“What are we doing here?” Molly asked. She held the pistol at her leg. Her heart thundered madly. Every errant sound in the big empty hallways made her jumpy and anxious.
“Looking for someone.”
“Care to share a little?” Molly complained.
Doug stopped before a large directory. White plastic letters were pressed into a black board set into the wall and covered by glass. Doug touched the glass, running his finger down until he came to a name.
“Louis Purvich, Professor.” He said.
“Who?”
“When I called my old editor he said we should talk to his son-in-law.”
“And this is important at this moment?”
“I need some information or I’ll look like a fool at that Press conference. I have one shot. I have to put all the pieces in place.”
Molly nodded. “We better hurry then.”
They ran down the hall and up two flights of stairs, finding a small office at the back of lab. They lab itself was like something from a tinkerers dream. The machines seemed haphazard and strange. Doug was by no means an uneducated man, but he could not make sense of any of them.
“Looks like a hi-tech junk shop,” Molly remarked for the both of them.
There was a small wood-cut sign on the door. It was simple, like a child had created it. A crudely etched tin-can robot frowned while sniffing a daisy. There was a question mark over the robot's square head. The sign read:
DEPARTMENT OF CYBER-ETHICS AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF TECHNOLOGY
Doug didn’t bother knocking. There was no time. He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily. He pushed it open, startling the professor inside. Molly pushed past Doug and went to the phone on the Professor’s desk, lifted the receiver and dialed the emergency operator.
“This is Agent Karaman again. I phoned in the emergency. I am located on the third floor of the Technological Institute, North End in one of the labs. I have a Federal witness with me and will need security immediately to protect him.” She hung up the phone, took the badge from her pocket and hung it around her neck where it would be seen plainly. “No need to get shot by friendlies.”
Doug looked to the astonished young man. He couldn’t have been older that thirty, though a deeply receding hairline made him look a bit older at a glance. It was offset by long straight blond hair. He was skinny and t all, and a awkward, with bright blue eyes and a two day growth of beard. The office was a mess, dominated by a chaotic bookshelf filled with reports, hastily stuffed files and an eclectic mix of philosophy and computer books.
“Professor Purvich?” asked Doug.
“Doug Springer? Arnie said…”
“Is there another way out of here?” asked Molly, returning to the door, now holding the pistol in both hands.
“If you can fly or bounce!” the Professor replied, sarcastically, but quickly thinking better of it when she glared at him. “What’s going on?”
“We don’t have much time,” Doug began. Molly moved across the lab to the door. “I’m trying to put together the pieces of a weird puzzle…”
“Nano-weapons.” Purvich said abruptly, taking Doug a little aback.
Doug looked curiously at the sign on the door. “Cyber-ethics?’
“The digital revolution is overwhelming us,” said Purvich. “It’s evolving faster than humanity’s ability to understand it. Some would call it a new life form, maybe the replacement form for humanity. Twenty years from now machines will be autonomous, self replicating and doing things we cannot even conceive of. Question is, will they perceive us as their Adam and Eve, as nuisances or enemies? Will we perceive them as enemies, God’s or both? The ethics of all this is that we need to find a way to program basic ethics and morality into our machines, or they will fashion their own, and we must come to some understanding and perspective in machines of our creation which, one day, will likely not need us to exist.”
“How does that work for nano-weapons?”
“It doesn’t,” Purvich said simple.
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re not asking the right question,” said Purvich. “What happened in Iran two days ago has all the hallmarks of a Nanobot attack. No ethics, just machines programmed to function on its designer’s shifting sense of ethics. Nanobots are simple, dumb things.”
“Nano-what? You have to forgive my ignorance.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “Nobody knows about this stuff. Nobody in the government and nobody in military, that for sure. Nano-technology is not on anyone’s radar yet, but it is definitely the future. If we’re smart it will change humanity forever. If we ain’t it’ll hit us like a bullet between the eyes.”
“Fallahi said it was like the discovery of fire; a Frankenstein monster.”
“Purvich nodded. “Not far off the mark. What we’re talking here is infinitesimally small, on the scale of millionths of an inch. By contrast, the diameter of a human hair is colossal by comparison. But the applications are infinite; phenomenally better processors, incredibly efficient fuel cells, revolutionary medical applications, like little robots that would hunt down and eradicate tumors before you knew you had them, un-dreamed of textiles and fabrics and warfare.”
“And how would those applications work for weaponry?”
Purvich chuckled. “How good is your imagination? Right now we’re sort of theoretical with carbon silicon Nano-tubes a thousandth the width of a human hair, with a sort of tube and soccer ball configuration, but from that we can build and program and amazing array of nano-machines.”
“How difficult are these to produce?’ asked Doug. Molly was listening from the door, while keeping a wary eye on the hall. Outside the sirens had risen to a racket. There was gunfire in the distance. Purvich led Doug across the room to an odd looking machine. It was hardly bigger that a small chest of drawers.
“A couple of geeks, a million and a half dollars and an internet account to buy a thimble full nano-tubes and you, my friend, could bring the world to its knees.”
“And where does one logon to but nano-tubes?”
Purvich went to a blackboard and quickly scribbled out a formula:
It’s simple, anyone can create so-called forests on nano-tubes in a substrate growth rate in a really simple formula, H(t)=βTo(1-e-t/To), where β is the initial growth rate and T sub zero is the catalyst’s lifetime.” He could see that he was losing Doug a bit in the techno stuff. “It’s simple. Very simple.”
“Anyway to detect one of these nano-weapons?”
“Honestly? Depends on the technical expertise of the designer. They could disappear, breakdown on command, dissolve, or burn up.”
Molly looked away from the door. “Burn up?”
“Sure,” said Purvich. “You could actually generate a substantial amount of heat.”
“Enough to say, burn through human tissue?” Molly pressed.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
“And how would you deliver these?” asked Doug, with a knowing look to Molly.
“God, the possibilities boggle the mind.”
“In a glass of water?” asked Molly.
“I suppose,” the Professor replied.
There was a sound at the door. Molly wheeled around, bringing the pistol up as Waverly and the other man stormed inside, unleashing a hail of bullets. Molly returned fire, dropping Waverly’s partner. Doug fell on Purvich, shoving him back into the office just as two bullets slammed into Molly. She grunted and tumbled to the floor, her pistol skidding away across the floor.
“Molly!” Doug cried, scrambling over to her. Dark red blood spread beneath her body. Molly’s head was turned to the side, and covered by her long dark hair. Just as he reached for her Doug felt the press of a cold hard gun barrel at the back of his head.
