriot was now a fugitive with rapidly dwindling options. Still, Waverly was hardly ready to concede defeat, even in the face of it. He was desperate for the retribution his crimes would bring, for his own life and for the sudden wish to take all this back from the place where everything had gone wrong. a cornered man is a dangerous man, but a man who traps himself against the world will fight to the end rather than face his crimes.
He still held the gun on Doug, resting it in his lap, a finger covering the trigger. Doug felt distant from the world outside the car, which seemed oblivious to the coming calamity. To one side of the street the great expanse of Lake Michigan, its blue-green waters touched by tiny white caps from a strengthening wind. It was warm enough that there were joggers and bicyclers about. On the other side of the road, facing the tall white stones of Calvary Cemetery, like some peaceful city of the dead, a city Doug feared he might soon join.
“I know everything,” said Doug. “It will be simple for anyone to follow that trail, and all of this will be exposed.”
“Look like I give shit what you know?”
“No feeling for starting a war and destroying the lives of millions for money?”
‘’it is about the money!” Waverly pounded the dashboard. The war is the marklet, death and misery and refugees on CNN the selling points.”
“How can you justify that? How do you live with yourself?”
“You know everything, like you said. You figure it out.”
The road bent, running straight among the deep canyon of old brownstones, apartment buildings and full gold and rust autumn trees. The traffic deepened and slowed through carefully staggered and timed traffic lights.
“And you see me as the enemy?” asked Doug, steering around a truck waiting to turn.
“Anything standing in the way of what I want is the enemy.” Waverly motioned off to the left, towards a narrow side street and an alley running behind a small Italian restaurant. Iy was an abrupt act, as if Waverly had thought of it only that moment. “Turn down that alley. This is where you and I come to the end our road.”
Doug had to break hard, the back end of the little white Honda fishtailing a bit. The action drew angry shouts and honks from passing cars.
“Going to kill me?” Doug split his attention on the oncoming traffic and figuring a way to escape. Waverly snapped back the bolt on the submachine gun.
“Needed you for a hostage, that’s all,” he said. “Now you’re a liability.”
But Doug wasn’t ready to die just yet, and not without a good fight. He hit the gas and swung into the path of an oncoming delivery truck. But the driver swerved at the last second. Rather than smash through Waverly’s door it tore away the front end in a stunning eruption of glass and motor parts and metal. The Honda spun away like a top and was smashed from the rear by a second vehicle.
Even tensed and expecting the collision, Doug was stunned by the force of it. The airbags exploded in the men’s faces, with the force of an openhanded slap. The gun flew from Waverly’s hand, winding up at his feet beneath the collapsing dash.
Doug instantly went for the door handle and pulled hard. The door refused to budge. He cried as panic rose like a torrent and threw himself against the door until it fell open, spilling Doug onto the hard pavement. Behind him, Waverly was just coming around, momentarily knocked unconscious by the wreck. He looked over to where Doug fought and kicked to untangle his legs from the seatbelt. Waverly reached for the gun, pushing against the dash to reach it. He found it just as Doug managed to break free, now fighting for his feet in the road.
Waverly managed a long burst from the Bushmaster, blowing out the windshield as he sprayed the street with bullets. They skipped off the street around Doug, and slapped into the delivery truck, wounding the driver and ricocheting everywhere. Doug stumbled and fell, as Waverly struggled from the wreckage, but as up quickly and running down the street and out of sight.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Seventy-one
The clock was ticking steadily down to war, which with each passing moment seemed more and more inevitable. It grew beyond its human creators, fed by the cruelty, impatience and ignorance of their hearts. It grew out of all proportion, until nothing more could be seen, and peace was a naïve and cowardly alternative. And like rogue militias looting a captured village, each nation angled for the greatest benefit.
The Syrians were only too eager to give the Americans fly over permission. Closer to the West, they stood to benefit greatly throughout the region following a predictable Iranian defeat. They would emerge as the regions superpower, an opportunity they had waited for decades to achieve. My contrast, America’s Israeli allies declined permission, not wishing to provoke any sort of Arab backlash, despite that they were eager so see Iran crushed.
From Moscow to Beijing to Washington diplomats worked desperately at ever changing tasks and goals. What had been an effort to find a resolution was now an endeavor to shore up alliances, to win concessions from countries sympathetic to Iran and to keep the conflict from becoming a wider issue. Indonesia, a moderate Islamic nation would receive economic considerations for not having an official view of the war. A pending arms deal would be sped up for Egypt, which, in a quid pro quo, undertook a crackdown on radical groups. Turkey, straining socially from the economic downturn used the crisis to strengthen its European Union ties, while the US convinced Iraq to crackdown on Kurdish separatists using Northern Iraq as staging areas for incursions into Turkey.
That ticking clock was apparent nowhere as great as in the Gulf. On the Allied side, soldiers, airmen and sailors consoled themselves with death and exhorted one another to victory. Every moment became its own philosophy, alte3rnating with hope, preeminence and fatalism. They said goodbye to one another, to themselves and to the world. With that they surrendered their fate to god and the universe. It was no different on the Iranian side, for the militiamen digging trenches and building bunkers, for the airmen and seamen who faced almost certain death in the coming hours, and the thousands fleeing cities and coastal areas. But fate hinges upon the small perhaps as much as the large, and the fate of millions depended upon a desperate fight taking place thousands of miles away.
The Syrians were only too eager to give the Americans fly over permission. Closer to the West, they stood to benefit greatly throughout the region following a predictable Iranian defeat. They would emerge as the regions superpower, an opportunity they had waited for decades to achieve. My contrast, America’s Israeli allies declined permission, not wishing to provoke any sort of Arab backlash, despite that they were eager so see Iran crushed.
From Moscow to Beijing to Washington diplomats worked desperately at ever changing tasks and goals. What had been an effort to find a resolution was now an endeavor to shore up alliances, to win concessions from countries sympathetic to Iran and to keep the conflict from becoming a wider issue. Indonesia, a moderate Islamic nation would receive economic considerations for not having an official view of the war. A pending arms deal would be sped up for Egypt, which, in a quid pro quo, undertook a crackdown on radical groups. Turkey, straining socially from the economic downturn used the crisis to strengthen its European Union ties, while the US convinced Iraq to crackdown on Kurdish separatists using Northern Iraq as staging areas for incursions into Turkey.
That ticking clock was apparent nowhere as great as in the Gulf. On the Allied side, soldiers, airmen and sailors consoled themselves with death and exhorted one another to victory. Every moment became its own philosophy, alte3rnating with hope, preeminence and fatalism. They said goodbye to one another, to themselves and to the world. With that they surrendered their fate to god and the universe. It was no different on the Iranian side, for the militiamen digging trenches and building bunkers, for the airmen and seamen who faced almost certain death in the coming hours, and the thousands fleeing cities and coastal areas. But fate hinges upon the small perhaps as much as the large, and the fate of millions depended upon a desperate fight taking place thousands of miles away.
The Big Blue Sky: Seventy
“Get up,” Waverly ordered.
“You might as well pull the trigger,” Doug said. He felt sure Molly was dying, and was helpless to do anything for her. He was exhausted and beaten and couldn’t find the strength to give a damn any longer.
“You’re my ticket out of here, right now.”
Waverly shoved Doug through the classroom, and past the body of the young contractor, a bullet hole through his forehead, a surprised expression frozen upon his pale face. The hallway was quiet and deserted. There was more gunfire, far off across the campus. It began with a brief exchange, building quickly to a blistering and sustained fusillade before ending abruptly.
“Sounds like it’s about finished for your men,” said Doug. He groaned in pain as Waverly jammed the barrel of the Bushmaster into his back, forcing him into a stairwell.
The fire exit at the bottom of the stairs was unguarded. Down on the street a young rookie cop stood behind the door of a white and blue Evanston police cruiser. His attention was off in another direction. Doug nearly cried out, but Waverly had a clear shot and could have taken the boy down easily. There was a parking lot close by. They used the cars for cover and were across the grassy lawn quickly. Crossing the road the pair cut across tennis courts and commandeered a little white Honda. Waverly forced Doug behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. They headed south into the city, passed by a steady stream of emergency and police vehicles headed towards the university. The shooting was over now. All the contractors and one campus cop lay dead.
“You might as well pull the trigger,” Doug said. He felt sure Molly was dying, and was helpless to do anything for her. He was exhausted and beaten and couldn’t find the strength to give a damn any longer.
“You’re my ticket out of here, right now.”
Waverly shoved Doug through the classroom, and past the body of the young contractor, a bullet hole through his forehead, a surprised expression frozen upon his pale face. The hallway was quiet and deserted. There was more gunfire, far off across the campus. It began with a brief exchange, building quickly to a blistering and sustained fusillade before ending abruptly.
“Sounds like it’s about finished for your men,” said Doug. He groaned in pain as Waverly jammed the barrel of the Bushmaster into his back, forcing him into a stairwell.
The fire exit at the bottom of the stairs was unguarded. Down on the street a young rookie cop stood behind the door of a white and blue Evanston police cruiser. His attention was off in another direction. Doug nearly cried out, but Waverly had a clear shot and could have taken the boy down easily. There was a parking lot close by. They used the cars for cover and were across the grassy lawn quickly. Crossing the road the pair cut across tennis courts and commandeered a little white Honda. Waverly forced Doug behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. They headed south into the city, passed by a steady stream of emergency and police vehicles headed towards the university. The shooting was over now. All the contractors and one campus cop lay dead.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-eight
Waverly clutched the plastic stock of his Bushmaster submachine gun so tightly his knuckles were white. Things were spinning rapidly out of control. His men had become wolves, and he was the leader of that ravenous pack. They were almost blind as he was to the consequences of their actions. But it had become far more than business. Archer Waverly meant to kill Doug Springer if it was the last thing he did.
The campus was more or less deserted for a Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t certain whether or not that was an advantage. It was what it was, he thought, tugging the bolt back and chambering a round.
“This ends here,” he told the men, standing in more or less of a defensive posture. “Teams of two. Ten thousand on top of the current bonus for the team that takes Springer out.”
“Then what?’ asked one of the men.
“Then I don’t care,” he growled in reply.
“Just get it done.”
Waverly and one of the other men waited as the first two teams headed off in different directions. When they were gone he motioned to the Tech Institute. Already he could hear sirens in the distance, coming from several different directions. He knew exactly where they were headed.
“Our boy is in there.”
“How do you know?” the young veteran contractor, a former artillery spotter, asked.
“We don’t have much time,” said Waverly. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here and enjoy that money.”
“What about the others?”
Waverly looked at him with a cold empty stare. “What others?”
The campus was more or less deserted for a Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t certain whether or not that was an advantage. It was what it was, he thought, tugging the bolt back and chambering a round.
“This ends here,” he told the men, standing in more or less of a defensive posture. “Teams of two. Ten thousand on top of the current bonus for the team that takes Springer out.”
“Then what?’ asked one of the men.
“Then I don’t care,” he growled in reply.
“Just get it done.”
