Moon watched the Suburbans pull away, turning east back towards town. He waited until they disappeared behind the hill before climbing from the rocks and trees beside the beach. He jogged across the road to the motel where Molly waited, covering his crossing from the corner of the Inn. The rain had returned, whipped by sharp frigid gusts off the lake that howled, bending small trees back. Showers of wet autumn leaves joined the rain.
“I’m ready to turn the table on these guys,” Moon said, almost eagerly.
“Nothing good about these guys. Time we got some answers.” Molly opened her Agency jacket and checked the weapon holstered there. She wondered if all this would come to shooting, and hoped that it wouldn’t, but she wouldn’t retreat from that possibility either. Obviously, by the weapons found with the bodies on the island, these men were fully prepared for that eventuality.
“Looks like they were headed back to Munising. I’ll drive,” said Moon, jangling the keys in his pocket.
Molly held out her hand. “I’m pulling rank.”
He nodded and dropped him into her open palm. “Have to learn that I ain’t gonna be the knight come to rescue the fair maiden.”
“This fair maiden kicks ass when she has to,” said Molly, patting the pistol under her arm.
They climbed into the Jetta, giving each other a long encyclopedic look. Moon reached into the back seat for two bulky blue Kevlar vests and handed one over to Molly. She slipped her on over the thin Agency jacket she wore, noting as Moon set his on the floor at his feet. She said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t need the vests. Both knew the potential danger they were heading into. Neither had any illus ions about the men they were after.
The Jetta spit gravel as Molly pushed the gas pedal to the floor, turning east onto the dark two lane road. The agents had a determined look. Not in some sort of Rambo sort of way. Neitherof them had any intention of forcing a confrontation. Molly pulled the phone from her pocket and quickly dialed a number. The Operator at the State Police in Munising answered immediately.
“This is Agent Karaman with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…” Molly described the vehicles and the men, adding that they were likely armed. Her plan was simple enough. The State cops would stop the vehicles just outside town. That was the plan, at least. Molly and Moon were still nearly a half hour away, and a lot can happen in that little bit of time.
Molly wished that he had Doug’s number. She looked over at Moon, deciding.
“I have to tell you something,” she said.
“Let me guess,” he replied. “You spoke with Springer.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“You care about this guy?” he studied her, even as she didn’t answer right away. He was impressed by her. He was amazed at her thoughtfulness, and a certain sympathy Moon wondered wasn’t a better quality to her sex, because it struggled in him.
“Think its clouding my judgment?”
“Hope not,” he said simply, staring out into the night.
Molly looked over at the lake, painted in deep blue hues and breathed deeply. “Me too.”
The road left the lakeshore. It rose, allowing sweeping views of the coastline behind them. Ahead, in the distance, the textured expanse of Grand Island floated upon that midnight blue lake.
Molly was thinking about Doug. She smiled recalling that philosophical smirk that October Day at Ground Zero. Her thoughts tumbled invariably to Istanbul and how she wished to kiss him so desperately that night. Molly looked again at Moon, his attention fully on a web page on the tiny glowing white screen of his phone.
It was reasonable, she thought, that he might assume Molly’s feelings for Doug were a potential risk. If things were reversed about a suspect, Molly might feel the same way. That he didn’t spoke volumes about the trust he placed in her. For her part, Molly might have recused herself from the case once Doug became a suspect and fugitive in Fallahi’s murder. But she was more convinced than ever of his innocence, and knew that he was probably his last good hope.
“Anything interesting?” she asked. Molly fumbled with the phone in her lap.
“Just reading about this arms dealer, Shosa,” he said.”He’s moving heavily into this Nano-weapon technology market.”
“Nano-weapons?”
Machines, weapons that work on a molecular scale. They can be programmed to work independently, or with a trigger of some sort.”
“Like a cell phone ring tone?” she asked thoughtfully, her mind teetering on something.
“I suppose,” said Moon. “Anyway, real nightmare stuff. He’s been buying up congress people, buddy-ing up to the Pentagon and schmoozing the Administration.”
The image of Bernstein’s X-ray flashed in her mind, as if a light had suddenly come on, illuminating a terrible evil only now making itself apparent. She knew. She didn’t know everything, but Molly knew enough. Ay that instant the phone in her lap rang, startling her.
Molly held it up before her. She didn’t recognize the number. It was a local number, and she knew in an instant who it was, as if they were thinking the same thing at that very same moment. Molly pressed the receive button nd lifted the phone to her ear,
“Doug,” she began, almost breathless with nervousness. “Where are you? I need you to get to Munising as fast as you can. Go to the State Police…”
From the corner of her eye she saw the dark shape rushing towards her. It was huge and metallic, Molly’s mind struggling to make sense as it bore down upon the little Volkswagen Jetta. Moon saw it an instant later, but had no time to react before their world was abruptly and violently interrupted by the crushing of metal, of exploding glass, of shattering bone and screeching tires.
Showing posts with label international affairs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label international affairs. Show all posts
Friday, August 13, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty-seven
“We have breaking news out of the Middle East,” the CNN announcer began, in the gravest possible tone. “There are unconfirmed reports that several of the American personnel held by the Iranians are dead. The report comes from a credible source within the Iranian foreign ministry, speaking with the Arab-language network, Al-Jezeera, said that four of the detainees were dead, but gave no immediate details. That same source indicated that a number of others had also died. CNN was unable to confirm the reports independently, and it is still too early to speculate that this might have been part of some possible rescue plan. The united States maintains a substantial military presence in the region, and it is not out of reason that a rescue mission might have been launch from Iraq or Afghanistan, an act, CNN’s military consultants agree, would be risky…”
The news swept through the nation. It was picked up hot off the wires by Rightwing talk Show hosts, who immediately speculated about all sorts of wild and unsubstantiated theories. One syndicated host out of Utah, a demegoging,-self inflating, ex-Top Forty Disc jockey who jumped on the Talk syndication bandwagon in the late nineties, accused the President of outright cowardice for not immediately carpet-bombing Tehran. A Republican loudmouth former Congressman renewed a post-September-11 call to Nuke Mecca. The Major News networks, the so-called Liberal Media according to Right Wing hosts like Rush Limbaugh, Laura Ingraham and the blustering imp, Mark Levin, were already using terms like enemy and adversary to describe Iran, to the delight of their corporate parents who were heavily invested in the weapons and war industry. They would belittle the spontaneous anti-war protests that would spring up around the country, choosing the most foolish among them for their broadcasts. Viewers around the nation would see a rabble of students, long haired teens, hysterical and ragged kids, never seeing the professors, doctors, housewives and veterans protesting the coming war. The video of two anarchists throwing a newspaper box through a Starbucks window in Baltimore would play again and again.