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-four
CHAPTER THREE
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
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: Forty
Good friends ran a quaint little roadside motel about a dozen miles or so down the road. The “SEA COAST INN stood beneath sheltering pine, which made the place feel comfortably serene and protected from the outside world. The unassuming sign stood out front, beside the highway, in front of a simple long gray building with white trim and shutters. Doug and Jane had spent a fair number of romantic escapes locked away in the comfortable rooms within that deceptively simple building. The owners, a kindly, deeply spiritual couple named Geoff and Carol, lived in a comfortable home out back. There was a garage beside the house. The woods deepened at the back of the property, the afternoon sunlight falling in patches through the thickening trees and brush.
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-five
A mile and half to the Southeast, as the crow flies, lays the little town of Munising. Wrapped around the end of the bay, the town was hardly more than a smudge of pale color against the forested hills of the Hiawatha National Forest. State Road 28 cut a pathway along the coast from Marquette through the town, running east towards Mackinac and Saute St. Marie. Hundreds of miles of unrelenting wilderness separated the town from those destinations. Twenty-eight ran past the navigator restaurant, a pleasant little diner overlooking the bay and Grand Island beyond.
Molly Karaman and her partner had left Washington during the night, flying into Green Bay on a chartered American Airlines flight. It took the better part of four hours to reach Munising. As they found a table looking out across the bay neither agent took much note of the motor boat bumping and bouncing towards the island.
Molly’s partner was a rookie named Charlie Moon, a full blooded Chippewa native from Duluth. He was an energetic sort, tall and powerfully built, with short black hair and exotic green eyes. Moon had graduated from Annapolis, doing a tour in Iraq in 2002 before joining the FBI. Molly didn’t look upon him as rookie. She knew only too well from her time in the Mideast what he had gone through, and knew he was more experienced, and better prepared for a fight than half the more senior agents in the Bureau. He was competent and bright, and she was happy to have him along.
Molly opened her laptop and turned it as an old waitress limped over with pot of coffee and a pair of menus tucked under one arm. Her white orthopedic shoes squeaked slightly along the tiled floor, in an odd rhythm to her limp. A pen was tucked behind one ear, and half covered behind shoulder length gray hair, which was more akin to a dry tumbleweed than a hairstyle. But she had a warm sincere smile, and Molly was instantly endeared to, as if she was long lost relation.
“Get you kids some coffee?” she asked, already reaching for Charlie’s cup. It was turned upside down on the saucer. She turned it over and filled the cup with the strong steaming brown liquid. As she reached for Molly’s cup the waitress happened to notice the Federal badge on her belt.
“Say, how many of you folks they got up here?”
“Sorry?” said Molly, turning from the computer screen.
“Federal agents and such?” the waitress repeated.
“Why do you ask?” said Moon.
The old waitress shrugged, and laid the menus down on the table. “Half dozen fellas in here yesterday. Said they were up here to fish, but I watched ‘em leave. They were parked over there, just down the hill, with all this military type stuff in the back.”
“Lot’s of militia and survivalists up in these parts,” Charlie observed, while subtly pressing the issue a bit.
“Naw,” she said. “They were talking about that fella from Marquette. I heard some, but they shut up real quick when I came over to take their order.”
“Stood out that much, huh?” Molly asked.
The waitress laughed. “Get a lot of characters come in here, but not many that pay with a corporate credit card. Worst part is, they ate a ton and had me running for this and that, which don’t fly so good with this bad hip. And then, don’t ya know, they didn’t even tip!”
“Maybe you still have a copy of that receipt?” asked Molly.
“Think I just might.”
The waitress returned a minute later with a carbon copy of the receipt. As Molly and Charlie looked it over carefully the waitress explained she didn’t normally run carbon imprints of credit cards like folks used to once upon a time, but she didn’t much like those guys and thought it prudent to be on the safe side, just in case the card came up stolen. Molly held her blackberry over the receipt and snapped a couple of pictures before handing the receipt back. The company name at the top of the receipt was light and hard to read, still Molly could make out the letters well enough. It read: FIRSTTHRUST, INC.
“I was right, wasn’tI” said the waitress. “Something wasn’t right about those guys!”
“Molly smiled sympathetically. “For one, I waited tables in college, and I hate people who don’t tip.
Molly Karaman and her partner had left Washington during the night, flying into Green Bay on a chartered American Airlines flight. It took the better part of four hours to reach Munising. As they found a table looking out across the bay neither agent took much note of the motor boat bumping and bouncing towards the island.
Molly’s partner was a rookie named Charlie Moon, a full blooded Chippewa native from Duluth. He was an energetic sort, tall and powerfully built, with short black hair and exotic green eyes. Moon had graduated from Annapolis, doing a tour in Iraq in 2002 before joining the FBI. Molly didn’t look upon him as rookie. She knew only too well from her time in the Mideast what he had gone through, and knew he was more experienced, and better prepared for a fight than half the more senior agents in the Bureau. He was competent and bright, and she was happy to have him along.
Molly opened her laptop and turned it as an old waitress limped over with pot of coffee and a pair of menus tucked under one arm. Her white orthopedic shoes squeaked slightly along the tiled floor, in an odd rhythm to her limp. A pen was tucked behind one ear, and half covered behind shoulder length gray hair, which was more akin to a dry tumbleweed than a hairstyle. But she had a warm sincere smile, and Molly was instantly endeared to, as if she was long lost relation.
“Get you kids some coffee?” she asked, already reaching for Charlie’s cup. It was turned upside down on the saucer. She turned it over and filled the cup with the strong steaming brown liquid. As she reached for Molly’s cup the waitress happened to notice the Federal badge on her belt.
“Say, how many of you folks they got up here?”
“Sorry?” said Molly, turning from the computer screen.
“Federal agents and such?” the waitress repeated.
“Why do you ask?” said Moon.
The old waitress shrugged, and laid the menus down on the table. “Half dozen fellas in here yesterday. Said they were up here to fish, but I watched ‘em leave. They were parked over there, just down the hill, with all this military type stuff in the back.”
“Lot’s of militia and survivalists up in these parts,” Charlie observed, while subtly pressing the issue a bit.
“Naw,” she said. “They were talking about that fella from Marquette. I heard some, but they shut up real quick when I came over to take their order.”
“Stood out that much, huh?” Molly asked.
The waitress laughed. “Get a lot of characters come in here, but not many that pay with a corporate credit card. Worst part is, they ate a ton and had me running for this and that, which don’t fly so good with this bad hip. And then, don’t ya know, they didn’t even tip!”