Waverly and one of the other men waited as the first two teams headed off in different directions. When they were gone he motioned to the Tech Institute. Already he could hear sirens in the distance, coming from several different directions. He knew exactly where they were headed.
“Our boy is in there.”
“How do you know?” the young veteran contractor, a former artillery spotter, asked.
“We don’t have much time,” said Waverly. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here and enjoy that money.”
“What about the others?”
Waverly looked at him with a cold empty stare. “What others?”
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-seven
Just north of Chicago, Northwestern University felt like less of a campus than an organic amendment to the Idyllic suburb of Evanston. Attractive ivy covered buildings, joined by meandering walkways and curious sculpture gardens are shrouded in the sheltering shade of oak and maple and tall pine. The university borders Lake Michigan and a pretty lagoon to the east, the lake’s deep waters adding a drama and thoughtfulness to the intimacy of the place. Doug had been here before, long ago, researching a story. He knew it well enough to believe it was their best chance at evading their would-be killers.
The old Ford finally quit just across from the University. It just quit, as if understanding that it had given all it could to Doug and Molly and their cause. Molly checked her weapon once more. She had a full clip in the pistol and a spare in her coat pocket. It would be nothing against the contractor’s firepower, Doug paused before climbing out, patting the gray vinyl dash affectionately.
“Rest in peace, baby,” he said.
“We should go,” Molly urged, looking off along the street. The Yukons would be upon them shortly. It was a simple deduction to figure where Doug and Molly had gone.
They hurried across the street, just reaching the white stone, sprawling Technological Institute when the Yukons screeched to a stop beside the still smoking Ford. They counted six men, piling out onto the street, each in dark black jackets and cradling automatic weapons. Doug recognized Waverly from various news articles and the Bernstein congressional hearings into First Thrust.
“We’re gonna need help,” said Molly.
“These guys are ready for war,” Doug remarked. “I don’t see this ending good.”
A student passed, just pushing through the glass and metal doors of the Institute. It was a young blond coed, cell phone pressed between her chin and shoulder, babbling about some hot guy in her Biomedical Engineering class. Molly flashed a badge and yanked the phone away, lifting the receiver to her mouth.
“She’ll call you back,” Molly abruptly hung up on the person at the other end. Quickly Molly dialed nine-one-one. The emergency operator answered immediately.
“This is Agent Molly Karaman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am on the Northwestern campus at the Technological Institute. I have a weapon. There are six gunmen, white males, at the University, all wearing black jackets and carrying automatic weapons. Please send help.”
The old Ford finally quit just across from the University. It just quit, as if understanding that it had given all it could to Doug and Molly and their cause. Molly checked her weapon once more. She had a full clip in the pistol and a spare in her coat pocket. It would be nothing against the contractor’s firepower, Doug paused before climbing out, patting the gray vinyl dash affectionately.
“Rest in peace, baby,” he said.
“We should go,” Molly urged, looking off along the street. The Yukons would be upon them shortly. It was a simple deduction to figure where Doug and Molly had gone.
They hurried across the street, just reaching the white stone, sprawling Technological Institute when the Yukons screeched to a stop beside the still smoking Ford. They counted six men, piling out onto the street, each in dark black jackets and cradling automatic weapons. Doug recognized Waverly from various news articles and the Bernstein congressional hearings into First Thrust.
“We’re gonna need help,” said Molly.
“These guys are ready for war,” Doug remarked. “I don’t see this ending good.”
A student passed, just pushing through the glass and metal doors of the Institute. It was a young blond coed, cell phone pressed between her chin and shoulder, babbling about some hot guy in her Biomedical Engineering class. Molly flashed a badge and yanked the phone away, lifting the receiver to her mouth.
“She’ll call you back,” Molly abruptly hung up on the person at the other end. Quickly Molly dialed nine-one-one. The emergency operator answered immediately.
“This is Agent Molly Karaman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am on the Northwestern campus at the Technological Institute. I have a weapon. There are six gunmen, white males, at the University, all wearing black jackets and carrying automatic weapons. Please send help.”
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-five
The ancient Ford was no match for the Yukon’s big two hundred fifty-five horsepower, V-eight engines. They barreled down on the Ford, struggling to get long either side of the Ford. For a time, racing at a deadly speed, weaving in and out of heavy traffic Doug managed to keep just ahead of them.
The Yukons caught a pocket and roared ahead, coming along either side of Doug and Molly. For a terrifyingly long minute they bumped the Ford between them, like wolves toying with a prey. Waverly was driving the first, a murderous steel to his eyes as he swung the Yukon sideways, slamming against the Ford and tossing Doug and Molly around inside. He was indeed toying with them, but toying to a predator is only prelude to a kill, and the time to kill was at hand.
“Can you get off a shot?” Doug cried above the grinding of metal and the whining of straining engines.
But Molly couldn’t get off a shot, not as the Ford was rocked and hammered violently about, and not without be sure she wouldn’t hit an innocent driver nearby. There was a garbage truck ahead. The Yukons pressed the old Ford between them, intent and running it hard into the truck. Doug yanked the wheel left and them right with every ounce of strength he possessed, knowing full well when the Yukons intended. He cried out against the strain, Molly still fighting for a clear shot and knew they had just seconds before disaster.
So that was it, he thought. This is how it would end. Doug would never see his girls again. Whatever god he might have believed it once seemed all the more cruel and terrible to take both parents from girls who had never harmed a soul. For an instant, just an instant he was ready to concede everything, so stopping fighting powers and forces much larger than Molly and him. For just and instant he could simply close his eyes and go peacefully to death.
Time slowed suddenly. Bits of glass, papers, a cell phone, a coffee cup seemed to tumble lazily in the small cab, as if suspended and independent of gravity. Cascades of bright orange sparks spit from the sides of the truck. Past the Ford’s windows, all but obscuring the assassins in the Yukons a pocket opened up. Doug looked to Molly. She was still in the fight, refusing to concede a single breath. Past her, beyond the monstrous hood of the big white Yukon traffic parted as people fled as best they could the battle among them.
It was that, a glimmer of hope, that brought time to its properly feverish pace. Doug felt fight and resolve return to him like a force of nature, and slammed a foot on break pedal. The ripping of steel and metal was horrendous as the Ford wrenched loose, grinding to a halt as the Yukons sped forward. Doug gunned the engine and something exploded under the hood, sending clouds of oil smoke that covered the windshield. Behind them the Yukons were picking their way through knots vehicles to continue the chase. Doug vowed to put as much road as possible between them, knowing full well he couldn’t outrun them forever.
“We can’t fight these guys,” he said, running hard, charging through a red light.
“Don’t see another way,” she said. “But I have to know you are in the fight with me, Doug.”
He reached over and held her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Till the end.”
Doug hit the gas and pulled the wheel to the right. The Ford lurched across three lanes of traffic, banged down a grassy embankment and tore through a chain-link fence, nearly overshooting a narrow side road.
The Yukons caught a pocket and roared ahead, coming along either side of Doug and Molly. For a terrifyingly long minute they bumped the Ford between them, like wolves toying with a prey. Waverly was driving the first, a murderous steel to his eyes as he swung the Yukon sideways, slamming against the Ford and tossing Doug and Molly around inside. He was indeed toying with them, but toying to a predator is only prelude to a kill, and the time to kill was at hand.
“Can you get off a shot?” Doug cried above the grinding of metal and the whining of straining engines.
But Molly couldn’t get off a shot, not as the Ford was rocked and hammered violently about, and not without be sure she wouldn’t hit an innocent driver nearby. There was a garbage truck ahead. The Yukons pressed the old Ford between them, intent and running it hard into the truck. Doug yanked the wheel left and them right with every ounce of strength he possessed, knowing full well when the Yukons intended. He cried out against the strain, Molly still fighting for a clear shot and knew they had just seconds before disaster.
So that was it, he thought. This is how it would end. Doug would never see his girls again. Whatever god he might have believed it once seemed all the more cruel and terrible to take both parents from girls who had never harmed a soul. For an instant, just an instant he was ready to concede everything, so stopping fighting powers and forces much larger than Molly and him. For just and instant he could simply close his eyes and go peacefully to death.
Time slowed suddenly. Bits of glass, papers, a cell phone, a coffee cup seemed to tumble lazily in the small cab, as if suspended and independent of gravity. Cascades of bright orange sparks spit from the sides of the truck. Past the Ford’s windows, all but obscuring the assassins in the Yukons a pocket opened up. Doug looked to Molly. She was still in the fight, refusing to concede a single breath. Past her, beyond the monstrous hood of the big white Yukon traffic parted as people fled as best they could the battle among them.
It was that, a glimmer of hope, that brought time to its properly feverish pace. Doug felt fight and resolve return to him like a force of nature, and slammed a foot on break pedal. The ripping of steel and metal was horrendous as the Ford wrenched loose, grinding to a halt as the Yukons sped forward. Doug gunned the engine and something exploded under the hood, sending clouds of oil smoke that covered the windshield. Behind them the Yukons were picking their way through knots vehicles to continue the chase. Doug vowed to put as much road as possible between them, knowing full well he couldn’t outrun them forever.
“We can’t fight these guys,” he said, running hard, charging through a red light.
“Don’t see another way,” she said. “But I have to know you are in the fight with me, Doug.”
He reached over and held her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Till the end.”
Doug hit the gas and pulled the wheel to the right. The Ford lurched across three lanes of traffic, banged down a grassy embankment and tore through a chain-link fence, nearly overshooting a narrow side road.
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-four
It was a war council, a meeting to discuss strategies of attack rather than opportunities for diplomacy. Any pretext of peace was simply to assuage the pride and ego of the nation, and to portray the coming storm as a righteous one. It was a war council, though the men and women wore the finest suits, and were attended by aides in perfect uniforms. All were well-manicured and held advanced degrees from the finest educational institutions known to man. They were constant on blackberries, running to this conference or that committee meeting or media interviews. And despite their wealth and accoutrements they were no different from the tribes gathered at fires on the African plain a hundred thousand years before. They were the same as the ancient Hittitites, Illyrians and Huns, or the Germanic tribes that raged against Rome.
War had been decided, as much by ignorance as by the inconsolable tide of anger by the American people over the still mysterious deaths of the captives. The efforts by the Administration to find a diplomatic solution were abandoned the moment the two freighters were sunk in the Strait of Hormuz. An oblique claim of responsibility by an Al Qa’eda franchise could not be completely verified. Given the strategic peril US forces in the Persian Gulf faced, the President couldn’t take the chance of losing an entire carrier group to a possible Iranian ruse.
Allied forces in the Gulf were already on a war footing. The latest urgent preparations were certain to alarm the already jumpy Iranians, who undoubtedly were monitoring every Allied movement and unguarded communication. From the moment the freighters exploded the carrier group off the Saudi coast was prepared for an attack. Though the Iranians fully comprehended the American response, it was not something they could ignore.
They prepared for an immediate American retaliation. Neighborhood civil defense teams mobilized in every Iranian city, while tens of thousands began evacuating to the countryside and mountains. The Iranian air force scattered throughout the country, hiding in long prepared bunkers among villages, in farms and elsewhere. The Iranian navy left ports for protected coves and coastal areas, from which they prepared to launch a massive assault against the Americans.