Even the government spoke with competing voices; one side talking of restraint and rationality, the other almost hysterical with cries for war and vengeance. Strange that the rational side never quite got to the proper arguments so many thinking Americans came to immediately. Just as they had during the lead up to the war in Iraq, those “proper” arguments would wait until the war, or something like it, was well under way.
All this was, of course, an endless circle, like two snakes feeding off one another. The media is a pimp; as much disease as a symptom of a misdirected society. It fed off a population that, insulated from the desperation of much of the world, could afford knee-jerk reactions to international turmoil. When the results of those reactions washed up upon her shores, America could rightly claim to be a victim. They were as woefully ignorant of the outside world, as many around the planet were of the average American. It was easy to grow frustrated and impatient with a world that seemed to intrude upon the blissful excess and blindness of American life. The world was a place to be feared, or so they were told. Foreigners, the media decried, were as the invading hordes and barbarians falling upon Rome’s beleaguered frontiers two thousand years before. It was echoed and promoted by the media, but the nation’s citizens were just as culpable in its reach and its abuse. Despite the pretend blustering of talk show hosts and personalities. The media was not the traitor of the people, but one in the same with them.
But the lessons of nationalist fervor are never learned on the eve of war, just as man never questions the excess of his pleasure during an orgy. Nationalism is the self-inflicted perversion of true patriotism. It is means to an end for someone, and the road to an end for the gullible populace. With history as a lesson, like a long stroll through a graveyard, it wasn’t certain the nation would make those same fatal mistakes, but with each passing moment that reality became a little more certain.
The news swept through the nation. It was picked up hot off the wires by Rightwing talk Show hosts, who immediately speculated about all sorts of wild and unsubstantiated theories. One syndicated host out of Utah, a demegoging,-self inflating, ex-Top Forty Disc jockey who jumped on the Talk syndication bandwagon in the late nineties, accused the President of outright cowardice for not immediately carpet-bombing Tehran. A Republican loudmouth former Congressman renewed a post-September-11 call to Nuke Mecca. The Major News networks, the so-called Liberal Media according to Right Wing hosts like Rush Limbaugh, Laura Ingraham and the blustering imp, Mark Levin, were already using terms like enemy and adversary to describe Iran, to the delight of their corporate parents who were heavily invested in the weapons and war industry. They would belittle the spontaneous anti-war protests that would spring up around the country, choosing the most foolish among them for their broadcasts. Viewers around the nation would see a rabble of students, long haired teens, hysterical and ragged kids, never seeing the professors, doctors, housewives and veterans protesting the coming war. The video of two anarchists throwing a newspaper box through a Starbucks window in Baltimore would play again and again.
Even the government spoke with competing voices; one side talking of restraint and rationality, the other almost hysterical with cries for war and vengeance. Strange that the rational side never quite got to the proper arguments so many thinking Americans came to immediately. Just as they had during the lead up to the war in Iraq, those “proper” arguments would wait until the war, or something like it, was well under way.
All this was, of course, an endless circle, like two snakes feeding off one another. The media is a pimp; as much disease as a symptom of a misdirected society. It fed off a population that, insulated from the desperation of much of the world, could afford knee-jerk reactions to international turmoil. When the results of those reactions washed up upon her shores, America could rightly claim to be a victim. They were as woefully ignorant of the outside world, as many around the planet were of the average American. It was easy to grow frustrated and impatient with a world that seemed to intrude upon the blissful excess and blindness of American life. The world was a place to be feared, or so they were told. Foreigners, the media decried, were as the invading hordes and barbarians falling upon Rome’s beleaguered frontiers two thousand years before. It was echoed and promoted by the media, but the nation’s citizens were just as culpable in its reach and its abuse. Despite the pretend blustering of talk show hosts and personalities. The media was not the traitor of the people, but one in the same with them.
But the lessons of nationalist fervor are never learned on the eve of war, just as man never questions the excess of his pleasure during an orgy. Nationalism is the self-inflicted perversion of true patriotism. It is means to an end for someone, and the road to an end for the gullible populace. With history as a lesson, like a long stroll through a graveyard, it wasn’t certain the nation would make those same fatal mistakes, but with each passing moment that reality became a little more certain.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty-five
The presidential limousine pulled quickly into the underground garage of the Walter E Washington Convention Center In Downtown Washington. There were protesters on the street, their shouts and chants aver Gay marriage echoing hollowly. There was a veritable army of security between them and the President, a sad comment on the evolving concept of modern democracy, in which for reasons of security the man appointed by the people was completely insulated from them. It was ironic that the nature of government was to protect the weak and give voice to the powerless was surrounded and secured by abusive and powerful corporatists.
The car had hardly stopped when a Secret service agent, smart in a dark black suit was already out of the front door and reaching for the silver handle of the President’s door. As the door opened a phalanx of secret service converged around the door. A dozen pair of eyes searching the shadows and pillars for any sign of a threat to their client. On the ramp, hardly thirty yards away, two activists had somehow slipped into the basement, or had hidden there, and ran shouting towards the president, just now climbing from the Limousine. He hardly noticed as they were tackled, still shouting protests.
“Gay rights are Human Rights!” one of them cried.
“All men are created equal!” the other, a slight, attractive young woman, quoted the Constitution, before a knee to the side from an officer hammered the wind from her lungs.
An Aid met the President as he stood o straighten his suit coat, pressing herself through that formidable wall of security. They knew her, of course, allowing her a minimal gap to get through. Her name was Allison Danon, or “Ali D.” to friends and close colleagues. She was small, but strongly built. Not in an unattractive way, but her passion for triathlons was evident in toned physique and deeply focus unstoppable energy. A Harvard lawyer by trade, it was her passion and talent for poetry, and an internship with a prominent Washington Public Relations firm that won Ali a position on the President’s staff.