“Maybe you still have a copy of that receipt?” asked Molly.
“Think I just might.”
The waitress returned a minute later with a carbon copy of the receipt. As Molly and Charlie looked it over carefully the waitress explained she didn’t normally run carbon imprints of credit cards like folks used to once upon a time, but she didn’t much like those guys and thought it prudent to be on the safe side, just in case the card came up stolen. Molly held her blackberry over the receipt and snapped a couple of pictures before handing the receipt back. The company name at the top of the receipt was light and hard to read, still Molly could make out the letters well enough. It read: FIRSTTHRUST, INC.
“I was right, wasn’tI” said the waitress. “Something wasn’t right about those guys!”
“Molly smiled sympathetically. “For one, I waited tables in college, and I hate people who don’t tip.
Friday, July 16, 2010
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.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-one
The survivors of the failed rescue mission, fearing annihilation if they continued fighting, had surrendered to the advancing Iranian army. Over the next twenty-four hours they would suffer the obligatory abuse of disgraced combatants; isolation, delayed medical care, little food or water, humiliation, summary beatings, sleep deprivation and mock executions. Their training into abuse and deprivation would help them to an extent. In that training there was always the promise that the nightmare would end, and that the abusers were comrades who would not cross certain lines. There would be no ultimate line here, but the line of death. Nothing could prepare a man for the prospect that the freedoms he had long enjoyed and defended were gone, and that he might never see home or family again.
The prisoners were separated almost immediately. The wounded were moved to the Baghiyyatollah al-Azam military hospital in Tehran. The others were scattered around the country to prevent any attempt at rescue by the Americans. Eventually all the captives would be moved to various locations around the Iranian capitol. There they would be kept in different locations throughout the city, and brought together where they could be paraded and humiliated before the World’s Press. There was no hint of the terrible time bomb each of them carried. There was no indication that they were as much pawns as guinea pigs for a new kind of war. For now they would be trophies for the Iranians, as proof of America’s disregard for the sovereignty of dissident nations.
There would be little point to the exercise, except some sad assertion by the Iranians of emasculated power. Grainy washed-out images of prisoners in white jumpsuits eating at a prison table in a window-less room, or seated together along a wall beneath artificial light all but erasing their captors abuse, would be shown around the world. The images would do nothing to change hearts in the West. Those in the Muslim world that harbored a bias against the West would cheer Iran’s David and Goliath defiance. Others in the Muslim world, who saw Iran as an ideological enemy almost as loathsome as America, would be searching for angles.
In Washington, the American President charted a course across the impossibly complex Chess match of International diplomacy and one-upmanship. In that game history could be changed as easily by generals and heads of state, as by sudden acts by obscure souls. The Germans and Austrians had learned that lesson only too well in 1914 when a boy of sixteen stepped from a crowd on a Sarajevo street to gun down Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. Within months Europe was embroiled in a war that would cost the lives of more than ten million. The president was struggling to learn the lessons of history and to keep a proper perspective. In the days and weeks to come it would take every ounce of discipline he could muster not to take every slight, every diplomatic rebuff, and every act that upped the ante towards war personally.
By contrast, long smoldering anti-Western sentiments in Tehran roared to a conflagration. Decades of contrived paranoia, combined with potent Middle Eastern emotionalism erupted onto the streets the following day. A fear of Western aggression against Iran and Muslims, stoked and inflated by insular clerics, was personified by the bruised and pale faces of the captured Americans. It robbed the opposition of support and resolve, as many rallied to defend the nation. Men flocked to volunteer for militias and civil defense centers by the tens of thousands. The American President was burned in effigy amid hyper-agitated crowds. The Canadian Embassy was sacked, while diplomats and their families were spirited from the country by the Iranian high command.
There were calls for war in Congress and in the Iranian parliament. Another naval task force was ordered into the region, joining the two there already. For the moment cooler heads were prevailing, but peace is a child’s toy and nationalism a child on the verge of a tantrum. The leaders, seeking to thread their way towards peace, were burdened in knowing that prudent preparations for war steadily tipped the scales towards make war an eventuality. Among the American people fears of sleeper cells and impotent frustration rose to join cynical calls for war and retribution. There seemed to be little regard for the ultimate costs and predictable outcome of a war in either country.
Short of all out war, all the Iranians could hope for would be a bargaining position gained from their hostages. It would be a treacherous and dangerous road, risking war and greater isolation for the nominal admiration of peasants and stagnate Islamic states. The United Nations would condemn the taking of hostages, and echo the President’s demand for their unconditional release. No sanctions would be eased. There would be no quid pro quo over Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The CIA would quietly agree to stop encouraging Iranian officials to defect-for a time. A couple of spies would be unceremoniously released away from the glare and hype of the Press, and a contract to upgrade Iran’s power grid by a Serbian firm would be allowed after the crisis had abated. In the end, to most of the world, Iran’s reputation as a peasant nation fraudulently asserting itself among responsible developed nations would be confirmed, that is if it did not come to war. With each passing moment the likelihood of war increased dramatically, with some who actively worked to guarantee it would come about.
The prisoners were separated almost immediately. The wounded were moved to the Baghiyyatollah al-Azam military hospital in Tehran. The others were scattered around the country to prevent any attempt at rescue by the Americans. Eventually all the captives would be moved to various locations around the Iranian capitol. There they would be kept in different locations throughout the city, and brought together where they could be paraded and humiliated before the World’s Press. There was no hint of the terrible time bomb each of them carried. There was no indication that they were as much pawns as guinea pigs for a new kind of war. For now they would be trophies for the Iranians, as proof of America’s disregard for the sovereignty of dissident nations.
There would be little point to the exercise, except some sad assertion by the Iranians of emasculated power. Grainy washed-out images of prisoners in white jumpsuits eating at a prison table in a window-less room, or seated together along a wall beneath artificial light all but erasing their captors abuse, would be shown around the world. The images would do nothing to change hearts in the West. Those in the Muslim world that harbored a bias against the West would cheer Iran’s David and Goliath defiance. Others in the Muslim world, who saw Iran as an ideological enemy almost as loathsome as America, would be searching for angles.
In Washington, the American President charted a course across the impossibly complex Chess match of International diplomacy and one-upmanship. In that game history could be changed as easily by generals and heads of state, as by sudden acts by obscure souls. The Germans and Austrians had learned that lesson only too well in 1914 when a boy of sixteen stepped from a crowd on a Sarajevo street to gun down Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. Within months Europe was embroiled in a war that would cost the lives of more than ten million. The president was struggling to learn the lessons of history and to keep a proper perspective. In the days and weeks to come it would take every ounce of discipline he could muster not to take every slight, every diplomatic rebuff, and every act that upped the ante towards war personally.