Terror cells already activated across Western Europe and America had fallen one by one by sudden police raids. But not all of them had been discovered. These remaining cells prepared to carry out attack against civilian targets the instant the attack against Iran began.
The President leaned at the conference table in the Situation Room staring up at the satellite image of the Gulf and Middle East. This was the historic crucible of mankind’s legacy of war and violence. He appeared exhausted and hopeless, rubbing at the intractable tension now a permanent feature to his brow. The staff, joint chiefs and cabinet members sat pensively, not wishing to disturb thoughts upon which would weigh history forever.
He had hoped to stop a war, and had even run on that promise as a presidential candidate. But peace is not a decision, just as stopping a war is not a decision. Both are living creatures, and like living creatures must be starved or fed or killed just as surely as any other creature. The saddest thing was that peace was the most difficult to nurture and the easiest to kill, for a good peace could die from simple neglect. Peace was fed from the soul. It was heavenly and spiritual and antithetical to the hate and revenge and greed and ego that fed war. He had hoped to stop a war, and now felt as if he had filed the nation, the world and even the innocents in Iran who would suffer so terribly.
He stood and turned to the others. “I want an ultimatum to the Iranians. I’ll call the Chinese Premiere myself to make certain the message is delivered immediately.”
“They’ll need time to debate the points, Mister President,” said the Secretary of State. She had come to the job a little reluctantly, after running as candidate in a long and bitter election. But she had taken to the job at a historic moment, facing a daunting array of International issues, from multiple wars, a resurgence of high-seas piracy, a global recession, the environment and Nuclear proliferation.
She leaned back in her chair, a peach suit coat bunching slightly at the shoulders, her short blond hair lightly brushing the collar of a simple white blouse. The secretary’s eyeglasses teetered at the end of her nose. She was looking at the President, wondering how she might have managed all this if she had won the Presidency. The Secretary could hardly imagine weathering the crisis any differently.
“Time they don’t have,” the President replied.
“I think an ultimatum forces a situation,” said the defense secretary. “It backs everyone into a corner, and that gives us limited opportunities.”
“If see your point,” said the President, “but I do want to give the Iranians fewer options, with an expiration date.”
The secretary of State drew away her eyeglasses, holding them out before the notes and paper before her.
“My suggestion, if I was sitting in that chair,” she shared a warm smile with the President, precisely what was called for at that moment. “Carrot and stick. Offer them something they need with an expiration date which will undercut their international support if they refuse.”
The President sat on the table beside her. “I’m listening.”
She leaned back, finding for the first time that she truly liked the President, and that she had always respected him, but never quite realized it, or admitted it to herself before now.
Behind the scenes we deliver the message through the Chinese, making it abundantly clear the clock is ticking down to zero. We also play this fully in the Press and win the game on that court.”
The President folded his arms and chuckled. “Total bullshit.”
“The secretary laughed. “Welcome to the world of International diplomacy.”
War had been decided, as much by ignorance as by the inconsolable tide of anger by the American people over the still mysterious deaths of the captives. The efforts by the Administration to find a diplomatic solution were abandoned the moment the two freighters were sunk in the Strait of Hormuz. An oblique claim of responsibility by an Al Qa’eda franchise could not be completely verified. Given the strategic peril US forces in the Persian Gulf faced, the President couldn’t take the chance of losing an entire carrier group to a possible Iranian ruse.
Allied forces in the Gulf were already on a war footing. The latest urgent preparations were certain to alarm the already jumpy Iranians, who undoubtedly were monitoring every Allied movement and unguarded communication. From the moment the freighters exploded the carrier group off the Saudi coast was prepared for an attack. Though the Iranians fully comprehended the American response, it was not something they could ignore.
They prepared for an immediate American retaliation. Neighborhood civil defense teams mobilized in every Iranian city, while tens of thousands began evacuating to the countryside and mountains. The Iranian air force scattered throughout the country, hiding in long prepared bunkers among villages, in farms and elsewhere. The Iranian navy left ports for protected coves and coastal areas, from which they prepared to launch a massive assault against the Americans.
Terror cells already activated across Western Europe and America had fallen one by one by sudden police raids. But not all of them had been discovered. These remaining cells prepared to carry out attack against civilian targets the instant the attack against Iran began.
The President leaned at the conference table in the Situation Room staring up at the satellite image of the Gulf and Middle East. This was the historic crucible of mankind’s legacy of war and violence. He appeared exhausted and hopeless, rubbing at the intractable tension now a permanent feature to his brow. The staff, joint chiefs and cabinet members sat pensively, not wishing to disturb thoughts upon which would weigh history forever.
He had hoped to stop a war, and had even run on that promise as a presidential candidate. But peace is not a decision, just as stopping a war is not a decision. Both are living creatures, and like living creatures must be starved or fed or killed just as surely as any other creature. The saddest thing was that peace was the most difficult to nurture and the easiest to kill, for a good peace could die from simple neglect. Peace was fed from the soul. It was heavenly and spiritual and antithetical to the hate and revenge and greed and ego that fed war. He had hoped to stop a war, and now felt as if he had filed the nation, the world and even the innocents in Iran who would suffer so terribly.
He stood and turned to the others. “I want an ultimatum to the Iranians. I’ll call the Chinese Premiere myself to make certain the message is delivered immediately.”
“They’ll need time to debate the points, Mister President,” said the Secretary of State. She had come to the job a little reluctantly, after running as candidate in a long and bitter election. But she had taken to the job at a historic moment, facing a daunting array of International issues, from multiple wars, a resurgence of high-seas piracy, a global recession, the environment and Nuclear proliferation.
She leaned back in her chair, a peach suit coat bunching slightly at the shoulders, her short blond hair lightly brushing the collar of a simple white blouse. The secretary’s eyeglasses teetered at the end of her nose. She was looking at the President, wondering how she might have managed all this if she had won the Presidency. The Secretary could hardly imagine weathering the crisis any differently.
“Time they don’t have,” the President replied.
“I think an ultimatum forces a situation,” said the defense secretary. “It backs everyone into a corner, and that gives us limited opportunities.”
“If see your point,” said the President, “but I do want to give the Iranians fewer options, with an expiration date.”
The secretary of State drew away her eyeglasses, holding them out before the notes and paper before her.
“My suggestion, if I was sitting in that chair,” she shared a warm smile with the President, precisely what was called for at that moment. “Carrot and stick. Offer them something they need with an expiration date which will undercut their international support if they refuse.”
The President sat on the table beside her. “I’m listening.”
She leaned back, finding for the first time that she truly liked the President, and that she had always respected him, but never quite realized it, or admitted it to herself before now.
Behind the scenes we deliver the message through the Chinese, making it abundantly clear the clock is ticking down to zero. We also play this fully in the Press and win the game on that court.”
The President folded his arms and chuckled. “Total bullshit.”
“The secretary laughed. “Welcome to the world of International diplomacy.”
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-three
Molly shook the officer’s hands. They politely touched the brim of the hats and nodded. Half way to the truck she waved once more. Molly climbed back inside beside Doug with the strangest expression, somewhere between relief and nervousness. Doug gave up trying to decipher it. One of the State cruisers pulled around in front of them. The first remained behind them, lights blazing.
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Apparently one of the contractors spilled his guts last night. Word’s getting around that we’re on a mission…” Doug cut her off, as he started the truck.
“Mission from God?”
“You might say that.”
“It’s a hundred and six miles to Chicago,” he quoted a line from an old movie, “we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, its dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
The State cops escorted Doug and Molly as far as the Illinois state line. They pulled to the side of the road. The cop that had first pulled them over told how he had a son that had just enlisted in the Army, and that he had no interest in seeing his only son go off to war. They couldn’t guarantee anything past the Wisconsin line, but Doug and Molly were grateful for having seen them this far. As they crossed into Illinois they had no way of knowing that Waverly and his teams were already tracking them from the moment they were pulled over outside of Milwaukee. Waverly and his men were waiting for them, and they didn’t have to wait long.
Doug and Molly failed to notice the two white Yukon Denalis parked at an onramp. Doug was lost in the rightwing drumbeat to war on the radio. In between the hysterical outrage and knee-jerk foolishness, the news was filled with anecdotes of war preparations and protests around the world. Wars are a product of building tension in the minds and souls of each individual. The tension that is built is not easily dissipated, and is most easily dissipated in the violent predisposition of the human animal. It was a lesson those who have been to war understand, and a lesson Doug had seen again and again.
It was Molly who noticed the Yukons coming up quickly behind them, running side by side. She knew in an instant and had a sinking feeling things were about to take a very bad turn. She drew her pistol and pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Doug looked over sharply.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
Doug checked the mirror and shook his head. “These guys don’t give up, huh?”
“Still think we can pull this off.”
“Do we have a choice any longer?” he replied.
She checked the mirror again. The Yukons were looming, almost upon them now. There could be no doubt about their intention.“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“For history.”
“And if no one ever hears?”
Doug pushed the gas pedal down hard, briefly putting space between them and the Yukons. “For my girls, and for my soul.”
“Worth dying over?” she asked.
“Can’t think of a better purpose.”
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Apparently one of the contractors spilled his guts last night. Word’s getting around that we’re on a mission…” Doug cut her off, as he started the truck.
“Mission from God?”
“You might say that.”
“It’s a hundred and six miles to Chicago,” he quoted a line from an old movie, “we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, its dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
The State cops escorted Doug and Molly as far as the Illinois state line. They pulled to the side of the road. The cop that had first pulled them over told how he had a son that had just enlisted in the Army, and that he had no interest in seeing his only son go off to war. They couldn’t guarantee anything past the Wisconsin line, but Doug and Molly were grateful for having seen them this far. As they crossed into Illinois they had no way of knowing that Waverly and his teams were already tracking them from the moment they were pulled over outside of Milwaukee. Waverly and his men were waiting for them, and they didn’t have to wait long.
Doug and Molly failed to notice the two white Yukon Denalis parked at an onramp. Doug was lost in the rightwing drumbeat to war on the radio. In between the hysterical outrage and knee-jerk foolishness, the news was filled with anecdotes of war preparations and protests around the world. Wars are a product of building tension in the minds and souls of each individual. The tension that is built is not easily dissipated, and is most easily dissipated in the violent predisposition of the human animal. It was a lesson those who have been to war understand, and a lesson Doug had seen again and again.
It was Molly who noticed the Yukons coming up quickly behind them, running side by side. She knew in an instant and had a sinking feeling things were about to take a very bad turn. She drew her pistol and pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Doug looked over sharply.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
Doug checked the mirror and shook his head. “These guys don’t give up, huh?”
“Still think we can pull this off.”
“Do we have a choice any longer?” he replied.
She checked the mirror again. The Yukons were looming, almost upon them now. There could be no doubt about their intention.“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“For history.”
“And if no one ever hears?”