“The Iranians attempted to reach us through an intermediary about an hour ago, sir.” She said, with notable urgency.
“Legitimate?”
Ali fought to keep pace, scribbling notes as the President entered the hotel through a loading bay door and into a waiting freight elevator.
“We believe that it is. Mister President.”
“Let’s get out a strong statement,” he said. “My hope is that we can bring this to a fairly quick resolution.” He was thinking of the three Americans backpackers arrested for hiking inb the border region of Northern Iran. They were still in custody, while quiet, albeit painfully slow negotiations continued. There was a much higher priority with the servicemen that carried the specter of war and much greater tragedy, and involved a number of International players. That was the plan anyways, and plans have a way of going terribly awry. The elevator door opened to a backstage area behind the auditorium. The President stepped from the elevtor. Ali remained frozen, holding one more piece of news.
“One other thing,” Ali said, dimly.
He stopped dead in his tracks. The President turned, taken aback by the grave expression on the young woman’s face.
“Not good news, is it, Ali?” he asked.
“Mister President, the information is that four or more of the hostages are dead.”
The President weighed her words carefully a moment. “Dead or killed?”
“Sir, I…”
“Does the Press know about this yet?”
“Not sure” she replied. “No one has repeated it yet. A BBC reporter in Tehran asked if we could confirm the rumor. We cautioned him about any premature release of uncorroborated information, but that we would confirm our position with him first.”
“Can we hold onto this for a while?” he asked.
“Hard to say?” she replied, swallowing hard.
The President laughed dryly, rubbing the ever deepening tension from his forehead. His mind spun through a thousand different scenarios. “I have to face an auditorium filled with Veterans of Foreign Wars. How the fuck…?” he took deep breath, straining against the supreme pressure of the moment. “Shit.”
“Sir?”
“Feel like we are getting steamrolled into war?”
“Yes sir,” she said dutifully, not quite sure what he was talking about. For that matter, neither was he.
One of the Secret Service agents interrupted. “Mister President, you are about to be introduced.”
He nodded and turned back to the mortified young woman. “What’s our confidence level on this?”
“I won’t say one hundred percent,” she replied. “It comes from a very high level Chinese source, who quoted the Iranians as damn near begging forgiveness.”
The President looked to the stage, just visible through great blue flowing curtains. A gray-haired Vietnam veteran, a silver sash across the navy blue suit coat, metals sparkling upon his chest was well into an energetic introduction. Camera flashes painted the front of the man’s body. The President took a breath and checked his blue and red striped tie.
“We have no choice but to give them the benefit of the doubt until we know something for sure. At the end of the day, the Iranians are responsible for the lives of those young people, and no matter what we will absolutely hold them accountable.”
“Are you going to announce, sir?”
“Have to,” he said. “Send a message back as soon as have confirmation.”
She flipped over a notebook, but fumbled to find a pen. The President pulled one from his jacket pocket. It was shiny and blue, with a little Presidential seal on the side. He started dictating right away.
“This event…” he began, picking the words skillfully. “This grave event carries potentially grave repercussions…”
“Sounds too vengeance-ee,” she corrected respectfully, following up with a bashful smirk.
“…consequences for both our nations, and for the International community. The American people expect, scratch that. The American people demand a full accounting of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of their fellow citizens while in Iranian custody. I am sworn, destined, charged…”
“Compelled,” she offered, scribbling madly.
“…compelled to deliver that accounting.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “It needs something.”
“We expect?”
“We demand!” he said with emotion.
“Too ultimatum-ish, and you already used demand once.”
“We expect,” he nodded, “the full cooperation and transparency for an immediate and thorough multilateral investigation into the deaths…”
“Trial in US courts?” she suggested.
“Too much, too soon,” he said. “Hmm. “I am assembling a delegation…”
“How about just, ‘a delegation will,’ and give the impression we are always a step ahead on this?”
“Good,” he touched her arm. The veteran was concluding his introduction. The applause had already begun, thundering from the hall. “…a delegation to Geneva on Tuesday to meet with their Iranian counterparts and, and…”
“Assess the situation?”
He shook his head once. “…to assess the seriousness of their intentions. We expect that they will be as committed to that full and open accounting as the American people are, and though we pray and work for a peaceful resolution, the United States will use all means at its disposal to bring about-to bring those responsible to justice. That’s it.”
He turned on his heel and jogged the last few steps to the stage. He emerged from the curtain, waving and nearly obliterated by camera flashes, the hall shuddering with riotous cheers and clapping. He stood at the podium, looking out across thousands of veterans from a dozen different conflicts, spanning nearly a century and wondered if he wasn’t about to add a whole new generation to the auspicious club if at all possible. With each passing hour, it seemed, the chances for peace seemed to fade. The President formed a smile, nodding to a hand full of donors and familiar faces nearest the stage. In the end, no small part of being Commander-in-chief was marketing.
The car had hardly stopped when a Secret service agent, smart in a dark black suit was already out of the front door and reaching for the silver handle of the President’s door. As the door opened a phalanx of secret service converged around the door. A dozen pair of eyes searching the shadows and pillars for any sign of a threat to their client. On the ramp, hardly thirty yards away, two activists had somehow slipped into the basement, or had hidden there, and ran shouting towards the president, just now climbing from the Limousine. He hardly noticed as they were tackled, still shouting protests.
“Gay rights are Human Rights!” one of them cried.
“All men are created equal!” the other, a slight, attractive young woman, quoted the Constitution, before a knee to the side from an officer hammered the wind from her lungs.
An Aid met the President as he stood o straighten his suit coat, pressing herself through that formidable wall of security. They knew her, of course, allowing her a minimal gap to get through. Her name was Allison Danon, or “Ali D.” to friends and close colleagues. She was small, but strongly built. Not in an unattractive way, but her passion for triathlons was evident in toned physique and deeply focus unstoppable energy. A Harvard lawyer by trade, it was her passion and talent for poetry, and an internship with a prominent Washington Public Relations firm that won Ali a position on the President’s staff.
“The Iranians attempted to reach us through an intermediary about an hour ago, sir.” She said, with notable urgency.
“Legitimate?”
Ali fought to keep pace, scribbling notes as the President entered the hotel through a loading bay door and into a waiting freight elevator.