By contrast, long smoldering anti-Western sentiments in Tehran roared to a conflagration. Decades of contrived paranoia, combined with potent Middle Eastern emotionalism erupted onto the streets the following day. A fear of Western aggression against Iran and Muslims, stoked and inflated by insular clerics, was personified by the bruised and pale faces of the captured Americans. It robbed the opposition of support and resolve, as many rallied to defend the nation. Men flocked to volunteer for militias and civil defense centers by the tens of thousands. The American President was burned in effigy amid hyper-agitated crowds. The Canadian Embassy was sacked, while diplomats and their families were spirited from the country by the Iranian high command.
There were calls for war in Congress and in the Iranian parliament. Another naval task force was ordered into the region, joining the two there already. For the moment cooler heads were prevailing, but peace is a child’s toy and nationalism a child on the verge of a tantrum. The leaders, seeking to thread their way towards peace, were burdened in knowing that prudent preparations for war steadily tipped the scales towards make war an eventuality. Among the American people fears of sleeper cells and impotent frustration rose to join cynical calls for war and retribution. There seemed to be little regard for the ultimate costs and predictable outcome of a war in either country.
Short of all out war, all the Iranians could hope for would be a bargaining position gained from their hostages. It would be a treacherous and dangerous road, risking war and greater isolation for the nominal admiration of peasants and stagnate Islamic states. The United Nations would condemn the taking of hostages, and echo the President’s demand for their unconditional release. No sanctions would be eased. There would be no quid pro quo over Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The CIA would quietly agree to stop encouraging Iranian officials to defect-for a time. A couple of spies would be unceremoniously released away from the glare and hype of the Press, and a contract to upgrade Iran’s power grid by a Serbian firm would be allowed after the crisis had abated. In the end, to most of the world, Iran’s reputation as a peasant nation fraudulently asserting itself among responsible developed nations would be confirmed, that is if it did not come to war. With each passing moment the likelihood of war increased dramatically, with some who actively worked to guarantee it would come about.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-six
CHAPTER TWO
“…I don’t want any Nano-bots in my medication to tell the government whether or not I’m taking my medication…”
Glen beck May 17, 2010
Doug had dozed off, slumped upon the sofa in the living room. It was less a fitful sleep than an exhausted one. The rain had moved off some time ago, leaving just the cold and damp ,which had worked its way into Doug’s Body. But it wasn’t the cold that wrested him from sleep, but rather Megan. She was shaking him. His eyes fought to open, finding her terribly alarmed. It was then he heard the pounding at the front door. Megan looked to the sound. That’s when Doug noticed the kitchen knife in her hand.
“Dad, wake up!” she exclaimed at hardly more than a whisper. “There’s a strange man at the door."
Doug groaned and forced himself to sit upright.
“Who is it?” he asked blindly. As if to underscore how dumb a question it was, Megan frowned and held up the knife.
Pain thundered in Doug’s head. The Brandy had taken a greater toll than he thought. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, taking the knife from her hand.
“Go upstairs and make sure your sister is okay.”
The knocking continued. It was urgent and loud. Still holding the knife Doug waited until Megan was safely upstairs then went to the door. He looked through the peephole and drew away quickly. Doug looked once more and took a moment, as if he wasn’t actually seeing what was there. It was impossible, he thought. Surely it was a product of the liqour, but when he looked a third time there could be no doubt.
Doug set down the knife and undid the bolt on the door. He turned the handle, pulling harder when the door stuck a bit. It had only opened a crack when Ahmed Fallahi burst through the door and into the front room.
“Hey!” Doug cried, his head suddenly clear. His mind was still fighting to accept all this. What was an Iranian spy doing in his living room and on a night like this? Fallahi was breathless and disheveled. He was dressed in a dark brown suit, which was almost black in the soft light. His black London Fog coat looked as if it had been slept in. Ther was mud on his knees and scratches on his face, probably from navigating the trees in the dark. More than that Fallahi was half out of his mind with fright.
“Douglas, forgive me,” Fallahi fought to collect himself.
“Ahmed, my girls are upstairs.” He took Fallahi firmly by the arm and led him across the room away from the stairs. Doug turned on the lamp beside the sofa. The golden yellow light threw their shadows through the picture window and out onto glistening wet lawn. Beyond that light the world faded to a silken darkness that seemed suddenly alive with danger. The nearest neighbor was better than a quarter mile away, well concealed by the forests and inky blackness of the Michigan night.
“You are the only person I can trust, Douglas.” He looked sharply to Doug. “Have you seen the news tonight?”
Doug fought a wave of emotion, as if tearing the words from his soul one syllable at a time. “I buried my wife today.”
“I am sorry,” said Fallahi, almost dismissively.
“Dad?” Megan appeared at the bottom of the stairs. In one hand she held her phone. She had already dialed nine-one-one, as she’d been taught. Her thumb hovered over the dial button.
“Its all right, sweetheart. There won’t be any trouble.” He looked to Fallahi. “Will there?’
“No, praise god, no!” Fallahi replied.
Doug nodded and Megan retreated back up the steps, leaving the men alone again. Doug sat on the couch. The headache had returned with a vengeance, finding refuge directly behind his eyes. It didn’t help matters as Fallahi anxiously paced the room. Doug felt suddenly queasy and thrust out a hand stopping Fallahi in his tracks.
“You are gonna have to stop that.”
“You understand I am an Iranian Patriot, completely deicated to the revolution that drove out the corrupt Shah and restored my country.”
“Ahmed, it is one in the morning and you are standing in my living room giving me a sales pitch from the Ayahtollah's tourist board.”
“I am sorry,” he said, turning and staring from the window out into the dark night and the wall of trees across the road. “I am so confused and…”
“What is this all about?” Doug asked.
Fallahi paused, and believed he saw something, an errant shadow, an unnatural movement among the trees across the road. He ignored, believing it the product of an exhausted and overburdened mind. He turned back to Doug.
“If our countries went to war legitimately I would fight with all my soul, and if necessary I would gladly martyr myself without hesitation.”
Doug shook his head. The pain behind his eyes was getting worse. “I’m trying to follow…”
“My old friend, make no mistake, our nations will go to war. Perhaps they are at this moment, but I must do everything to stop this war. If nothing else then everyone should know the truth.”