Doug pushed the gas pedal down hard, briefly putting space between them and the Yukons. “For my girls, and for my soul.”
“Worth dying over?” she asked.
“Can’t think of a better purpose.”
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-two
Molly and Doug were making good time on the long empty stretch of highway between Sheboygan and Milwaukee. Rolling hills and farms shimmered as the morning frost burned away beneath the endless embrace of blue Wisconsin sky. Deer peeked cautiously from clusters of autumn woods flanking the gray two lane ribbon of highway. Molly was looking out the window, sort of leaning against the door. Her gaze was distant, brow furled as she fought with Moon’s death, and if she might have done something differently to save him. Doug reached over and laid a hand upon hers, in a feeble effort to comfort her somehow. She looked over at him, struggling to smile, rescued by his touch. She held his hand in hers, filling them both with a warm rush of electricity.
“You’re not afraid?” she asked.
“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.
Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.
“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.
“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.
“If there’s still enough time.”
“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”
“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.
“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”
“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.
“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”
“And the Nano-weapon angle?”
“Delivery?”
Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.
Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.
“Best laid plans,” he muttered.
“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.
The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.
“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”
“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”
The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”
“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”
“Are you armed, ma’am?”
“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”
“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”
“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.
“Sorry?”
She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”
She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.
“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”
Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.
“You’re not afraid?” she asked.
“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.
Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.
“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.
“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.
“If there’s still enough time.”
“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”
“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.
“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”
“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.
“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”
“And the Nano-weapon angle?”
“Delivery?”
Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.
Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.
“Best laid plans,” he muttered.
“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.
The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.
“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”
“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”
The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”
“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”
“Are you armed, ma’am?”
“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”
“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”
“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.
“Sorry?”
She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”
She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.
“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”
Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-one
If the world’s economy had an Achilles heel it is undoubtedly at the Strait of Hormuz. Hardly thirty miles wide, as it bends from the Gulf of Oman into the Persian Gulf, less than a third of the straits are navigable. The great tankers, feeding fully forty percent of the World’s oil, pass through sea lanes six miles wide, pressed between the horn of Oman to the south and Iran to the north, with a series of islands from which they could stage lightning attacks against shipping. When, just twenty-four hours before the President of the United States was to address the American people, two tankers exploded and sank, sealing off the Gulf, Iran was the logical suspect.
The first, a South Korean freighter exploded without warning, just as the first honey-orange sunlight appeared above the Iranian coastline. Listing sharply, the ship caught fire. Billowing black plumes rose thousands of feet into the blue morning sky. Forty minutes later a passing South African ship exploded, the sound turning heads in Dubai and Sharjah forty miles away. The force of the explosion split the seven hundred foot vessel in two. It sank in only six minutes with all forty-two hands, spreading a fiery oil slick over several square miles. On the Korean vessel twelve of the Filipino crew escaped, rescued by the Iranian navy.
Iran had threatened a thousand times before to seal off the Straits and trap American ships. When the second ship exploded, eliminating any possibility of a random accident, the Americans might have unleashed fury upon the Iranians. Certainly they possessed the firepower to leave every Iranian city a smoking heap of rubble, reminiscent of the Allied bombings of Hamburg and Dresden, or Tokyo and Nagoya during the Second World War. But the Iranians appeared just as surprised and befuddled by the attacks as most everyone else. When a Saudi Al Qa’eda-affiliated group claimed responsibility both sides were equally relieved that conflict had been averted, if only for a short time.
It wouldn’t matter who ultimately was responsible. The damage had been done and would resonate through the global economy in untold ways. The world, despite illusions and national hubris, is a fragile place. Gasoline prices would skyrocket to eight Euros per liter in Europe, tipping countries like Belgium, Spain and Italy into bankruptcy and civil unrest. France and Germany’s economies were thrown into chaos, forcing emergency cuts to all but essential services. Bread lines appeared Across England as unemployment would near an average eighteen percent.
The Myanmar junta, long isolated for their brutality and human rights violations, would divert crucial fuel reserves to continue their campaign of cruelty against refugees and rebels. The diversions would cause mass demonstrations and infighting within the military. Street battles would erupt before the first of the year, and by February a new junta “for the people” would be in power.
In the US, right-wingers would criticize the administration, blaming millions of new jobless claims and a stock market in freefall on the failure to immediately seize and defend the Straits. Slowly the message was getting out that conservatives who controlled fully ninety percent of radio talk shows, inundated the internet and book stores with their screeds and who dominated cable television were the mainstream Press, and that their message dominance had not served to do anything but splinter the nation, embarrass it before the world, undermine American influence, plunder its economy and resources and interfere with governance. It would cost them dearly at the polls that November. Not that the American people were satisfied with the Democrats, but at least their policy wasn’t one of belligerence while in power and obstruction while in the minority.
The news from the Gulf fully eclipsed the investigation into Fallahi’s murder, and the full confession by McCullough. His revelations about a possible conspiracy to steer the nation into a new war, and then reap the profits for a new but untested weapon was lost in bureaucratic channels. Eli Germaine, the State Police inspector in Munising called a Press Conference, but all that bothered to show were a couple of local reporters, someone from The Mining Journal, up at Marquette, and a college intern from Democracy Now. The national Press was fixated on the coming war, which they had collectively decided was a fait accompli. All that had been accomplished was that as news spread among police throughout the Midwest, an unspoken support for the fugitives who were now somewhere between Green Bay and Chicago.
The first, a South Korean freighter exploded without warning, just as the first honey-orange sunlight appeared above the Iranian coastline. Listing sharply, the ship caught fire. Billowing black plumes rose thousands of feet into the blue morning sky. Forty minutes later a passing South African ship exploded, the sound turning heads in Dubai and Sharjah forty miles away. The force of the explosion split the seven hundred foot vessel in two. It sank in only six minutes with all forty-two hands, spreading a fiery oil slick over several square miles. On the Korean vessel twelve of the Filipino crew escaped, rescued by the Iranian navy.
Iran had threatened a thousand times before to seal off the Straits and trap American ships. When the second ship exploded, eliminating any possibility of a random accident, the Americans might have unleashed fury upon the Iranians. Certainly they possessed the firepower to leave every Iranian city a smoking heap of rubble, reminiscent of the Allied bombings of Hamburg and Dresden, or Tokyo and Nagoya during the Second World War. But the Iranians appeared just as surprised and befuddled by the attacks as most everyone else. When a Saudi Al Qa’eda-affiliated group claimed responsibility both sides were equally relieved that conflict had been averted, if only for a short time.
It wouldn’t matter who ultimately was responsible. The damage had been done and would resonate through the global economy in untold ways. The world, despite illusions and national hubris, is a fragile place. Gasoline prices would skyrocket to eight Euros per liter in Europe, tipping countries like Belgium, Spain and Italy into bankruptcy and civil unrest. France and Germany’s economies were thrown into chaos, forcing emergency cuts to all but essential services. Bread lines appeared Across England as unemployment would near an average eighteen percent.
The Myanmar junta, long isolated for their brutality and human rights violations, would divert crucial fuel reserves to continue their campaign of cruelty against refugees and rebels. The diversions would cause mass demonstrations and infighting within the military. Street battles would erupt before the first of the year, and by February a new junta “for the people” would be in power.
In the US, right-wingers would criticize the administration, blaming millions of new jobless claims and a stock market in freefall on the failure to immediately seize and defend the Straits. Slowly the message was getting out that conservatives who controlled fully ninety percent of radio talk shows, inundated the internet and book stores with their screeds and who dominated cable television were the mainstream Press, and that their message dominance had not served to do anything but splinter the nation, embarrass it before the world, undermine American influence, plunder its economy and resources and interfere with governance. It would cost them dearly at the polls that November. Not that the American people were satisfied with the Democrats, but at least their policy wasn’t one of belligerence while in power and obstruction while in the minority.
The news from the Gulf fully eclipsed the investigation into Fallahi’s murder, and the full confession by McCullough. His revelations about a possible conspiracy to steer the nation into a new war, and then reap the profits for a new but untested weapon was lost in bureaucratic channels. Eli Germaine, the State Police inspector in Munising called a Press Conference, but all that bothered to show were a couple of local reporters, someone from The Mining Journal, up at Marquette, and a college intern from Democracy Now. The national Press was fixated on the coming war, which they had collectively decided was a fait accompli. All that had been accomplished was that as news spread among police throughout the Midwest, an unspoken support for the fugitives who were now somewhere between Green Bay and Chicago.
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty
Doug felt a little foolish, pouring quarters into a pay phone beside a back road Shell gasoline station. How much the world had changed in only a few years. The digital revolution a dead before was still stumbling, pulling the world into an addiction to technology. Like any technology it came with its good and it’s bad. The Stone Age gave man the flint and the arrow to hunt with, but also the first weapons of war. The wheel helped carry man across the planet, while giving rise to the chariot. The pay phone felt like a throwback to another age, and yet it allowed him to evade the ever-tightening matrix by which anyone could be watched or monitored at any time and in any place.
The air was cool, but not cold. A brisk wind chases fat gray clods through a mostly blue sky. Molly was inside getting them coffee and something for breakfast. Doug dialed the one number of the only man he could trust to help them. Arnie Hamlin picked up almost immediately. Doug looked around to be sure no one else was near.
Interested in talking with the most wanted man in America?” he said.
“Jesus, Doug! What the hell is going on?”
“The less you know right now the better.”
“The whole damn world is looking for you.”
“Still golf with the Attorney general?”
“What are you into?”
“Tell him that I contacted you, and I’m prepared to discuss terms of my surrender in the next forty-eight hours, but I need protection for me and a friend.”
“Doug, I…”
Molly came out of the station with coffee and rolls. She wore a pair of cheap sunglasses she’d purchased as well. They did little to hide the dark bruise covering the side of her pretty face. Doug took a coffee. He felt enlivened almost by the bitter-warm scent steaming up from the Styrofoam cup.
Arnie, listen to me. Put someone on Shosa Industries and First Thrust.”
“What am I looking for?”
Anything. Everything.” His eyes found Molly’s behind the sunglasses. She touched his arm, stroking it reassuringly. “Check background on the company, political connections, and any details about their Nano-weapons research.”
“Give me a hint?”
“I think we’re going to war over a lie.”
“Doug, I can’t be a party to any crimes. I won’t do anything to jeopardize this paper. Just so we’re clear on that.”
“Arnie, I swear that I haven’t broken any laws, except where I had to protect my family. Let me ask you this. Ever known me to beg?”
“Never,” said Hamlin.
“Well, I’m begging.”
There was a long pause, as wide as a canyon, and every bit as deadly if Doug took a wrong step along a cliff’s edge.
“”I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” Hamlin said gravely. “The president is addressing the nation tomorrow night. The Iranians have broken off all contact. The word is he’s giving them an ultimatum. “
The news hit Doug like a sledgehammer. Could he stop a war in time? It seemed all but certain now. So what was there to fight for now, but the girls? Doug pressed his forehead to the polished steel cover around the telephone and leaned heavily against it. He kicked at some stones and pursed his lips.