“We believe that it is. Mister President.”
“Let’s get out a strong statement,” he said. “My hope is that we can bring this to a fairly quick resolution.” He was thinking of the three Americans backpackers arrested for hiking inb the border region of Northern Iran. They were still in custody, while quiet, albeit painfully slow negotiations continued. There was a much higher priority with the servicemen that carried the specter of war and much greater tragedy, and involved a number of International players. That was the plan anyways, and plans have a way of going terribly awry. The elevator door opened to a backstage area behind the auditorium. The President stepped from the elevtor. Ali remained frozen, holding one more piece of news.
“One other thing,” Ali said, dimly.
He stopped dead in his tracks. The President turned, taken aback by the grave expression on the young woman’s face.
“Not good news, is it, Ali?” he asked.
“Mister President, the information is that four or more of the hostages are dead.”
The President weighed her words carefully a moment. “Dead or killed?”
“Sir, I…”
“Does the Press know about this yet?”
“Not sure” she replied. “No one has repeated it yet. A BBC reporter in Tehran asked if we could confirm the rumor. We cautioned him about any premature release of uncorroborated information, but that we would confirm our position with him first.”
“Can we hold onto this for a while?” he asked.
“Hard to say?” she replied, swallowing hard.
The President laughed dryly, rubbing the ever deepening tension from his forehead. His mind spun through a thousand different scenarios. “I have to face an auditorium filled with Veterans of Foreign Wars. How the fuck…?” he took deep breath, straining against the supreme pressure of the moment. “Shit.”
“Sir?”
“Feel like we are getting steamrolled into war?”
“Yes sir,” she said dutifully, not quite sure what he was talking about. For that matter, neither was he.
One of the Secret Service agents interrupted. “Mister President, you are about to be introduced.”
He nodded and turned back to the mortified young woman. “What’s our confidence level on this?”
“I won’t say one hundred percent,” she replied. “It comes from a very high level Chinese source, who quoted the Iranians as damn near begging forgiveness.”
The President looked to the stage, just visible through great blue flowing curtains. A gray-haired Vietnam veteran, a silver sash across the navy blue suit coat, metals sparkling upon his chest was well into an energetic introduction. Camera flashes painted the front of the man’s body. The President took a breath and checked his blue and red striped tie.
“We have no choice but to give them the benefit of the doubt until we know something for sure. At the end of the day, the Iranians are responsible for the lives of those young people, and no matter what we will absolutely hold them accountable.”
“Are you going to announce, sir?”
“Have to,” he said. “Send a message back as soon as have confirmation.”
She flipped over a notebook, but fumbled to find a pen. The President pulled one from his jacket pocket. It was shiny and blue, with a little Presidential seal on the side. He started dictating right away.
“This event…” he began, picking the words skillfully. “This grave event carries potentially grave repercussions…”
“Sounds too vengeance-ee,” she corrected respectfully, following up with a bashful smirk.
“…consequences for both our nations, and for the International community. The American people expect, scratch that. The American people demand a full accounting of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of their fellow citizens while in Iranian custody. I am sworn, destined, charged…”
“Compelled,” she offered, scribbling madly.
“…compelled to deliver that accounting.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “It needs something.”
“We expect?”
“We demand!” he said with emotion.
“Too ultimatum-ish, and you already used demand once.”
“We expect,” he nodded, “the full cooperation and transparency for an immediate and thorough multilateral investigation into the deaths…”
“Trial in US courts?” she suggested.
“Too much, too soon,” he said. “Hmm. “I am assembling a delegation…”
“How about just, ‘a delegation will,’ and give the impression we are always a step ahead on this?”
“Good,” he touched her arm. The veteran was concluding his introduction. The applause had already begun, thundering from the hall. “…a delegation to Geneva on Tuesday to meet with their Iranian counterparts and, and…”
“Assess the situation?”
He shook his head once. “…to assess the seriousness of their intentions. We expect that they will be as committed to that full and open accounting as the American people are, and though we pray and work for a peaceful resolution, the United States will use all means at its disposal to bring about-to bring those responsible to justice. That’s it.”
He turned on his heel and jogged the last few steps to the stage. He emerged from the curtain, waving and nearly obliterated by camera flashes, the hall shuddering with riotous cheers and clapping. He stood at the podium, looking out across thousands of veterans from a dozen different conflicts, spanning nearly a century and wondered if he wasn’t about to add a whole new generation to the auspicious club if at all possible. With each passing hour, it seemed, the chances for peace seemed to fade. The President formed a smile, nodding to a hand full of donors and familiar faces nearest the stage. In the end, no small part of being Commander-in-chief was marketing.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-nine
Doug used the cover of the freighter to cross the harbor to the mainland. He “borrowed” a fiberglass canoe leaning at the back of the old wooden lighthouse. The girls crouched in the front of the boat until they came ashore along a driftwood strewn stretch of deserted beach. It was a short hike up from the beach through the forest to the small Sand Point ranger Station.
The station was a simple two-story white house, with a green shingled roof just beside the coast road leading south to town. It was shielded on two sides by trees. To one side it faced the bay. Doug waited until the lone officer, clad in shorts and a tee-shirt stretched with a yawn and went inside. Doug dodged across the road and crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle. There were three official vehicles parked side by side just past the door. Doug paused and heard the shower begin from one of the upstairs windows.
The last vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler, with its ubiquitous bright white color and forest green letters on the side. The door was unlocked. Doug searched the glove compartment and the visors but came up empty for the key. Under the floor mat beneath the driver’s seat Doug discovered a single key.
The jeep started easily. Doug dropped it into reverse and backed it across to where the girls were waiting, keeping a cautious eye to the house. Doug waved the girls over and they climbed inside. As Doug swung the jeep onto road he said a small prayer. There was a single road all the way to town, and then he’d have to get past a State Police outpost. If the jeep was discovered missing before then he and the girls hardly stood a chance.
“Jane, if you can hear me,” John muttered under his breath, “I need you now more than ever.”
“Dad, are we going to be in trouble?” Dana asked.
“Guys, we’re already in trouble.”
There was no point in hiding the truth. The road narrowed, bounded on one side by steeply wooded hills, and dropped sharply towards the lake on the other. He might have enjoyed once how beautiful and secluded this place was, but now it only felt like a trap.