Doug stared blankly at the man. Fallahi was sweating profusely, his eyes darting everywhere, as if searching the room and the air for any answer. He was almost incoherent, a state Doug had never seen in Fallahi before.
“Doulas, I don’t know if I was followed here, but there isn’t much time,” Fallahi pleaded. "I thought several times someone…I tried to…Doug you must help me.”
“Ahmed, you’re not making sense!”
“Something happened today, Doug, but it is not what it seems. This is only the beginning. You must understand that what has happened, and what will happen will change the world as much as the discovery of fire!”
“I can’t…” Doug had heard quite enough. He stood and took Fallahi by the arm, but the man pulled away, almost throwing Doug to the floor. He caught himself and looked up, chagrined and angered to find Megan at the stairs again.
“Dad?” she still held the phone, her thumb still poised. It was up and away from her as if she might throw it or wield it as a weapon.
“Megan, please!” he said sternly, righting himself. “Go upstairs with your sister and close the door!” Doug fumed at Fallahi. “You’re frightening my children, Ahmed.”
But Fallhi’s attention was momentarily distracted, his gaze out the window and at the trees. He had seen something move there and knew what was about to happen. It seemed a proper justice, from some universl point of view, as if the years spent as hunter required balance and for him to become the prey. Strange, he thought, but a man who knows he is condemned feels nothing. He only felt remorse for leading them to a friend’s door, and resolved to lead them away if he could. What other choice did he have. He’d leave and go to his fate hoping that Doug would carry the story, andbegin the investigations and upheavals necessary to put the world to right again, or at the very least find some small justice.
“Listen to me, I haven’t much time,” Fallahi continued. “Just know that everything is a lie. We are being tricked into war for a greedy few, for a Frankenstein monster.” He looked again to the window, but seeing nothing was far worse. His brow crumbled as he turned to Doug again. “They have come for me.”
“Who has come for you?”
Fallahi skirted the question. “A month ago I received information from an informant within the opposition in Tehran. Douglas, a nightmare is about to be unleashed upon the world, a weapon that will shock and horrify beyond any measure of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Doug, do you remember Istanbul?”
“I don’t…” Doug squeezed his eyes, as if that would help him make some sense of all this.
There was movement again, much closer this time. A shadow slipped past the window with blinding speed. Fallahi missed it, but Doug saw clearly, though there was no chance to react.
Suddenly a man appeared through the still open door. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his trousers tucked into a dully polished pair of combat boots. A wool cap was pulled down tightly, so that only the man’s unblinking dark brown eyes and lips were visible. He was holding a pistol in a gloved and, and it was already pointed at Fallahi.
Two quick shot exploded in the room. The .45 caliber rounds struck the Iranian in the face and exploded the back of his skull, covering Doug with blood, bits of brain and sticky chunks of scalp and hair. Fallahi pitched backwards onto the couch and slid to one side leaving a broad crimson smear across the beige fabric of the couch.
Doug was frozen, unable to move. He was looking at the gunman with a mixture of dread and disbelief. He thought of the girls the instant before the gunman hammered him with a punishing roundhouse in the temple. The world flashed to white, the slug sounding like a freight train for the fraction of an instant before the white faded to a blackness as deep and dark and complete as death.
“…I don’t want any Nano-bots in my medication to tell the government whether or not I’m taking my medication…”
Glen beck May 17, 2010
Doug had dozed off, slumped upon the sofa in the living room. It was less a fitful sleep than an exhausted one. The rain had moved off some time ago, leaving just the cold and damp ,which had worked its way into Doug’s Body. But it wasn’t the cold that wrested him from sleep, but rather Megan. She was shaking him. His eyes fought to open, finding her terribly alarmed. It was then he heard the pounding at the front door. Megan looked to the sound. That’s when Doug noticed the kitchen knife in her hand.
“Dad, wake up!” she exclaimed at hardly more than a whisper. “There’s a strange man at the door."
Doug groaned and forced himself to sit upright.
“Who is it?” he asked blindly. As if to underscore how dumb a question it was, Megan frowned and held up the knife.
Pain thundered in Doug’s head. The Brandy had taken a greater toll than he thought. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, taking the knife from her hand.
“Go upstairs and make sure your sister is okay.”
The knocking continued. It was urgent and loud. Still holding the knife Doug waited until Megan was safely upstairs then went to the door. He looked through the peephole and drew away quickly. Doug looked once more and took a moment, as if he wasn’t actually seeing what was there. It was impossible, he thought. Surely it was a product of the liqour, but when he looked a third time there could be no doubt.
Doug set down the knife and undid the bolt on the door. He turned the handle, pulling harder when the door stuck a bit. It had only opened a crack when Ahmed Fallahi burst through the door and into the front room.
“Hey!” Doug cried, his head suddenly clear. His mind was still fighting to accept all this. What was an Iranian spy doing in his living room and on a night like this? Fallahi was breathless and disheveled. He was dressed in a dark brown suit, which was almost black in the soft light. His black London Fog coat looked as if it had been slept in. Ther was mud on his knees and scratches on his face, probably from navigating the trees in the dark. More than that Fallahi was half out of his mind with fright.
“Douglas, forgive me,” Fallahi fought to collect himself.
“Ahmed, my girls are upstairs.” He took Fallahi firmly by the arm and led him across the room away from the stairs. Doug turned on the lamp beside the sofa. The golden yellow light threw their shadows through the picture window and out onto glistening wet lawn. Beyond that light the world faded to a silken darkness that seemed suddenly alive with danger. The nearest neighbor was better than a quarter mile away, well concealed by the forests and inky blackness of the Michigan night.
“You are the only person I can trust, Douglas.” He looked sharply to Doug. “Have you seen the news tonight?”
Doug fought a wave of emotion, as if tearing the words from his soul one syllable at a time. “I buried my wife today.”
“I am sorry,” said Fallahi, almost dismissively.
“Dad?” Megan appeared at the bottom of the stairs. In one hand she held her phone. She had already dialed nine-one-one, as she’d been taught. Her thumb hovered over the dial button.
“Its all right, sweetheart. There won’t be any trouble.” He looked to Fallahi. “Will there?’
“No, praise god, no!” Fallahi replied.
Doug nodded and Megan retreated back up the steps, leaving the men alone again. Doug sat on the couch. The headache had returned with a vengeance, finding refuge directly behind his eyes. It didn’t help matters as Fallahi anxiously paced the room. Doug felt suddenly queasy and thrust out a hand stopping Fallahi in his tracks.
“You are gonna have to stop that.”
“You understand I am an Iranian Patriot, completely deicated to the revolution that drove out the corrupt Shah and restored my country.”