Doug stood straight, suddenly filled with a greater determination. Later he would recall that it seemed holy, as if something pure and perfect had seized him and urged him on, like sunlight washing over a darkened field of grass, like a pure rush of wind or a cool drink in the desert. At once Doug knew what he must do.
“I want a Press Conference tomorrow on the steps of First Thrust. I need some heavy weights there, but I need this kept a secret until then. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hamlin. “My sister-in-law’s son teaches at Northwestern. Purvich, is his name. He’ll be expecting you. One shot here, Doug.”
Doug took a deep breath and felt the full weight of all this. He looked to Molly and found inspiration there. “Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need.”
The air was cool, but not cold. A brisk wind chases fat gray clods through a mostly blue sky. Molly was inside getting them coffee and something for breakfast. Doug dialed the one number of the only man he could trust to help them. Arnie Hamlin picked up almost immediately. Doug looked around to be sure no one else was near.
Interested in talking with the most wanted man in America?” he said.
“Jesus, Doug! What the hell is going on?”
“The less you know right now the better.”
“The whole damn world is looking for you.”
“Still golf with the Attorney general?”
“What are you into?”
“Tell him that I contacted you, and I’m prepared to discuss terms of my surrender in the next forty-eight hours, but I need protection for me and a friend.”
“Doug, I…”
Molly came out of the station with coffee and rolls. She wore a pair of cheap sunglasses she’d purchased as well. They did little to hide the dark bruise covering the side of her pretty face. Doug took a coffee. He felt enlivened almost by the bitter-warm scent steaming up from the Styrofoam cup.
Arnie, listen to me. Put someone on Shosa Industries and First Thrust.”
“What am I looking for?”
Anything. Everything.” His eyes found Molly’s behind the sunglasses. She touched his arm, stroking it reassuringly. “Check background on the company, political connections, and any details about their Nano-weapons research.”
“Give me a hint?”
“I think we’re going to war over a lie.”
“Doug, I can’t be a party to any crimes. I won’t do anything to jeopardize this paper. Just so we’re clear on that.”
“Arnie, I swear that I haven’t broken any laws, except where I had to protect my family. Let me ask you this. Ever known me to beg?”
“Never,” said Hamlin.
“Well, I’m begging.”
There was a long pause, as wide as a canyon, and every bit as deadly if Doug took a wrong step along a cliff’s edge.
“”I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” Hamlin said gravely. “The president is addressing the nation tomorrow night. The Iranians have broken off all contact. The word is he’s giving them an ultimatum. “
The news hit Doug like a sledgehammer. Could he stop a war in time? It seemed all but certain now. So what was there to fight for now, but the girls? Doug pressed his forehead to the polished steel cover around the telephone and leaned heavily against it. He kicked at some stones and pursed his lips.
Doug stood straight, suddenly filled with a greater determination. Later he would recall that it seemed holy, as if something pure and perfect had seized him and urged him on, like sunlight washing over a darkened field of grass, like a pure rush of wind or a cool drink in the desert. At once Doug knew what he must do.
“I want a Press Conference tomorrow on the steps of First Thrust. I need some heavy weights there, but I need this kept a secret until then. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hamlin. “My sister-in-law’s son teaches at Northwestern. Purvich, is his name. He’ll be expecting you. One shot here, Doug.”
Doug took a deep breath and felt the full weight of all this. He looked to Molly and found inspiration there. “Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-Nine
Archer Waverly swept a hand over the pale flesh of his neatly shaved head. He was dripping with sweat, still wearing the workout clothes from his personal gym in the back of the unassuming offices FIRST THRUST leased out of an office park in Suburban Chicago. At sixty-three Archer was still in spectacular shape, with hardly an ounce of fat. He had the physique of a body builder, and blue eyes with the intensity and fire of a cage fighter. He stood in the center of his spacious office, kept constantly at seventy-two degrees, the thunder of his breathing filling the dark room.
The shades were drawn tightly, and the curtains pilled close to prevent any light from the outside. His laptop was open on the antique oak desk. The blue light from the screen-saver bathing various papers, and a loaded pistol. The only other light was upon a portrait of Jesus from a gift shop in Rome. The light was above the six by nine inch painting, sparkling upon the gold inlay behind the Savior’s handsomely bearded face.
There was a kneeling pad beneath the picture. Archer would pray there. Beneath Jesus were autographed pictures of Sarah Palin and Oliver North. Who, Waverly liked to quip, would have made the perfect parents, if only God had thought through Time a bit better. Near the drapes, nearly hidden in the deep shadow of the room was a framed Time Magazine cover with Arpel Bernstein holding a photograph of Waverly wearing dark sunglasses and cradling an Ak-47. A bold yellow caption in FRANKLIN GOTHIC HEAVY letters read:
GOOD VS. EVIL?
A Crusader takes on America’s War Industry
It wasn’t as simple as that. Nothing ever is. There is no evil, at least not in the religious sense of the word. God and the Devil hashing out their differences through the mortal puppetry of flesh and blood human beings is a cartoon. There is no evil, only the heart’s stubborn refusal to understand the processes and histories of an act. It was an argument Waverly would certainly not subscribe to, unlike ethics, the negotiation of pain and injustice between people, which he believed was completely in the eye of the beholder.
War was a simple thing to Waverly. It was so simple he could not understand how anyone could see it differently. The bottom line was that in war someone had to win, and someone had to lose. War had long ago ceased to be about honor and country and religion. Those excuses were still employed to mask the true intention of conflicts, which was the exchange and theft of vast fortunes. War is a business transaction, a very loud and violent transaction, but a transaction nonetheless. For fools and the poor it was still a cause and a crusade.
Weaker men risked ruin in the market for a chance at wealth and power. They found the inherent danger seductive and undeniable, most particularly the risk of failure and destitution. Nothing, however, could compare with the ultimate risks and rewards of war, and nothing was more powerful than weighing a man’s fate through the sights of a gun or at the point of a sword. Those were the risks, and he lived for them, knowing full well his own misstep, providence or the supremacy of an adversary could bring about his own end. Never before had he faced a situation as dire and hopeless.
Waverly had been in tough spots before. He had survived ambushes in Vietnam and Laos, an assassination attempt in Columbia, gun battles in Iraq and a bloody knife fight with two Al Qa’eda operatives in a Syrian Marketplace. He’d beaten a serious bout with cancer and financial ruin. When his drinking and abusive nature got out of hand some years back Waverly’s wife walked out with their two young boys. One followed his dad into the military, but was distant and a far different man than his father. The other could not forgive as easily. He moved East, disavowing his father altogether.
This was different. He was trapped, all at once confronted by crimes against his own nation, all in the name of profits. He had wagered everything in framing Doug Springer for Ahmed Fallahi’s murder, all crimes against his nation, a fact which no amount of rationalization or true-bending could undo. Now that all that had gone horribly wrong it was natural to assume the full weight of the law and the nation would be upon him. When the phone rang and Waverly saw the number there was a moment when he was undecided which to pick up, the phone or the pistol. Death was preferable to disgrace and a life in prison-which he would surely face.
Waverly reached across the desk. His fingers moved across the smooth body of the pistol, reaching past it for the phone. He hit the talk button and lifted it to his ear.
“Yes, sir,” Waverly said low and dry.
“Quite a mess.” Umberto Shosa’s voice was unmistakable.
“That it is,” said Waverly, focusing briefly on the shattered glass on the floor across the room beneath a light brown bourbon stain. It was the result of a phone call from First Thrust’s legal advisor about the calamity in Michigan, and the arrest of Brower and McCullough.
It was second nature that both men would speak in vagaries. Despite all sorts of security precautions, there was always the likelihood of someone listening and recording. As such, those recordings would be inadmissible in a court of law, but they might pop up elsewhere; a call girl, an acquaintance with legal troubles, a disgruntled ex-wife or business partner, a fellow conspirator, ex-employee or a neighbor struggling to meet and IRS tax bill.
Waverly slumped heavily into his high-backed leather chair. He shook his head with a frown, and was glad Shosa couldn’t hear what Waverly was thinking. His hand lay beside the pistol. The glass covering the desk was cool to the touch.
“None of this comes back to me.”
“What do you suggest I do?” asked with a hint of contempt. He lifted the pistol and imagined pressing it to Shosa’s temple.
“I don’t suggest, Mister Wave? First Thrust employs thirteen hundred military contractors worldwide. I need those logistics, and their expertise. They are to be the operations arm of Shosa Industries. Tomorrow a team will meet with the Pentagon over a major contract bid for our Nano-weapons effort. Eight bungling fools will not risk all that. You will fix the mess you made or I will find someone who will.”
“Understood.”
“I’m leaving for my villa in Greece in a few hours.”
Waverly weighed the pistol in his hand. He knew Shosa was getting out, flying off in his private jet before things got too hot in the States. Greece held no extradition treaty with the United States. A hand full of strategic and highly publicized philanthropic efforts, a large donation to the Police Union in Athens and a longstanding friendship with the Prime Minister guaranteed Shosa would remain untouchable. He had a way out. There was no such escape for the coming storm for Waverly.
The line went dead. Waverly sighed and closed the phone and let it slide across the table. He pulled the slide back on the pistol to chamber a round, believing there was no other choice, as he certainly would no spend the rest of his life behind bars. It would be an honorable death, a soldier’s ending, rather than the humiliation of being disgraced and imprisoned. Strange but he didn’t feel anything. Lifting the pistol and pressing it to his temple, Waverly didn’t feel remorse or regret. His eyes rose to the portrait of Jesus on the wall as his finger tightened on the trigger. Waverly closed his eyes and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer and ask forgiveness before God. The phone rang again, the sound stabbing through him like a cold knife. Lowering the pistol he reached for the phone, surprised to find his hand trembling slightly.
“Waverly,” he said, not bothering to coceal a steadily sinking mood.
“I have some information,’ said the man’s voice at the other end. Waverly recognized it as a former Navy Seal that had come to the company about the same time as McCullough. Jonas, Pinkerton had earned the nickname “Injun Jonas” over his penchant for wearing the scalps of Taliban fighters.
“I’m listening.”
“A Michigan State Police cruiser thought he spotted our friend and his lady leaving a cheap motel in Rapid River up on the Lake Michigan shore.”
“He’s moving south.”
“That’s my bet.”
“Coming here?”
“I can have a couple of teams ready in an hour,” said Pinkerton, always just a step ahead.
“You take a team and I’ll take the other,” Waverly replied, a cool rush of relief washing through him, as though he’d received a reprieve from execution.
“Copy that.”
Waverly hung up the phone and went slowly around the desk, pushing the pistol into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. He adjusted a light jacket over it and knelt before the image of Jesus. He thanked the Lord for this second chance, not to change to a different path, but for one more opportunity to conceal his sins. But Arlen Waverly saw no hypocrisy in that act. Before the day was done, he vowed, Doug Springer would be dead. Already the legal department was cleaning up all evidence of connection between them and First Thrust. Brower, McCullough and the others would be characterized as rogue employees acting off the reservation. A Press Release was already being drafted concerning the mental stability of Brower for a bout with depression some years back. The others would have their reputations eviscerated in a public relations campaign designed to paint the company as the true victim.