“What if the police catch us?” Megan asked.
“If that happens,” he said, “you’ll tell the police everything” He looked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror and saw their turmoil. Megan was holding her sister’s hand, clutching it tightly in her lap. The State Police post was just ahead; a small brown building just beside the road. The freighter was already offloading a mountain of coal just across the road.
“We’ll get through this,” Doug said.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad mom isn’t here?” Megan said soberly. Dana looked up at her, her chin quivering with emotion
The words crushed him.
“No, honey.” He found her eyes in the mirror. “But I hope that she’s watching over us right now.”
The passed the post without incident, and passed quickly through town. The two-lane highway more or less followed the lakeshore. In places it climbed to heights offering sweeping views of the lake and forests. Where they came together was akin to two great armies crashing headlong in eternal battle, their meeting marked by ranks of heavy white waves crashing upon timber-strewn beaches.
Always dominating this pristine view was the great expanse of Grand Island. Doug could make out the tattered haze of smoke hovering over the southern end. He’d watch from a distance, safely hidden among the woods as the men approached the house. The man at the back kicked in the door and charged inside. A moment later, with a blinding explosion that knocked Doug backwards, the house disintegrated. There was little doubt as to the fate of the three men. They had come to kill Doug and the girls, and Doug had intended that they would die before they could harm Dana and Megan. Still, those deaths weighed on him. They tore at his heart for the families left behind, for their pain, and for the waste of it all. Wrong or right, those deaths would feel like a stain upon his soul for all time.
This was still a primitive land settled by stalwart souls who carved tentative parcels in some hard scrabble existence between the modern and pioneer worlds. These tentative places dotted the road, seemingly symbiotic with the surrounding wilderness. These folks were oddities to the outside world, and nefarious to out of town visitors unaccustomed to life in these parts. Truth was they were a mix of folks from the poor, anti-government types, loners, and aging hippies to people who just didn’t wish to be found.
Below the road, almost hidden from view among a thick bank of trees was one of those ramshackle little houses. It looked to have been patched together with tar paper and old boards. The small shack leaned slightly to one side, where it was braced hastily with a number of two by fours of varying lengths. Several of the he small windows on the one story structure were missing, replaced with heavy plastic or pieces of plywood. There was an ancient-looking outhouse out back and a clothesline. The yard was crowded with rusting tools, engine parts, and an old plastic lawn chair the front chassis of a 72 Chevy Impala. What caught Doug’s eye was the Sixty-five Ford F-100 pick up for sale in the grass beside the weedy driveway. It was hand painted a dull black and the rear bumper had been replaced with a single wood plant bolted to the frame. Doug swung the Jeep around to the opposite side of the road and got out with the girls. They hurried across the deserted highway and scrambled down the embankment to the shack.
The girls remained beside the old truck as Doug approached the shack. Nearly to door when a hobbling old man came out of the woods with a rifle and a big Canadian goose he shot for supper. Swimming in a dark Navy Pea Coat from an army surplus store, he glared suspiciously from beneath a bright orange hunter’s cap.
“Help you, Mister?” said the man, abruptly. He was leery of the strangers, nothing in particular to do with Doug and the girls, just that the old loner was naturally wary of all strangers.
“Interested in the truck,” Doug replied. “She run?”
“Looks like hell, but she’ll get you where you need to go.” He laid the dead goose over a stump, and set the rifle against the crooked house. He reached over and shook Doug’s hand, looking him straight in the eye. It was as much a test as a courtesy. “Got a three fifty-two, V-Eight under the hood, rebuilt carburetor, decent brakes, patched-up radiator. She looks like hell, but she’s solid.”
“I need a…”
“The old timer stopped him quickly. “Don’t much care what you need it for. By the looks of you and your girls, must be some sort of trouble. Want it, or don’t ya?”
“How much?”
The man studied Doug a moment, the girls no doubt weighing into whatever calculation he was making. “Whatever trouble you’re in ain’t none of my business, especially if you don’t make it any of my business.”
“Just need a truck, that’s all.”
“Four hundred. Firm.”
“Five hundred, and throw in the hat and coat.” said Doug.
“Got yourself a deal.”
The station was a simple two-story white house, with a green shingled roof just beside the coast road leading south to town. It was shielded on two sides by trees. To one side it faced the bay. Doug waited until the lone officer, clad in shorts and a tee-shirt stretched with a yawn and went inside. Doug dodged across the road and crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle. There were three official vehicles parked side by side just past the door. Doug paused and heard the shower begin from one of the upstairs windows.
The last vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler, with its ubiquitous bright white color and forest green letters on the side. The door was unlocked. Doug searched the glove compartment and the visors but came up empty for the key. Under the floor mat beneath the driver’s seat Doug discovered a single key.
The jeep started easily. Doug dropped it into reverse and backed it across to where the girls were waiting, keeping a cautious eye to the house. Doug waved the girls over and they climbed inside. As Doug swung the jeep onto road he said a small prayer. There was a single road all the way to town, and then he’d have to get past a State Police outpost. If the jeep was discovered missing before then he and the girls hardly stood a chance.
“Jane, if you can hear me,” John muttered under his breath, “I need you now more than ever.”
“Dad, are we going to be in trouble?” Dana asked.
“Guys, we’re already in trouble.”
There was no point in hiding the truth. The road narrowed, bounded on one side by steeply wooded hills, and dropped sharply towards the lake on the other. He might have enjoyed once how beautiful and secluded this place was, but now it only felt like a trap.
“What if the police catch us?” Megan asked.
“If that happens,” he said, “you’ll tell the police everything” He looked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror and saw their turmoil. Megan was holding her sister’s hand, clutching it tightly in her lap. The State Police post was just ahead; a small brown building just beside the road. The freighter was already offloading a mountain of coal just across the road.
“We’ll get through this,” Doug said.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad mom isn’t here?” Megan said soberly. Dana looked up at her, her chin quivering with emotion
The words crushed him.
“No, honey.” He found her eyes in the mirror. “But I hope that she’s watching over us right now.”
