If the world’s economy had an Achilles heel it is undoubtedly at the Strait of Hormuz. Hardly thirty miles wide, as it bends from the Gulf of Oman into the Persian Gulf, less than a third of the straits are navigable. The great tankers, feeding fully forty percent of the World’s oil, pass through sea lanes six miles wide, pressed between the horn of Oman to the south and Iran to the north, with a series of islands from which they could stage lightning attacks against shipping. When, just twenty-four hours before the President of the United States was to address the American people, two tankers exploded and sank, sealing off the Gulf, Iran was the logical suspect.
The first, a South Korean freighter exploded without warning, just as the first honey-orange sunlight appeared above the Iranian coastline. Listing sharply, the ship caught fire. Billowing black plumes rose thousands of feet into the blue morning sky. Forty minutes later a passing South African ship exploded, the sound turning heads in Dubai and Sharjah forty miles away. The force of the explosion split the seven hundred foot vessel in two. It sank in only six minutes with all forty-two hands, spreading a fiery oil slick over several square miles. On the Korean vessel twelve of the Filipino crew escaped, rescued by the Iranian navy.
Iran had threatened a thousand times before to seal off the Straits and trap American ships. When the second ship exploded, eliminating any possibility of a random accident, the Americans might have unleashed fury upon the Iranians. Certainly they possessed the firepower to leave every Iranian city a smoking heap of rubble, reminiscent of the Allied bombings of Hamburg and Dresden, or Tokyo and Nagoya during the Second World War. But the Iranians appeared just as surprised and befuddled by the attacks as most everyone else. When a Saudi Al Qa’eda-affiliated group claimed responsibility both sides were equally relieved that conflict had been averted, if only for a short time.
It wouldn’t matter who ultimately was responsible. The damage had been done and would resonate through the global economy in untold ways. The world, despite illusions and national hubris, is a fragile place. Gasoline prices would skyrocket to eight Euros per liter in Europe, tipping countries like Belgium, Spain and Italy into bankruptcy and civil unrest. France and Germany’s economies were thrown into chaos, forcing emergency cuts to all but essential services. Bread lines appeared Across England as unemployment would near an average eighteen percent.
The Myanmar junta, long isolated for their brutality and human rights violations, would divert crucial fuel reserves to continue their campaign of cruelty against refugees and rebels. The diversions would cause mass demonstrations and infighting within the military. Street battles would erupt before the first of the year, and by February a new junta “for the people” would be in power.
In the US, right-wingers would criticize the administration, blaming millions of new jobless claims and a stock market in freefall on the failure to immediately seize and defend the Straits. Slowly the message was getting out that conservatives who controlled fully ninety percent of radio talk shows, inundated the internet and book stores with their screeds and who dominated cable television were the mainstream Press, and that their message dominance had not served to do anything but splinter the nation, embarrass it before the world, undermine American influence, plunder its economy and resources and interfere with governance. It would cost them dearly at the polls that November. Not that the American people were satisfied with the Democrats, but at least their policy wasn’t one of belligerence while in power and obstruction while in the minority.
The news from the Gulf fully eclipsed the investigation into Fallahi’s murder, and the full confession by McCullough. His revelations about a possible conspiracy to steer the nation into a new war, and then reap the profits for a new but untested weapon was lost in bureaucratic channels. Eli Germaine, the State Police inspector in Munising called a Press Conference, but all that bothered to show were a couple of local reporters, someone from The Mining Journal, up at Marquette, and a college intern from Democracy Now. The national Press was fixated on the coming war, which they had collectively decided was a fait accompli. All that had been accomplished was that as news spread among police throughout the Midwest, an unspoken support for the fugitives who were now somewhere between Green Bay and Chicago.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty
Doug felt a little foolish, pouring quarters into a pay phone beside a back road Shell gasoline station. How much the world had changed in only a few years. The digital revolution a dead before was still stumbling, pulling the world into an addiction to technology. Like any technology it came with its good and it’s bad. The Stone Age gave man the flint and the arrow to hunt with, but also the first weapons of war. The wheel helped carry man across the planet, while giving rise to the chariot. The pay phone felt like a throwback to another age, and yet it allowed him to evade the ever-tightening matrix by which anyone could be watched or monitored at any time and in any place.