The shades were drawn tightly, and the curtains pilled close to prevent any light from the outside. His laptop was open on the antique oak desk. The blue light from the screen-saver bathing various papers, and a loaded pistol. The only other light was upon a portrait of Jesus from a gift shop in Rome. The light was above the six by nine inch painting, sparkling upon the gold inlay behind the Savior’s handsomely bearded face.
There was a kneeling pad beneath the picture. Archer would pray there. Beneath Jesus were autographed pictures of Sarah Palin and Oliver North. Who, Waverly liked to quip, would have made the perfect parents, if only God had thought through Time a bit better. Near the drapes, nearly hidden in the deep shadow of the room was a framed Time Magazine cover with Arpel Bernstein holding a photograph of Waverly wearing dark sunglasses and cradling an Ak-47. A bold yellow caption in FRANKLIN GOTHIC HEAVY letters read:
GOOD VS. EVIL?
A Crusader takes on America’s War Industry
It wasn’t as simple as that. Nothing ever is. There is no evil, at least not in the religious sense of the word. God and the Devil hashing out their differences through the mortal puppetry of flesh and blood human beings is a cartoon. There is no evil, only the heart’s stubborn refusal to understand the processes and histories of an act. It was an argument Waverly would certainly not subscribe to, unlike ethics, the negotiation of pain and injustice between people, which he believed was completely in the eye of the beholder.
War was a simple thing to Waverly. It was so simple he could not understand how anyone could see it differently. The bottom line was that in war someone had to win, and someone had to lose. War had long ago ceased to be about honor and country and religion. Those excuses were still employed to mask the true intention of conflicts, which was the exchange and theft of vast fortunes. War is a business transaction, a very loud and violent transaction, but a transaction nonetheless. For fools and the poor it was still a cause and a crusade.
Weaker men risked ruin in the market for a chance at wealth and power. They found the inherent danger seductive and undeniable, most particularly the risk of failure and destitution. Nothing, however, could compare with the ultimate risks and rewards of war, and nothing was more powerful than weighing a man’s fate through the sights of a gun or at the point of a sword. Those were the risks, and he lived for them, knowing full well his own misstep, providence or the supremacy of an adversary could bring about his own end. Never before had he faced a situation as dire and hopeless.
Waverly had been in tough spots before. He had survived ambushes in Vietnam and Laos, an assassination attempt in Columbia, gun battles in Iraq and a bloody knife fight with two Al Qa’eda operatives in a Syrian Marketplace. He’d beaten a serious bout with cancer and financial ruin. When his drinking and abusive nature got out of hand some years back Waverly’s wife walked out with their two young boys. One followed his dad into the military, but was distant and a far different man than his father. The other could not forgive as easily. He moved East, disavowing his father altogether.
This was different. He was trapped, all at once confronted by crimes against his own nation, all in the name of profits. He had wagered everything in framing Doug Springer for Ahmed Fallahi’s murder, all crimes against his nation, a fact which no amount of rationalization or true-bending could undo. Now that all that had gone horribly wrong it was natural to assume the full weight of the law and the nation would be upon him. When the phone rang and Waverly saw the number there was a moment when he was undecided which to pick up, the phone or the pistol. Death was preferable to disgrace and a life in prison-which he would surely face.
Waverly reached across the desk. His fingers moved across the smooth body of the pistol, reaching past it for the phone. He hit the talk button and lifted it to his ear.
“Yes, sir,” Waverly said low and dry.
“Quite a mess.” Umberto Shosa’s voice was unmistakable.
“That it is,” said Waverly, focusing briefly on the shattered glass on the floor across the room beneath a light brown bourbon stain. It was the result of a phone call from First Thrust’s legal advisor about the calamity in Michigan, and the arrest of Brower and McCullough.
It was second nature that both men would speak in vagaries. Despite all sorts of security precautions, there was always the likelihood of someone listening and recording. As such, those recordings would be inadmissible in a court of law, but they might pop up elsewhere; a call girl, an acquaintance with legal troubles, a disgruntled ex-wife or business partner, a fellow conspirator, ex-employee or a neighbor struggling to meet and IRS tax bill.
Waverly slumped heavily into his high-backed leather chair. He shook his head with a frown, and was glad Shosa couldn’t hear what Waverly was thinking. His hand lay beside the pistol. The glass covering the desk was cool to the touch.
“None of this comes back to me.”
“What do you suggest I do?” asked with a hint of contempt. He lifted the pistol and imagined pressing it to Shosa’s temple.
“I don’t suggest, Mister Wave? First Thrust employs thirteen hundred military contractors worldwide. I need those logistics, and their expertise. They are to be the operations arm of Shosa Industries. Tomorrow a team will meet with the Pentagon over a major contract bid for our Nano-weapons effort. Eight bungling fools will not risk all that. You will fix the mess you made or I will find someone who will.”
“Understood.”
“I’m leaving for my villa in Greece in a few hours.”
Waverly weighed the pistol in his hand. He knew Shosa was getting out, flying off in his private jet before things got too hot in the States. Greece held no extradition treaty with the United States. A hand full of strategic and highly publicized philanthropic efforts, a large donation to the Police Union in Athens and a longstanding friendship with the Prime Minister guaranteed Shosa would remain untouchable. He had a way out. There was no such escape for the coming storm for Waverly.
The line went dead. Waverly sighed and closed the phone and let it slide across the table. He pulled the slide back on the pistol to chamber a round, believing there was no other choice, as he certainly would no spend the rest of his life behind bars. It would be an honorable death, a soldier’s ending, rather than the humiliation of being disgraced and imprisoned. Strange but he didn’t feel anything. Lifting the pistol and pressing it to his temple, Waverly didn’t feel remorse or regret. His eyes rose to the portrait of Jesus on the wall as his finger tightened on the trigger. Waverly closed his eyes and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer and ask forgiveness before God. The phone rang again, the sound stabbing through him like a cold knife. Lowering the pistol he reached for the phone, surprised to find his hand trembling slightly.
“Waverly,” he said, not bothering to coceal a steadily sinking mood.
“I have some information,’ said the man’s voice at the other end. Waverly recognized it as a former Navy Seal that had come to the company about the same time as McCullough. Jonas, Pinkerton had earned the nickname “Injun Jonas” over his penchant for wearing the scalps of Taliban fighters.
“I’m listening.”
“A Michigan State Police cruiser thought he spotted our friend and his lady leaving a cheap motel in Rapid River up on the Lake Michigan shore.”
“He’s moving south.”
“That’s my bet.”
“Coming here?”
“I can have a couple of teams ready in an hour,” said Pinkerton, always just a step ahead.
“You take a team and I’ll take the other,” Waverly replied, a cool rush of relief washing through him, as though he’d received a reprieve from execution.
“Copy that.”
Waverly hung up the phone and went slowly around the desk, pushing the pistol into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. He adjusted a light jacket over it and knelt before the image of Jesus. He thanked the Lord for this second chance, not to change to a different path, but for one more opportunity to conceal his sins. But Arlen Waverly saw no hypocrisy in that act. Before the day was done, he vowed, Doug Springer would be dead. Already the legal department was cleaning up all evidence of connection between them and First Thrust. Brower, McCullough and the others would be characterized as rogue employees acting off the reservation. A Press Release was already being drafted concerning the mental stability of Brower for a bout with depression some years back. The others would have their reputations eviscerated in a public relations campaign designed to paint the company as the true victim.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-eight
It was still cool and crisp when Eli Germaine stepped outside for a cigarette. The sun was just coming up as a fat chartreuse disk above the hills to the east. He stretched with a weary groan, having spent the night as McCullough poured out every detail of a fantastic story. Germaine’s head was still spinning, trying to make sense of it all.
The door opened behind him, as one of the Federal Agents joined him, looking every bit as exhausted and bewildered. The man was tall and blond, with athletic Ivy League looks. He was in a dark brown suit, a blue and white silk tie folded and tucked in the pocket of his bright white dress shirt. Germaine offered him a cigarette. The agent politely waved it away.
“Trying to quit, thanks.”
“Heard all that?”
“Do we buy it?” asked the Agent.
“Hundred percent,” Germaine replied, pushing a cigarette into his lips. He fumbled in a pocket for the lighter. The cold air helped rouse him. “At least that he believes everything he told us. Whether or not it’s true…The kid was almost relieved to get it out.”
“Question is, what do we do with this?” The Agent, born and bred in Arizona wasn’t as accustomed to the cold. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he rocked on his heels, as if that would help to warm him.
Germaine flipped the top on his silver Marine Corps lighter and brought the tapered golden flame up to the cigarette. “That I leave to you Federal guys. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“I’ll need a copy of his statement?”
“Anything you need,” Germaine replied.
“I’ll send this to Washington.”
“Time enough to stop a war?”
The Agent shrugged. His words were hollow and cold, more a product of a lack of sleep than anything. “I don’t know anyone in Iran. Do you?”
Germaine frowned. The Agent couldn’t see it, but Germaine knew only too well the horrors of war and didn’t all appreciate the Agent’s flippancy. “We may all know someone in Iran before long.”
The Agent was silent for a moment. A chill ran through him, one deeper and very different from the chill of the Michigan morning. He felt a little foolish for the comment and could almost feel Germaine’s dissatisfaction. It wasn’t like him so say something that irresponsible, but trapped in the moment, he didn’t see any good way back. The moment hung heavily for a long moment.
“Pretty impressive how you connected with McCullough,” the Agent said, humbly.
“Bond between men who have been in combat,” said Germaine, with a half smile, taking a subtle shot at the lawyerly Fed. He took a long drag on the cigarette and flipped away into the frost-touched green grass. “Somehow he got all turned around and misplaced his loyalty. I was just helping a fellow Marine and a good American find them again.”
“We’ll see.”
Germaine was less than pleased with the reply, though he knew it to be an honest one that was perhaps accurate. Still, he took all of this very personal. As he started for the door Germaine stopped and laid a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder, specifically intending to make a point.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “I expect that to weigh heavily on this man’s case. Are we clear?”
“And Brower?”
“We gave him every opportunity. He made his choice.”
The door opened behind him, as one of the Federal Agents joined him, looking every bit as exhausted and bewildered. The man was tall and blond, with athletic Ivy League looks. He was in a dark brown suit, a blue and white silk tie folded and tucked in the pocket of his bright white dress shirt. Germaine offered him a cigarette. The agent politely waved it away.
“Trying to quit, thanks.”
“Heard all that?”
“Do we buy it?” asked the Agent.
“Hundred percent,” Germaine replied, pushing a cigarette into his lips. He fumbled in a pocket for the lighter. The cold air helped rouse him. “At least that he believes everything he told us. Whether or not it’s true…The kid was almost relieved to get it out.”
“Question is, what do we do with this?” The Agent, born and bred in Arizona wasn’t as accustomed to the cold. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he rocked on his heels, as if that would help to warm him.