“Ahmed, it is one in the morning and you are standing in my living room giving me a sales pitch from the Ayahtollah's tourist board.”
“I am sorry,” he said, turning and staring from the window out into the dark night and the wall of trees across the road. “I am so confused and…”
“What is this all about?” Doug asked.
Fallahi paused, and believed he saw something, an errant shadow, an unnatural movement among the trees across the road. He ignored, believing it the product of an exhausted and overburdened mind. He turned back to Doug.
“If our countries went to war legitimately I would fight with all my soul, and if necessary I would gladly martyr myself without hesitation.”
Doug shook his head. The pain behind his eyes was getting worse. “I’m trying to follow…”
“My old friend, make no mistake, our nations will go to war. Perhaps they are at this moment, but I must do everything to stop this war. If nothing else then everyone should know the truth.”
Doug stared blankly at the man. Fallahi was sweating profusely, his eyes darting everywhere, as if searching the room and the air for any answer. He was almost incoherent, a state Doug had never seen in Fallahi before.
“Doulas, I don’t know if I was followed here, but there isn’t much time,” Fallahi pleaded. "I thought several times someone…I tried to…Doug you must help me.”
“Ahmed, you’re not making sense!”
“Something happened today, Doug, but it is not what it seems. This is only the beginning. You must understand that what has happened, and what will happen will change the world as much as the discovery of fire!”
“I can’t…” Doug had heard quite enough. He stood and took Fallahi by the arm, but the man pulled away, almost throwing Doug to the floor. He caught himself and looked up, chagrined and angered to find Megan at the stairs again.
“Dad?” she still held the phone, her thumb still poised. It was up and away from her as if she might throw it or wield it as a weapon.
“Megan, please!” he said sternly, righting himself. “Go upstairs with your sister and close the door!” Doug fumed at Fallahi. “You’re frightening my children, Ahmed.”
But Fallhi’s attention was momentarily distracted, his gaze out the window and at the trees. He had seen something move there and knew what was about to happen. It seemed a proper justice, from some universl point of view, as if the years spent as hunter required balance and for him to become the prey. Strange, he thought, but a man who knows he is condemned feels nothing. He only felt remorse for leading them to a friend’s door, and resolved to lead them away if he could. What other choice did he have. He’d leave and go to his fate hoping that Doug would carry the story, andbegin the investigations and upheavals necessary to put the world to right again, or at the very least find some small justice.
“Listen to me, I haven’t much time,” Fallahi continued. “Just know that everything is a lie. We are being tricked into war for a greedy few, for a Frankenstein monster.” He looked again to the window, but seeing nothing was far worse. His brow crumbled as he turned to Doug again. “They have come for me.”
“Who has come for you?”
Fallahi skirted the question. “A month ago I received information from an informant within the opposition in Tehran. Douglas, a nightmare is about to be unleashed upon the world, a weapon that will shock and horrify beyond any measure of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Doug, do you remember Istanbul?”
“I don’t…” Doug squeezed his eyes, as if that would help him make some sense of all this.
There was movement again, much closer this time. A shadow slipped past the window with blinding speed. Fallahi missed it, but Doug saw clearly, though there was no chance to react.
Suddenly a man appeared through the still open door. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his trousers tucked into a dully polished pair of combat boots. A wool cap was pulled down tightly, so that only the man’s unblinking dark brown eyes and lips were visible. He was holding a pistol in a gloved and, and it was already pointed at Fallahi.
Two quick shot exploded in the room. The .45 caliber rounds struck the Iranian in the face and exploded the back of his skull, covering Doug with blood, bits of brain and sticky chunks of scalp and hair. Fallahi pitched backwards onto the couch and slid to one side leaving a broad crimson smear across the beige fabric of the couch.
Doug was frozen, unable to move. He was looking at the gunman with a mixture of dread and disbelief. He thought of the girls the instant before the gunman hammered him with a punishing roundhouse in the temple. The world flashed to white, the slug sounding like a freight train for the fraction of an instant before the white faded to a blackness as deep and dark and complete as death.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty
Istanbul, Turkey. June, 2006. Molly shook away the memory of that terrible place, the cold and sadness lingering in her a moment. The images and raw emotions had never completely left her. They never left the nation, instead remained boiling below the national skin, like an abused child's eternal angst, awaiting a spark to set it off. Molly turned her thoughts to better things.
It was one of the few real pleasures of travelling abroad, Molly thought, sitting in the bright and comfortable hotel dining room. European breakfasts were luscious affairs of eggs, fruit, cereals, hearty rolls, yogurts, juicy European sausages, cheeses and fruits. She could have gorged herself at the buffet. It was a temptation to gorge upon everything, but Molly kept to a modest sampling of brie, a fiery Soppressata, spicy red pepper Ajvar-a sort of Balkan and Mediterranean spread , figs and sour slices of Elma, or apple.
The dining room was pristinely kept and cheery, with blond paneled walls and a view to the shaded street beyond. As guests came and went the white clothed tables were briskly cleaned by a staff that was as efficient as any elite military unit. The place was chaotic with Japanese students on a class trip. An Armenian business man gulped down food, anxiously pouring over a report while checking his watch frequently. An elderly German couple looked over a tourist map at another table.
Molly lifted a tiny cup of potent Turkish coffee to her lips, almost shuddering at a bitterness no amount of sugar could abate. Beside her were two Newspapers' the International herald Tribune and The Times. She turned over The Times. Near the bottom of the page was the first part of an article titled: DISPATCH FROM ISTANBUL: BAGHDAD UNDER THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, by Doug Springer. It began as a study between the desperation and dilapidation of Baghdad and the sunny cafes and bustling boutiques of Istanbul. The piece progressed through rare historical perspectives, observations about Christianity, Islam, oil, empire, Communism and Capitalism.
Molly rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Doug had given her in New York. She felt a bit silly for keeping it all this time. The card had outlived most every other business, a picture of David card and several department store credit cards. She drew the cell phone from her pocket and nervously weighed dialing Doug’s number. Her heart pounded crazily as she dialed and lifted the phone to her ear. Molly dialed quickly. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Springer?”
“Hi, um, Doug, my name is Molly, Molly Karaman with…”
“Ground Zero,” he said. “The FBI agent.”
“You remember!” she replied. “Impressive.”
“How did you, where are you calling…”
“It’s a bit crazy, but I’m in Istanbul on a case and I saw that you were here and thought, well…”
“How about lunch?” he said quickly. “Shall we say one-thirty-ish?”