The air was cool, but not cold. A brisk wind chases fat gray clods through a mostly blue sky. Molly was inside getting them coffee and something for breakfast. Doug dialed the one number of the only man he could trust to help them. Arnie Hamlin picked up almost immediately. Doug looked around to be sure no one else was near.
Interested in talking with the most wanted man in America?” he said.
“Jesus, Doug! What the hell is going on?”
“The less you know right now the better.”
“The whole damn world is looking for you.”
“Still golf with the Attorney general?”
“What are you into?”
“Tell him that I contacted you, and I’m prepared to discuss terms of my surrender in the next forty-eight hours, but I need protection for me and a friend.”
“Doug, I…”
Molly came out of the station with coffee and rolls. She wore a pair of cheap sunglasses she’d purchased as well. They did little to hide the dark bruise covering the side of her pretty face. Doug took a coffee. He felt enlivened almost by the bitter-warm scent steaming up from the Styrofoam cup.
Arnie, listen to me. Put someone on Shosa Industries and First Thrust.”
“What am I looking for?”
Anything. Everything.” His eyes found Molly’s behind the sunglasses. She touched his arm, stroking it reassuringly. “Check background on the company, political connections, and any details about their Nano-weapons research.”
“Give me a hint?”
“I think we’re going to war over a lie.”
“Doug, I can’t be a party to any crimes. I won’t do anything to jeopardize this paper. Just so we’re clear on that.”
“Arnie, I swear that I haven’t broken any laws, except where I had to protect my family. Let me ask you this. Ever known me to beg?”
“Never,” said Hamlin.
“Well, I’m begging.”
There was a long pause, as wide as a canyon, and every bit as deadly if Doug took a wrong step along a cliff’s edge.
“”I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” Hamlin said gravely. “The president is addressing the nation tomorrow night. The Iranians have broken off all contact. The word is he’s giving them an ultimatum. “
The news hit Doug like a sledgehammer. Could he stop a war in time? It seemed all but certain now. So what was there to fight for now, but the girls? Doug pressed his forehead to the polished steel cover around the telephone and leaned heavily against it. He kicked at some stones and pursed his lips.
Doug stood straight, suddenly filled with a greater determination. Later he would recall that it seemed holy, as if something pure and perfect had seized him and urged him on, like sunlight washing over a darkened field of grass, like a pure rush of wind or a cool drink in the desert. At once Doug knew what he must do.
“I want a Press Conference tomorrow on the steps of First Thrust. I need some heavy weights there, but I need this kept a secret until then. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hamlin. “My sister-in-law’s son teaches at Northwestern. Purvich, is his name. He’ll be expecting you. One shot here, Doug.”
Doug took a deep breath and felt the full weight of all this. He looked to Molly and found inspiration there. “Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need.”
The air was cool, but not cold. A brisk wind chases fat gray clods through a mostly blue sky. Molly was inside getting them coffee and something for breakfast. Doug dialed the one number of the only man he could trust to help them. Arnie Hamlin picked up almost immediately. Doug looked around to be sure no one else was near.
Interested in talking with the most wanted man in America?” he said.
“Jesus, Doug! What the hell is going on?”
“The less you know right now the better.”
“The whole damn world is looking for you.”
“Still golf with the Attorney general?”
“What are you into?”
“Tell him that I contacted you, and I’m prepared to discuss terms of my surrender in the next forty-eight hours, but I need protection for me and a friend.”
“Doug, I…”
Molly came out of the station with coffee and rolls. She wore a pair of cheap sunglasses she’d purchased as well. They did little to hide the dark bruise covering the side of her pretty face. Doug took a coffee. He felt enlivened almost by the bitter-warm scent steaming up from the Styrofoam cup.