Germaine flipped the top on his silver Marine Corps lighter and brought the tapered golden flame up to the cigarette. “That I leave to you Federal guys. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“I’ll need a copy of his statement?”
“Anything you need,” Germaine replied.
“I’ll send this to Washington.”
“Time enough to stop a war?”
The Agent shrugged. His words were hollow and cold, more a product of a lack of sleep than anything. “I don’t know anyone in Iran. Do you?”
Germaine frowned. The Agent couldn’t see it, but Germaine knew only too well the horrors of war and didn’t all appreciate the Agent’s flippancy. “We may all know someone in Iran before long.”
The Agent was silent for a moment. A chill ran through him, one deeper and very different from the chill of the Michigan morning. He felt a little foolish for the comment and could almost feel Germaine’s dissatisfaction. It wasn’t like him so say something that irresponsible, but trapped in the moment, he didn’t see any good way back. The moment hung heavily for a long moment.
“Pretty impressive how you connected with McCullough,” the Agent said, humbly.
“Bond between men who have been in combat,” said Germaine, with a half smile, taking a subtle shot at the lawyerly Fed. He took a long drag on the cigarette and flipped away into the frost-touched green grass. “Somehow he got all turned around and misplaced his loyalty. I was just helping a fellow Marine and a good American find them again.”
“We’ll see.”
Germaine was less than pleased with the reply, though he knew it to be an honest one that was perhaps accurate. Still, he took all of this very personal. As he started for the door Germaine stopped and laid a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder, specifically intending to make a point.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “I expect that to weigh heavily on this man’s case. Are we clear?”
“And Brower?”
“We gave him every opportunity. He made his choice.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-seven
To the Iranians America’s imperialistic hands were fully around their throats. It was unavoidable that some would perceive that as a death grip. Those men were determined to strike a blow, however feeble, against their aggressors. Revenge is never about the truth, but always about the heart. In it they could level any accusation. America’s support for Israel blossomed into a conspiracy that was almost mythical in its size and scope and treachery. There were tales of oil, of racial and religious hatreds, historical hyperbole, of a new crusade and more. In the end, however, war, like politics and marriage, is always about revenge.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-six
When Doug awoke just before dawn, in the cheap no-name motel along Route Seven, just outside Rapid River, Molly was in the shower. Doug was still dressed, still wearing his shoes, just as he had when he collapsed upon the bed sometime after two that morning. He had no recollection of Molly getting up, or even getting into bed with him. From the moment is head hit the pillow Doug was out cold. He awoke disoriented, only the soul shattering fatigue and pain burning through his body reminding Doug that all of this hadn’t been some terrible dream.
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-five
The Sherriff’s station in Munising was almost hidden in the shadow of the tall autumn forests shrouding the steep hills at the back of the town. It faced the hockey rink, and a small service road leading up to the football field, which overlooked the town and bay from a small bowl among the hills. The station appeared out of date, an unassuming place of brown brick, so flat and small that one could easily miss the place unless otherwise searching specifically. Bordered by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs, this night it was bustling with activity, as never before, crowded with county sheriffs, a State Police contingent, investigators, cops and Chiefs from Munising to Marquette, and a hand full of Federal Agents from a half dozen different agencies.
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-four
CHAPTER THREE
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-three
Molly slipped in and out of consciousness as Doug headed south through the forest, racing to put as much distance between them and the lakeshore as possible. The truck had taken a pretty fair beating. The grill had held, mostly, and the bumper was bent up and back, enough that he’d needed to bend it back with a tire iron to turn the wheel. One of the headlights had shattered. Only one remained, the light feeble in the forest. Wind shrieked through the bullet holes in the windshield, eclipsing some NPR program on the radio.
Molly was against him, her face against his chest. He had an arm around her shoulders, holding her close against the banging and bouncing of the uneven ground of the dirt logging road. The cut in her cheek had stopped bleeding some time ago. Her breathing was steady and even, almost as if she was asleep. He felt confident she hadn’t been badly hurt.
Doug took hope in having her there, like he was no longer in this fight alone. The comrades of the men he had killed would come looking for him. He had no doubt about that, but for now time and distance were his greatest adversaries. Molly moaned and stirred beneath his arm.
He thought about that night beside the Bosporus, and how he was so tempted to taste her lips, knowing full well he would not have been able to stop there. It would have been nothing to go up to her room, but he could never be unfaithful to Jane, and simply the temptation ravaged his conscience and soul to the day he sat holding Jane’s hand as she took her final breaths. He was tearing himself apart for even considering infidelity for a moment. It drove a halting and painful moan when her hand tightened briefly in his and then went limp. And now she was here beside him, her nearness only calling to mind all those old feelings and eternal guilt.
The decision to head south was as much a pragmatic choice as a deliberate one. They would have to head south to Chicago. For Doug, it was the surest way back to his girls, and that was all that mattered right now. Molly pushed away, falling slowly back against the door. Her eyes opened grudgingly to him, seeming at first as if she didn’t recognize him, or was sizing him up somehow.
Doug drew the truck to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The cold and silence of the night surrounded them. Molly sat up, wincing as she brushed her cheek while pulling back a lock of hair. He turned to her. There was confusion in the dark pools of her eyes.
“We were driving to, to…” Molly struggled to piece together her shattered thoughts. “All of the sudden…”
“Its okay,” he told her, his voice low and even. “You had…I’m sorry about your partner.”
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was fluid and broken. “He was a good man, Doug. He didn’t deserve to die…”
“We are going after the people who did this,” he told her. “I’m tired of running and hiding.”
“Doug, they mean to start a war. Shosa and these mercenaries, they’re behind this, I’m sure.” Molly swallowed hard, her throat burning from thirst. She needed water, and a moment to sort out some things. Doug could help her with the former, and reach past her. He pulled open the glove box and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. He barely got the cap off when she took the bottle and gulped down two long swallows.
“Whoa,” he drew the bottle from her lips.
Molly nodded appreciatively. “I was investigating the death of Senator Bernstein. The official cause of death is acute brain hemorrhage. But there was more. The hemorrhage, it was as if the vessels had been burned away, hot enough to blister the flesh and leave a black residue.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
Two others died in an identical fashion, a US Attorney and a pentagon Colonel, both with their sights on…”
“FIRSTTHRUST INC!” Doug exclaimed.
“And Umberto Shosa.”
“Change the world as fundamentally as the discovery of fire.”
“Sorry?”
“Something Fallahi said right before he was killed,” said Doug. He turned to the wheel and started the truck. The engine came to life with a roar. With the motor the radio came to life, just as the news came on. Molly reached over and turned up the volume. The female announcer’s voice was even and emotionless:
“Iranian officials are accusing the US of waging a biological sneak attack for the deaths of all but one of the American captives, as well as scores of others in that country. IRNA, the Islamic republic News Agency reported that scores of people had died mysterious and sudden deaths, including that of an entire village near the sight where Iranian forces brought down two American helicopters on a rescue mission. White House and Pentagon officials did not immediately comment on the rapidly moving events in the Gulf, or regarding Iran’s accusations, but did say the President will give a rare Eight a.m. address to the nation tomorrow about the rising tensions between Iran and the United States. This is NPR.”
“Nano-weapons,” said Doug heavily. “That’s what killed Bernstein and the others. They’re testing the weapons against live targets in Iran.”
“God help us,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the truck back into the road. “If there ‘s a God, he’ll damn the human race for this abomination for sure.”
“What are we going to do?” Molly asked. “We have to tell somebody.”
“You aided and abetted a felon,” said Doug. “Our only hope is to create enough of a ruckus that it makes everyone pay attention>”
“How do you propose to do that?”
He looked over at her, finding her so beautiful by the soft green light of the dash. “Figure that out on the way to Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“They’ll expect us to run away, but we are gonna take the fight right to their doorstep.”
Molly was against him, her face against his chest. He had an arm around her shoulders, holding her close against the banging and bouncing of the uneven ground of the dirt logging road. The cut in her cheek had stopped bleeding some time ago. Her breathing was steady and even, almost as if she was asleep. He felt confident she hadn’t been badly hurt.
Doug took hope in having her there, like he was no longer in this fight alone. The comrades of the men he had killed would come looking for him. He had no doubt about that, but for now time and distance were his greatest adversaries. Molly moaned and stirred beneath his arm.
He thought about that night beside the Bosporus, and how he was so tempted to taste her lips, knowing full well he would not have been able to stop there. It would have been nothing to go up to her room, but he could never be unfaithful to Jane, and simply the temptation ravaged his conscience and soul to the day he sat holding Jane’s hand as she took her final breaths. He was tearing himself apart for even considering infidelity for a moment. It drove a halting and painful moan when her hand tightened briefly in his and then went limp. And now she was here beside him, her nearness only calling to mind all those old feelings and eternal guilt.
The decision to head south was as much a pragmatic choice as a deliberate one. They would have to head south to Chicago. For Doug, it was the surest way back to his girls, and that was all that mattered right now. Molly pushed away, falling slowly back against the door. Her eyes opened grudgingly to him, seeming at first as if she didn’t recognize him, or was sizing him up somehow.
Doug drew the truck to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The cold and silence of the night surrounded them. Molly sat up, wincing as she brushed her cheek while pulling back a lock of hair. He turned to her. There was confusion in the dark pools of her eyes.
“We were driving to, to…” Molly struggled to piece together her shattered thoughts. “All of the sudden…”
“Its okay,” he told her, his voice low and even. “You had…I’m sorry about your partner.”
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was fluid and broken. “He was a good man, Doug. He didn’t deserve to die…”
“We are going after the people who did this,” he told her. “I’m tired of running and hiding.”
“Doug, they mean to start a war. Shosa and these mercenaries, they’re behind this, I’m sure.” Molly swallowed hard, her throat burning from thirst. She needed water, and a moment to sort out some things. Doug could help her with the former, and reach past her. He pulled open the glove box and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. He barely got the cap off when she took the bottle and gulped down two long swallows.
“Whoa,” he drew the bottle from her lips.
Molly nodded appreciatively. “I was investigating the death of Senator Bernstein. The official cause of death is acute brain hemorrhage. But there was more. The hemorrhage, it was as if the vessels had been burned away, hot enough to blister the flesh and leave a black residue.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
Two others died in an identical fashion, a US Attorney and a pentagon Colonel, both with their sights on…”
“FIRSTTHRUST INC!” Doug exclaimed.
“And Umberto Shosa.”
“Change the world as fundamentally as the discovery of fire.”
“Sorry?”
“Something Fallahi said right before he was killed,” said Doug. He turned to the wheel and started the truck. The engine came to life with a roar. With the motor the radio came to life, just as the news came on. Molly reached over and turned up the volume. The female announcer’s voice was even and emotionless:
“Iranian officials are accusing the US of waging a biological sneak attack for the deaths of all but one of the American captives, as well as scores of others in that country. IRNA, the Islamic republic News Agency reported that scores of people had died mysterious and sudden deaths, including that of an entire village near the sight where Iranian forces brought down two American helicopters on a rescue mission. White House and Pentagon officials did not immediately comment on the rapidly moving events in the Gulf, or regarding Iran’s accusations, but did say the President will give a rare Eight a.m. address to the nation tomorrow about the rising tensions between Iran and the United States. This is NPR.”