The passed the post without incident, and passed quickly through town. The two-lane highway more or less followed the lakeshore. In places it climbed to heights offering sweeping views of the lake and forests. Where they came together was akin to two great armies crashing headlong in eternal battle, their meeting marked by ranks of heavy white waves crashing upon timber-strewn beaches.
Always dominating this pristine view was the great expanse of Grand Island. Doug could make out the tattered haze of smoke hovering over the southern end. He’d watch from a distance, safely hidden among the woods as the men approached the house. The man at the back kicked in the door and charged inside. A moment later, with a blinding explosion that knocked Doug backwards, the house disintegrated. There was little doubt as to the fate of the three men. They had come to kill Doug and the girls, and Doug had intended that they would die before they could harm Dana and Megan. Still, those deaths weighed on him. They tore at his heart for the families left behind, for their pain, and for the waste of it all. Wrong or right, those deaths would feel like a stain upon his soul for all time.
This was still a primitive land settled by stalwart souls who carved tentative parcels in some hard scrabble existence between the modern and pioneer worlds. These tentative places dotted the road, seemingly symbiotic with the surrounding wilderness. These folks were oddities to the outside world, and nefarious to out of town visitors unaccustomed to life in these parts. Truth was they were a mix of folks from the poor, anti-government types, loners, and aging hippies to people who just didn’t wish to be found.
Below the road, almost hidden from view among a thick bank of trees was one of those ramshackle little houses. It looked to have been patched together with tar paper and old boards. The small shack leaned slightly to one side, where it was braced hastily with a number of two by fours of varying lengths. Several of the he small windows on the one story structure were missing, replaced with heavy plastic or pieces of plywood. There was an ancient-looking outhouse out back and a clothesline. The yard was crowded with rusting tools, engine parts, and an old plastic lawn chair the front chassis of a 72 Chevy Impala. What caught Doug’s eye was the Sixty-five Ford F-100 pick up for sale in the grass beside the weedy driveway. It was hand painted a dull black and the rear bumper had been replaced with a single wood plant bolted to the frame. Doug swung the Jeep around to the opposite side of the road and got out with the girls. They hurried across the deserted highway and scrambled down the embankment to the shack.
The girls remained beside the old truck as Doug approached the shack. Nearly to door when a hobbling old man came out of the woods with a rifle and a big Canadian goose he shot for supper. Swimming in a dark Navy Pea Coat from an army surplus store, he glared suspiciously from beneath a bright orange hunter’s cap.
“Help you, Mister?” said the man, abruptly. He was leery of the strangers, nothing in particular to do with Doug and the girls, just that the old loner was naturally wary of all strangers.
“Interested in the truck,” Doug replied. “She run?”
“Looks like hell, but she’ll get you where you need to go.” He laid the dead goose over a stump, and set the rifle against the crooked house. He reached over and shook Doug’s hand, looking him straight in the eye. It was as much a test as a courtesy. “Got a three fifty-two, V-Eight under the hood, rebuilt carburetor, decent brakes, patched-up radiator. She looks like hell, but she’s solid.”
“I need a…”
“The old timer stopped him quickly. “Don’t much care what you need it for. By the looks of you and your girls, must be some sort of trouble. Want it, or don’t ya?”
“How much?”
The man studied Doug a moment, the girls no doubt weighing into whatever calculation he was making. “Whatever trouble you’re in ain’t none of my business, especially if you don’t make it any of my business.”
“Just need a truck, that’s all.”
“Four hundred. Firm.”
“Five hundred, and throw in the hat and coat.” said Doug.
“Got yourself a deal.”
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-Eight
Molly bent and looked into the Honda. It had been ransacked thoroughly enough that she doubted there would be anything of use in it any longer. The State Police boat was just unloading the bodies from the island. Each was carried off the boat in heavy black-plastic body bags, and laid along the small metal pier. The house on the island, or what remained of it, still smoldered. The gray-white smoke drifted oblique through trees and out over the bay.
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-four
“Okay, you guys,” Doug told the girls, “do you remember that night we went hiking on the other side of the island a couple years ago and that storm came up?”
“It totally poured,” said Megan. They were standing in the woods just behind the house. The roar of a motor boat sounded, coming across from the mainland. It was interrupted by the whumpf-whump-whumpf as the boat bounced heavily over growing wave tops. The wind built steadily, sending showers of gold and red leaves. Doug was running out of time. His only concern now was for the girls.
“We took shelter in that old abandoned inn?” Dana recalled.
“Out by Murray Bay,” said Doug.
“By that old cemetery in the woods, right?” Megan asked.
“Do you guys think you could find it?”
“Alone?”
“Men are coming and I have to try and stop them or you girls won’t be safe.” Doug lifted a nap sack with cash, canned food, water, matches, a big camping knife and a rolled up blanket. “If I am not there in the morning you two are to keep going to the old lighthouse. The guy who lives there will call the police. Tell them who you are, and give them this card.”
Doug pulled Molly’s card from his pocket and handed it to Megan.
“Dad, what do you mean if you…?”
“Listen to me,” he said quite seriously. “Who knows what could happen, but no matter what we have to have a back up plane, right?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Keep to the woods as much as you can. Don’t let anyone see you.” He hugged them both, and searched their frightened eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Doug watched them go, his heart leaving with them. When they were out of sight he started for the house. He could hear the boat’s powerful motor change in pitch as it slowed into Grand Island’s only public pier. Doug had fifteen or twenty minutes at best to get ready. He prayed it was enough time. At the back door he glanced at the woods one last time and prayed to see his girls again. Failing that, he prayed for their safety.
“It totally poured,” said Megan. They were standing in the woods just behind the house. The roar of a motor boat sounded, coming across from the mainland. It was interrupted by the whumpf-whump-whumpf as the boat bounced heavily over growing wave tops. The wind built steadily, sending showers of gold and red leaves. Doug was running out of time. His only concern now was for the girls.
“We took shelter in that old abandoned inn?” Dana recalled.
“Out by Murray Bay,” said Doug.
“By that old cemetery in the woods, right?” Megan asked.
“Do you guys think you could find it?”
“Alone?”
“Men are coming and I have to try and stop them or you girls won’t be safe.” Doug lifted a nap sack with cash, canned food, water, matches, a big camping knife and a rolled up blanket. “If I am not there in the morning you two are to keep going to the old lighthouse. The guy who lives there will call the police. Tell them who you are, and give them this card.”