A few hours later Molly was sitting at a sunny sidewalk café, looking along a busy postcard street towards TheE golden Medeival walls of Topkapi Palace. A warm salty breeze off the sea tugged the hair from her shoulders. That warm was tempered nicely by the shade of sturdy maroon umbrellas above the tables of the sidewalk cafe. Puffy white clouds spotted an otherwise pristine cerulean sky. It was all so perfect, as if the day refused to be forgotten.
Molly grew more nervous as the hour approached, as if she was a school girl on a date. She wondered was he still married, her mind drifting away in some silly romantic memory. Molly was still lost in the moment, a smile coming lightly to her that she failed to notice Doug as he strode lazily up the street until he was standing before her.
He was dressed in an embroidered white shirt as loose as the breeze off the sea. His slacks were khaki and neatly pressed. In sandals her hardly looked the part of a war correspondent. His hair was cut almost severely short, now brushed with a distinguishing hint of silver. As he drew the inexpensive glasses from his nose Doug’s eyes maintained a cautious view of the street. He smiled warmly as she rose to meet him.
“Doug?” she struggled to reconcile his memory after so many years.
“Agent Karaman,” Doug shook her hand cordially.
“Call me Molly.”
“Okay, Molly,” his eyes moved along the busy avenue again, as though it held a thousand and one dangers. “What do you say we grab a table inside?”
Though she loved the view Molly conceded readily and was already gathering her purse and things from the table. “Sure.”
They found a corner table inside the tiny storefront café. It was intimate and comfortable, the midday sun falling oblique through intricate white-lace curtains. In the center of the table two fat red carnations diverged from one another from narrow blue tulip vase. There was a counter along the back wall where lean waiters in clean beige shirts and black slacks readied drinks and various coffees. The air was filled with the scent of warm fresh bread and meats grilling in the tiny kitchen out back. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a hand full of small tables.
“Hope this is all right,” said John, politely out Molly’s seat. “Makes me nervous being on a busy street unless I can watch everything.” He smiled painfully. “Too many years covering the Middle East.”
“I’ve read some of you articles about the war.”
Doug started to speak. He paused, leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was definitely an attraction. Physical beauty aside, Doug found himself drawn to her. It was worth a mild flirtation, Doug thought, as long as he was careful to keep it just that.
“When you called it took me a second...”
A waiter arrived, interrupting him. Molly swept a lock of hair behind one ear and took the opportunity to look over a small green drink card, helping her to conceal a smile. They each ordered a tea. Molly waited for the waiter to leave.
“You know, I found your card and I remembered what you said that day at Ground Zero.”
“Good memory,” he replied. “Better than mine.”
“Know what it was.” Molly paused when the waiter returned with their drinks. “In my profession everything becomes black and white. It is rare that I hear someone speak about all this with color and depth and something more, more…human.”
Doug chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Now I wish I remembered exactly what I said. It must have been amazing!”
Her smile deepened. “I see it in your writing from the war. It is so…” she stopped herself from gushing. “Well, I really enjoy your work.”
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Molly noted that Doug wasn’t wearing a wedding ring any longer. There was no tan line, no telltale indentation on his finger. Molly felt a warm electric rush of excitement.
“Your family must worry terribly.” The question was a test meant to satisfy her curiosity.
“I don’t tell them everything,” he began. “A week after the invasion Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Your wife?” she replied hiding her disappointed.
“Its in remission now, but I think she and the girls have enough to worry about.”
“It must be difficult.”
“I hope she forgives me for that.” He let out a long slow breath, seeming to deflate a little. “Looking forward to a time when I won’t have to run around war zones, and I can catch up on all the time lost.”
“They don’t get the behind the scenes stuff?’ she smiled.
“Six months ago I was grabbed off a street in Mosel by members of the local mafia hoping to sell me off to the highest bidder. Could have been Al Qa’eda that paid the ransom.” He touched the side of his hand to his neck and gave a fatalistic grin. “In which case I’d be about this much shorter.”
“They could have killed you.”
“But I wasn’t. A Marine patrol happened upon me. I got lucky.”
“You never told them?”
“Never told anyone, until now.”
“Wouldn’t it have made a great story for your readers?”
“I wrote it,” he said, “but then one day I visited a neighborhood where insurgents had rounded up all the men in the neighborhood and beheaded them. A policeman said it was the same all over the city. Made my little adventure seem very insignificant.”
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Makes me a bit less of a target.” The weight of his words languished between them a moment. Doug touched her arm gently. “Enough of all that. So what brings you to Turkey?”
She took a sip of her piping hot tea. “An extradition case. My mother was Turkish, and I always wanted to come here, so I volunteered.”
“Istanbul is an amazing city.”
She thought a moment, fascinated as he poured a bit of sugar into his tea then dragged a spoon slowly through it. “I hope this isn’t out of place, asking a married man to have dinner tonight, but I really don’t know anyone else here.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he said. Doug stood and helped Molly to stand. “Come with me!”
It was one of the few real pleasures of travelling abroad, Molly thought, sitting in the bright and comfortable hotel dining room. European breakfasts were luscious affairs of eggs, fruit, cereals, hearty rolls, yogurts, juicy European sausages, cheeses and fruits. She could have gorged herself at the buffet. It was a temptation to gorge upon everything, but Molly kept to a modest sampling of brie, a fiery Soppressata, spicy red pepper Ajvar-a sort of Balkan and Mediterranean spread , figs and sour slices of Elma, or apple.
The dining room was pristinely kept and cheery, with blond paneled walls and a view to the shaded street beyond. As guests came and went the white clothed tables were briskly cleaned by a staff that was as efficient as any elite military unit. The place was chaotic with Japanese students on a class trip. An Armenian business man gulped down food, anxiously pouring over a report while checking his watch frequently. An elderly German couple looked over a tourist map at another table.
Molly lifted a tiny cup of potent Turkish coffee to her lips, almost shuddering at a bitterness no amount of sugar could abate. Beside her were two Newspapers' the International herald Tribune and The Times. She turned over The Times. Near the bottom of the page was the first part of an article titled: DISPATCH FROM ISTANBUL: BAGHDAD UNDER THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, by Doug Springer. It began as a study between the desperation and dilapidation of Baghdad and the sunny cafes and bustling boutiques of Istanbul. The piece progressed through rare historical perspectives, observations about Christianity, Islam, oil, empire, Communism and Capitalism.