“Nano-weapons,” said Doug heavily. “That’s what killed Bernstein and the others. They’re testing the weapons against live targets in Iran.”
“God help us,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the truck back into the road. “If there ‘s a God, he’ll damn the human race for this abomination for sure.”
“What are we going to do?” Molly asked. “We have to tell somebody.”
“You aided and abetted a felon,” said Doug. “Our only hope is to create enough of a ruckus that it makes everyone pay attention>”
“How do you propose to do that?”
He looked over at her, finding her so beautiful by the soft green light of the dash. “Figure that out on the way to Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“They’ll expect us to run away, but we are gonna take the fight right to their doorstep.”
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-one
The bodies lay in the alley, not twenty yards from bristling coils of razor wire strung across the street and around the long apartment block in both directions. The man was face down, appearing as though he had been frozen in mid run. He was dressed in a loose fitting beige kafiya. His body dipped unnaturally in the middle where dark blood pooled, as if it was held in a bowl. One arm lay close to one side, the palm turned upward. The other had suffered the full weight of the man’s falling body and was bent cruelly just above the elbow.
Beside him lay a middle aged woman. She was sprawled on her back, one arm outstretched and pleading. Her handsome Persian face was pale, and painted with a mixture of agony and confusion. She was dressed in a pink terry-cloth bathrobe, now open to expose a white blood spattered slip beneath. A loosely tied hijab covered the woman’s long dark hair, which was streaked with rivulets of silver. The young Azeri conscript who had fired the fatal wounds became so inconsolable that he had to be hospitalized.
The entire block had been cordoned off, trapping a number of people within. Razor wire and flood lights went off, the perimeter secured by soldiers, police and guard dogs. It had been simultaneous, four of the six American captives died almost immediately. A fifth was clinging to life in a military hospital, unconscious and without any notable brain activity. The last, a young Army Staff Sergeant, who had been held alone in a bank vault near the airport was apparently unaffected. All of the officers who had taken part in the battle and had accompanied the Americans to Tehran, seventy soldiers as well as an entire village near the crash site and simply dropped dead, as if someone had flipped a switch. Given the circumstances, a shoot to kill order for anyone attempting to escape the quarantined area was arguably unavoidable.
The bodies were the human face to the unfolding tragedy. The quarantines all around the country had proved nightmarish to pull off. People fled in panic, trudging through sewers, disappearing into the night or slipping through cordons as they struggled to close off whole blocks amid urban sprawl. Police and soldiers and doctors were allowed to pass after viewing the bodies, and few if any precautions were taken once the order was given to move the dead. If the deaths had been caused by a pathogen that was easily transmitted from person to person, the initial response might well have spread it throughout the population already.
The mysterious circumstances surrounding the deaths drove the Iranian leadership into a near panic. Within an hour Iranian airspace was closed and the military thrown into chaos. The immediate reaction was that this was indeed a biological attack by the Americans, some long feared sneak attack of some sort. But it couldn’t be confirmed, and after several hastily conducted autopsies no one was any closer to an answer. In truth, in all but one of the seven independent post mortems, only one had correctly identified severe brain hemorrhage as the cause of death, and only because that was conducted in a hospital with CT Scanning equipment, as opposed to the others done at military bases, outlying clinics, and in one case, a woefully outdated local mortuary. What was sure was that it was well beyond any reasonable chance that all the deaths, occurring at precisely the same moment were a coincidence.
From the Islamic revolution during the late Seventies, Iran saw the United States as its greatest enemy. It began a long covert war between Iran and the West, with assassinations, sabotage and open hostilities. Almost immediately the new Iranian Islamic Republic adopted Hamas in Lebanon, as well as their patrons, the Palestinian Liberation organization under Yasser Arafat, joining a common front against Israel and the West. In response, the Americans aided Iraq against Saddam’s war against Tehran.
Cyber warfare against the West had been in the works for years, targeting US companies, satellites, power grids and the like. Sleeper cells had been in place since the first months of the Islamic revolutions, prepared to unleash waves of terror attacks against soft targets around the globe and across the United States. Some would attack shopping malls and public gatherings to terrorize the population, while others would target infrastructure: bring down a bridge, blow up a railway line and bring down a hand full of highway overpasses in any American city and it would become paralyzed for weeks or months.
The operatives had lived and worked in the US and the West for years, often decades, awaiting orders or the signal to undertake a given operation. Those orders would come through foreign news sources, local classifieds, coffee house message boards or Facebook. Some were ex-patriots and émigrés; others were sympathizers, criminals, and even some willing to make a fast buck.
Simultaneous to terror attacks Iran would scuttle several large freighters in the narrow Straits of Hormuz, cutting off sea-going traffic in and out of the Gulf, and effectively trapping two American fleets. Combined air and sea suicide assaults by the Iranians would turn the Gulf in a cauldron. Bridges and roads all along the Iraqi border would be mined and blown up. Already there was an alarming number of Iranian troop movements into the mountains, while others began dissolving among the population all around the country for the inevitable insurgency against an expected Allied invasion
Once the order was given, the government would scatter, or flee to sanctuaries. Iran and its people would suffer America’s punishment and the years of hardship to follow. That was their history, far more of the people than the government. The nation had lasted five thousand years, from the advent of farming through the Iron and Bronze Ages. They survived Alexander’s armies, the Mongol hordes, the Shah’s abuses, Ahmadinejad and the Ayatollahs. This they could surely endure.
But the order wasn’t given, at least not yet, despite the desperate pleas of the army and the apocalyptic fatalism of the ruling party. In the end, it was the Mullahs, the nation’s religious leaders that called for prudence. If it came to war, they said, the Mullahs would offer their unanimous support, but given the terrible destruction that would rain down upon the Iranian people, a moment’s pause, at the very least, was justified. There was still time to prevent a war, but the moments remaining grew scarcer and more precious each second that passed. No one could have known that best hope for stopping war were fighting for their lives on a lonely rain-swept stretch of road among the wilds of Northern Michigan seven thousand miles away.
Beside him lay a middle aged woman. She was sprawled on her back, one arm outstretched and pleading. Her handsome Persian face was pale, and painted with a mixture of agony and confusion. She was dressed in a pink terry-cloth bathrobe, now open to expose a white blood spattered slip beneath. A loosely tied hijab covered the woman’s long dark hair, which was streaked with rivulets of silver. The young Azeri conscript who had fired the fatal wounds became so inconsolable that he had to be hospitalized.
The entire block had been cordoned off, trapping a number of people within. Razor wire and flood lights went off, the perimeter secured by soldiers, police and guard dogs. It had been simultaneous, four of the six American captives died almost immediately. A fifth was clinging to life in a military hospital, unconscious and without any notable brain activity. The last, a young Army Staff Sergeant, who had been held alone in a bank vault near the airport was apparently unaffected. All of the officers who had taken part in the battle and had accompanied the Americans to Tehran, seventy soldiers as well as an entire village near the crash site and simply dropped dead, as if someone had flipped a switch. Given the circumstances, a shoot to kill order for anyone attempting to escape the quarantined area was arguably unavoidable.
The bodies were the human face to the unfolding tragedy. The quarantines all around the country had proved nightmarish to pull off. People fled in panic, trudging through sewers, disappearing into the night or slipping through cordons as they struggled to close off whole blocks amid urban sprawl. Police and soldiers and doctors were allowed to pass after viewing the bodies, and few if any precautions were taken once the order was given to move the dead. If the deaths had been caused by a pathogen that was easily transmitted from person to person, the initial response might well have spread it throughout the population already.
The mysterious circumstances surrounding the deaths drove the Iranian leadership into a near panic. Within an hour Iranian airspace was closed and the military thrown into chaos. The immediate reaction was that this was indeed a biological attack by the Americans, some long feared sneak attack of some sort. But it couldn’t be confirmed, and after several hastily conducted autopsies no one was any closer to an answer. In truth, in all but one of the seven independent post mortems, only one had correctly identified severe brain hemorrhage as the cause of death, and only because that was conducted in a hospital with CT Scanning equipment, as opposed to the others done at military bases, outlying clinics, and in one case, a woefully outdated local mortuary. What was sure was that it was well beyond any reasonable chance that all the deaths, occurring at precisely the same moment were a coincidence.
From the Islamic revolution during the late Seventies, Iran saw the United States as its greatest enemy. It began a long covert war between Iran and the West, with assassinations, sabotage and open hostilities. Almost immediately the new Iranian Islamic Republic adopted Hamas in Lebanon, as well as their patrons, the Palestinian Liberation organization under Yasser Arafat, joining a common front against Israel and the West. In response, the Americans aided Iraq against Saddam’s war against Tehran.
Cyber warfare against the West had been in the works for years, targeting US companies, satellites, power grids and the like. Sleeper cells had been in place since the first months of the Islamic revolutions, prepared to unleash waves of terror attacks against soft targets around the globe and across the United States. Some would attack shopping malls and public gatherings to terrorize the population, while others would target infrastructure: bring down a bridge, blow up a railway line and bring down a hand full of highway overpasses in any American city and it would become paralyzed for weeks or months.
The operatives had lived and worked in the US and the West for years, often decades, awaiting orders or the signal to undertake a given operation. Those orders would come through foreign news sources, local classifieds, coffee house message boards or Facebook. Some were ex-patriots and émigrés; others were sympathizers, criminals, and even some willing to make a fast buck.
Simultaneous to terror attacks Iran would scuttle several large freighters in the narrow Straits of Hormuz, cutting off sea-going traffic in and out of the Gulf, and effectively trapping two American fleets. Combined air and sea suicide assaults by the Iranians would turn the Gulf in a cauldron. Bridges and roads all along the Iraqi border would be mined and blown up. Already there was an alarming number of Iranian troop movements into the mountains, while others began dissolving among the population all around the country for the inevitable insurgency against an expected Allied invasion
Once the order was given, the government would scatter, or flee to sanctuaries. Iran and its people would suffer America’s punishment and the years of hardship to follow. That was their history, far more of the people than the government. The nation had lasted five thousand years, from the advent of farming through the Iron and Bronze Ages. They survived Alexander’s armies, the Mongol hordes, the Shah’s abuses, Ahmadinejad and the Ayatollahs. This they could surely endure.
But the order wasn’t given, at least not yet, despite the desperate pleas of the army and the apocalyptic fatalism of the ruling party. In the end, it was the Mullahs, the nation’s religious leaders that called for prudence. If it came to war, they said, the Mullahs would offer their unanimous support, but given the terrible destruction that would rain down upon the Iranian people, a moment’s pause, at the very least, was justified. There was still time to prevent a war, but the moments remaining grew scarcer and more precious each second that passed. No one could have known that best hope for stopping war were fighting for their lives on a lonely rain-swept stretch of road among the wilds of Northern Michigan seven thousand miles away.
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