Doug pulled Molly’s card from his pocket and handed it to Megan.
“Dad, what do you mean if you…?”
“Listen to me,” he said quite seriously. “Who knows what could happen, but no matter what we have to have a back up plane, right?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Keep to the woods as much as you can. Don’t let anyone see you.” He hugged them both, and searched their frightened eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Doug watched them go, his heart leaving with them. When they were out of sight he started for the house. He could hear the boat’s powerful motor change in pitch as it slowed into Grand Island’s only public pier. Doug had fifteen or twenty minutes at best to get ready. He prayed it was enough time. At the back door he glanced at the woods one last time and prayed to see his girls again. Failing that, he prayed for their safety.
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-three
The President had hardly slept all night. A couple of fifteen minute naps and ample amounts of bitter black coffee had helped him keep abreast of the rapidly changing events in the Gulf. He was standing at the window of the Oval Office. His striped blue neck tie lay across the big leather chair behind his desk. He was in a white shirt, still buttoned to the top button. The sleeves were rolled up along his forearms. A fine layer of sweat spread across the back of his neck, lightly staining the collar of the shirt. His shoulders were hunched against the ample tension growing there.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-seven
“Dad! Dad!” It was Megan’s voice.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-five
The mood in the White House Press Briefing Room was explosive. This late at night the bleary-eyed reporters, many of whom had already put in a thirteen hour day, squinted against the harsh lights of the windowless room. It was unprecedented that the President would call a Press conference so late. But as developments from the Gulf leaked out steadily there was little doubt as to the subject. Cable news channels picked it up live just after eleven thirty on the east Coast. CBS interrupted David Letterman’s monologue, his usual retinue of devoted fans suddenly staring at an empty presidential podium , a jumble of news cameras and unidentified heads moving back and forth and in and out of focus, as if it was some confused game of musical chairs. They were still milling about and chattering when the president strode unannounced across the plain stage and went directly to the podium without any announcement.
“Just over eight hours ago,” the President began, the reporters caught off guard and quickly scrambling to their seats and camera spots. The President’s expression was as weighted and severe as the moment. At the back of the room the CNN reporter kept talking, some inane nonsense about the rarity of a late night Presidential announcement and missed the first few moments of the speech before being poked in the thigh by a BBC journalist.
“Just over eight hours ago a distress signal was intercepted by one of our ships. That signal contained encrypted information that led Naval personnel to believe they were in fact dealing with a downed American aircraft inside Iran.”
A wave of shock swept through the room, a mixture of gasps and murmurs.
There were heated discussions between the President and his staff prior to calling Press Conference. There were those who thought that the administration should remain quiet and see what hand the Iranians and the republicans would play on this issue. Others believed he should be strong and unwavering, giving the Iranians what amounted to an ultimatum. The opinions were varied and loud, but it was the President’s that won in the end.
The Press and opposition would get the news soon enough and spin or misconstrue the situation to, what he believed would be, a dangerous degree. Moreover the Iranians were awakening and surely would have their own spin on the situation, and would have nearly a day’s lead on the story in Asia and Europe. In the President’s opinion the situation depended upon who got out first and loudest, and he wasn’t about to be second best here. He continued.
“Subsequent information corroborated that conclusion and a decision was made to send in a rescue team. All indications are that Iranian forces ambushed that rescue mission with significant loss of American life.”
The room fell silent. ABC and NBC broke into regular programming a moment later.
“I have subsequently placed all our forces throughout the region on the highest alert. Details remain sketchy, but there have been survivors and they are currently in Iranian custody…”
“Are you considering military action?” someone yelled.
“I can tell you that all options are on the table,” said the President.
“Are any military operations under way?” cried another reporter, a woman from MSNBC.
The President Ignored the question. “We expect the Iranian authorities will adhere to the International rule of law, especially in light that this was in fact a rescue mission, and not a military incursion. We have already made that clear through diplomatic channels directly to the Iranian government…”
“Have you spoken with President Ahmadinejad?”
“We are already using all means at our disposal for the safe and immediate return of our personnel. The full power of the United States military and the Federal government has been mobilized to bring a speedy resolution to this manner, and return our people safely to their families. Thank you.
The room erupted into an uproar as a deafening crescendo of questions chased the President as he strode quickly from the podium.
“Is the US and Iran currently in a state of war?” shouted the man from FOX.
“What about the downed pilot?” asked reporter from the Washington Post. But without acknowledging a single person the President left the stage and was instantly engulfed and ushered away by a phalanx of aides and Secret Service.
“Just over eight hours ago,” the President began, the reporters caught off guard and quickly scrambling to their seats and camera spots. The President’s expression was as weighted and severe as the moment. At the back of the room the CNN reporter kept talking, some inane nonsense about the rarity of a late night Presidential announcement and missed the first few moments of the speech before being poked in the thigh by a BBC journalist.
“Just over eight hours ago a distress signal was intercepted by one of our ships. That signal contained encrypted information that led Naval personnel to believe they were in fact dealing with a downed American aircraft inside Iran.”
A wave of shock swept through the room, a mixture of gasps and murmurs.
There were heated discussions between the President and his staff prior to calling Press Conference. There were those who thought that the administration should remain quiet and see what hand the Iranians and the republicans would play on this issue. Others believed he should be strong and unwavering, giving the Iranians what amounted to an ultimatum. The opinions were varied and loud, but it was the President’s that won in the end.
The Press and opposition would get the news soon enough and spin or misconstrue the situation to, what he believed would be, a dangerous degree. Moreover the Iranians were awakening and surely would have their own spin on the situation, and would have nearly a day’s lead on the story in Asia and Europe. In the President’s opinion the situation depended upon who got out first and loudest, and he wasn’t about to be second best here. He continued.
“Subsequent information corroborated that conclusion and a decision was made to send in a rescue team. All indications are that Iranian forces ambushed that rescue mission with significant loss of American life.”
The room fell silent. ABC and NBC broke into regular programming a moment later.
“I have subsequently placed all our forces throughout the region on the highest alert. Details remain sketchy, but there have been survivors and they are currently in Iranian custody…”
“Are you considering military action?” someone yelled.
“I can tell you that all options are on the table,” said the President.