Molly rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Doug had given her in New York. She felt a bit silly for keeping it all this time. The card had outlived most every other business, a picture of David card and several department store credit cards. She drew the cell phone from her pocket and nervously weighed dialing Doug’s number. Her heart pounded crazily as she dialed and lifted the phone to her ear. Molly dialed quickly. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Springer?”
“Hi, um, Doug, my name is Molly, Molly Karaman with…”
“Ground Zero,” he said. “The FBI agent.”
“You remember!” she replied. “Impressive.”
“How did you, where are you calling…”
“It’s a bit crazy, but I’m in Istanbul on a case and I saw that you were here and thought, well…”
“How about lunch?” he said quickly. “Shall we say one-thirty-ish?”
A few hours later Molly was sitting at a sunny sidewalk café, looking along a busy postcard street towards TheE golden Medeival walls of Topkapi Palace. A warm salty breeze off the sea tugged the hair from her shoulders. That warm was tempered nicely by the shade of sturdy maroon umbrellas above the tables of the sidewalk cafe. Puffy white clouds spotted an otherwise pristine cerulean sky. It was all so perfect, as if the day refused to be forgotten.
Molly grew more nervous as the hour approached, as if she was a school girl on a date. She wondered was he still married, her mind drifting away in some silly romantic memory. Molly was still lost in the moment, a smile coming lightly to her that she failed to notice Doug as he strode lazily up the street until he was standing before her.
He was dressed in an embroidered white shirt as loose as the breeze off the sea. His slacks were khaki and neatly pressed. In sandals her hardly looked the part of a war correspondent. His hair was cut almost severely short, now brushed with a distinguishing hint of silver. As he drew the inexpensive glasses from his nose Doug’s eyes maintained a cautious view of the street. He smiled warmly as she rose to meet him.
“Doug?” she struggled to reconcile his memory after so many years.
“Agent Karaman,” Doug shook her hand cordially.
“Call me Molly.”
“Okay, Molly,” his eyes moved along the busy avenue again, as though it held a thousand and one dangers. “What do you say we grab a table inside?”
Though she loved the view Molly conceded readily and was already gathering her purse and things from the table. “Sure.”
They found a corner table inside the tiny storefront café. It was intimate and comfortable, the midday sun falling oblique through intricate white-lace curtains. In the center of the table two fat red carnations diverged from one another from narrow blue tulip vase. There was a counter along the back wall where lean waiters in clean beige shirts and black slacks readied drinks and various coffees. The air was filled with the scent of warm fresh bread and meats grilling in the tiny kitchen out back. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a hand full of small tables.
“Hope this is all right,” said John, politely out Molly’s seat. “Makes me nervous being on a busy street unless I can watch everything.” He smiled painfully. “Too many years covering the Middle East.”
“I’ve read some of you articles about the war.”
Doug started to speak. He paused, leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was definitely an attraction. Physical beauty aside, Doug found himself drawn to her. It was worth a mild flirtation, Doug thought, as long as he was careful to keep it just that.
“When you called it took me a second...”
A waiter arrived, interrupting him. Molly swept a lock of hair behind one ear and took the opportunity to look over a small green drink card, helping her to conceal a smile. They each ordered a tea. Molly waited for the waiter to leave.
“You know, I found your card and I remembered what you said that day at Ground Zero.”
“Good memory,” he replied. “Better than mine.”
“Know what it was.” Molly paused when the waiter returned with their drinks. “In my profession everything becomes black and white. It is rare that I hear someone speak about all this with color and depth and something more, more…human.”
Doug chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Now I wish I remembered exactly what I said. It must have been amazing!”
Her smile deepened. “I see it in your writing from the war. It is so…” she stopped herself from gushing. “Well, I really enjoy your work.”
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Molly noted that Doug wasn’t wearing a wedding ring any longer. There was no tan line, no telltale indentation on his finger. Molly felt a warm electric rush of excitement.
“Your family must worry terribly.” The question was a test meant to satisfy her curiosity.
“I don’t tell them everything,” he began. “A week after the invasion Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Your wife?” she replied hiding her disappointed.
“Its in remission now, but I think she and the girls have enough to worry about.”
“It must be difficult.”
“I hope she forgives me for that.” He let out a long slow breath, seeming to deflate a little. “Looking forward to a time when I won’t have to run around war zones, and I can catch up on all the time lost.”
“They don’t get the behind the scenes stuff?’ she smiled.
“Six months ago I was grabbed off a street in Mosel by members of the local mafia hoping to sell me off to the highest bidder. Could have been Al Qa’eda that paid the ransom.” He touched the side of his hand to his neck and gave a fatalistic grin. “In which case I’d be about this much shorter.”
“They could have killed you.”
“But I wasn’t. A Marine patrol happened upon me. I got lucky.”
“You never told them?”
“Never told anyone, until now.”
“Wouldn’t it have made a great story for your readers?”
“I wrote it,” he said, “but then one day I visited a neighborhood where insurgents had rounded up all the men in the neighborhood and beheaded them. A policeman said it was the same all over the city. Made my little adventure seem very insignificant.”
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Makes me a bit less of a target.” The weight of his words languished between them a moment. Doug touched her arm gently. “Enough of all that. So what brings you to Turkey?”
She took a sip of her piping hot tea. “An extradition case. My mother was Turkish, and I always wanted to come here, so I volunteered.”
“Istanbul is an amazing city.”
She thought a moment, fascinated as he poured a bit of sugar into his tea then dragged a spoon slowly through it. “I hope this isn’t out of place, asking a married man to have dinner tonight, but I really don’t know anyone else here.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he said. Doug stood and helped Molly to stand. “Come with me!”
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixteen
Molly was anxious as she waited to see Director Hallman. She had hoped to have the preliminary lab results from Bernstein’s autopsy, but they had been held up without explanation. Without the results the case she was building for a deeper investigation into the Congressman’s death was based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and a few momentous leaps of faith. That Molly could see that a trail led somewhere definitely was based more on faith than fact. Still,Bbsed upon the evidence she had seen, Bernstein’s death was likely connected to the other two deaths Asgari had shown her. As flimsy as the evidence was, Molly felt sure she could still make enough of an argument to pursue a case, and at least stall for enough time to flush out a few leads until the lab results came in.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifteen
The Iranians have already protested,” said Ambassador Spurlock. “They are calling this a blatant and illegal infringement upon their national sovereignty.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fourteen
It was perhaps a misleading word to describe the White House Situation Room as just that. It was a complex. On the ground floor of the sprawling West Wing, a busy operations center funneled information from around the planet, analyzing and prioritizing events twenty-four hours a day; a nerve center processing the unfolding history of the world.
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
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