“Are any military operations under way?” cried another reporter, a woman from MSNBC.
The President Ignored the question. “We expect the Iranian authorities will adhere to the International rule of law, especially in light that this was in fact a rescue mission, and not a military incursion. We have already made that clear through diplomatic channels directly to the Iranian government…”
“Have you spoken with President Ahmadinejad?”
“We are already using all means at our disposal for the safe and immediate return of our personnel. The full power of the United States military and the Federal government has been mobilized to bring a speedy resolution to this manner, and return our people safely to their families. Thank you.
The room erupted into an uproar as a deafening crescendo of questions chased the President as he strode quickly from the podium.
“Is the US and Iran currently in a state of war?” shouted the man from FOX.
“What about the downed pilot?” asked reporter from the Washington Post. But without acknowledging a single person the President left the stage and was instantly engulfed and ushered away by a phalanx of aides and Secret Service.
The Big Blu Sky-Twenty-four
They stood beside the Bosporus, not far from Molly’s hotel. The lights from the Asia side blinked like so many stars in the building humidity, crowded upon the hillside and silhouetted against the curtain of black night. To the west a storm was growing, tendrils of bright gold and blue lightening reaching across towering thunderheads. The thunderheads built until the jet stream tore away the tops in ghost-white shrouds. The hum and chatter of the living city was silenced in gusts that drew snow-white tassels upon the black waters of the channel. Molly and Doug were leaning on a rail. She felt electric at the warmth of Doug’s arm so close to hers.
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Eighteen
Molly took longer than usual to reach home in suburban Falls Church, a pretty village of family homes and bright New England churches. The town was just far enough from the city to feel like an escape. She turned from East Broad Street onto Cherry, feeling as if she had finally escaped the madness of a world embodied in grueling traffic. The street was dark and quiet, bounded on either side by plain houses, well kept yards and natly trimmed hedges.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
The Big Blue Sky: Seventeen
Traffic was heavy along Arlington Boulevard out of Washington. It was already dark. To the west, as if black ink had been spilled across the turquoise sunset, a storm was building. It was warm for an autumn day, but the scent of rain carried hints of a cold front behind the storm clouds. Molly’s gaze followed the ceaseless line of crimson taillights and felt father away from home than she had all day.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Seven
“…and welcome back to the program,” began the scrupulous quaffed FOX News host, like some manufactured TV-evangelist. “Could nuclear weapons only be the tip of the iceberg in Iran’s growing arsenal of Weapons of Mass destruction? Will the Iranian Mullah soon unleash a new and more terrible weapon against Israel and the West? My next guess says yes, and believes that the US and its allies are completely unprepared to deal with that looming threat. Umberto Shosa is the founder and CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS, and an expert in the field of Nano-tech warfare, which he says will be the next great arms race. Welcome to the show Mister Shosa.”
“My pleasure, Don. Let me correct you a little. There are no Nano-warfare experts, at least in this country, because no one has dared to be on that battlefield yet.”
“But you firmly believe that our enemies are preparing, and may even be ready for that eventual battle?’
“What we are talking about, Don, are tiny machines at the molecular and atomic scale. These sub-microscopic machines can incredibly complex to serve limitless functions, from medical technology to warfare. China and Russia are already years ahead of the US in this technology, which is relatively simple and inexpensive to produce. I have little doubt that a nation like Iran could quite easily harness this technology, at potentially great peril to the US and her interests.”
“A new more deadly type of WMD?” The segment had taken on the scripted tone of a late night info-mercial.
“Self repeating machines that can be delivered in drinking water, a simple ventilation system, seeded from aircraft or sired from a small shell. Nano-weapons can be programmed to lie dormant and undetected for days or months or even years, virtually untraceable and allowing the perpetrators to get away completely.”
“And these weapons can be relatively inexpensive to produce, isn’t that right?”
“For much less than a million dollars. Well within reach of countries like Iran, and certainly within reach of terrorist organizations like Al Qaeda and Hezbollah.”
“So what is the solution?”
“This country needs to build an effective policy to prevent Iran and other belligerent nations from getting Nano-weapons technology, and it needs to become competitive with nations like China and Russia who have historically not acted with US interests in mind.”
“Scary stuff.” The host shook his head slowly, tapping a stack of papers on the desk. “I am sure we’ll be discussing this much more Umberto Shosa is a Nano-technology and warfare expert, and the CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS Mister Shosa, glad you’re on our side. Coming up next, a siteen year old dancing at a Texas strip club? Not only is it legal, but her parents are supporting her decision. We’ll be right…”
“My pleasure, Don. Let me correct you a little. There are no Nano-warfare experts, at least in this country, because no one has dared to be on that battlefield yet.”
“But you firmly believe that our enemies are preparing, and may even be ready for that eventual battle?’
“What we are talking about, Don, are tiny machines at the molecular and atomic scale. These sub-microscopic machines can incredibly complex to serve limitless functions, from medical technology to warfare. China and Russia are already years ahead of the US in this technology, which is relatively simple and inexpensive to produce. I have little doubt that a nation like Iran could quite easily harness this technology, at potentially great peril to the US and her interests.”
“A new more deadly type of WMD?” The segment had taken on the scripted tone of a late night info-mercial.
“Self repeating machines that can be delivered in drinking water, a simple ventilation system, seeded from aircraft or sired from a small shell. Nano-weapons can be programmed to lie dormant and undetected for days or months or even years, virtually untraceable and allowing the perpetrators to get away completely.”
“And these weapons can be relatively inexpensive to produce, isn’t that right?”
“For much less than a million dollars. Well within reach of countries like Iran, and certainly within reach of terrorist organizations like Al Qaeda and Hezbollah.”
“So what is the solution?”
“This country needs to build an effective policy to prevent Iran and other belligerent nations from getting Nano-weapons technology, and it needs to become competitive with nations like China and Russia who have historically not acted with US interests in mind.”
“Scary stuff.” The host shook his head slowly, tapping a stack of papers on the desk. “I am sure we’ll be discussing this much more Umberto Shosa is a Nano-technology and warfare expert, and the CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS Mister Shosa, glad you’re on our side. Coming up next, a siteen year old dancing at a Texas strip club? Not only is it legal, but her parents are supporting her decision. We’ll be right…”
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