Arnie, listen to me. Put someone on Shosa Industries and First Thrust.”
“What am I looking for?”
Anything. Everything.” His eyes found Molly’s behind the sunglasses. She touched his arm, stroking it reassuringly. “Check background on the company, political connections, and any details about their Nano-weapons research.”
“Give me a hint?”
“I think we’re going to war over a lie.”
“Doug, I can’t be a party to any crimes. I won’t do anything to jeopardize this paper. Just so we’re clear on that.”
“Arnie, I swear that I haven’t broken any laws, except where I had to protect my family. Let me ask you this. Ever known me to beg?”
“Never,” said Hamlin.
“Well, I’m begging.”
There was a long pause, as wide as a canyon, and every bit as deadly if Doug took a wrong step along a cliff’s edge.
“”I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” Hamlin said gravely. “The president is addressing the nation tomorrow night. The Iranians have broken off all contact. The word is he’s giving them an ultimatum. “
The news hit Doug like a sledgehammer. Could he stop a war in time? It seemed all but certain now. So what was there to fight for now, but the girls? Doug pressed his forehead to the polished steel cover around the telephone and leaned heavily against it. He kicked at some stones and pursed his lips.
Doug stood straight, suddenly filled with a greater determination. Later he would recall that it seemed holy, as if something pure and perfect had seized him and urged him on, like sunlight washing over a darkened field of grass, like a pure rush of wind or a cool drink in the desert. At once Doug knew what he must do.
“I want a Press Conference tomorrow on the steps of First Thrust. I need some heavy weights there, but I need this kept a secret until then. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hamlin. “My sister-in-law’s son teaches at Northwestern. Purvich, is his name. He’ll be expecting you. One shot here, Doug.”
Doug took a deep breath and felt the full weight of all this. He looked to Molly and found inspiration there. “Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-Nine
Archer Waverly swept a hand over the pale flesh of his neatly shaved head. He was dripping with sweat, still wearing the workout clothes from his personal gym in the back of the unassuming offices FIRST THRUST leased out of an office park in Suburban Chicago. At sixty-three Archer was still in spectacular shape, with hardly an ounce of fat. He had the physique of a body builder, and blue eyes with the intensity and fire of a cage fighter. He stood in the center of his spacious office, kept constantly at seventy-two degrees, the thunder of his breathing filling the dark room.
The shades were drawn tightly, and the curtains pilled close to prevent any light from the outside. His laptop was open on the antique oak desk. The blue light from the screen-saver bathing various papers, and a loaded pistol. The only other light was upon a portrait of Jesus from a gift shop in Rome. The light was above the six by nine inch painting, sparkling upon the gold inlay behind the Savior’s handsomely bearded face.
There was a kneeling pad beneath the picture. Archer would pray there. Beneath Jesus were autographed pictures of Sarah Palin and Oliver North. Who, Waverly liked to quip, would have made the perfect parents, if only God had thought through Time a bit better. Near the drapes, nearly hidden in the deep shadow of the room was a framed Time Magazine cover with Arpel Bernstein holding a photograph of Waverly wearing dark sunglasses and cradling an Ak-47. A bold yellow caption in FRANKLIN GOTHIC HEAVY letters read:
GOOD VS. EVIL?
A Crusader takes on America’s War Industry
It wasn’t as simple as that. Nothing ever is. There is no evil, at least not in the religious sense of the word. God and the Devil hashing out their differences through the mortal puppetry of flesh and blood human beings is a cartoon. There is no evil, only the heart’s stubborn refusal to understand the processes and histories of an act. It was an argument Waverly would certainly not subscribe to, unlike ethics, the negotiation of pain and injustice between people, which he believed was completely in the eye of the beholder.
War was a simple thing to Waverly. It was so simple he could not understand how anyone could see it differently. The bottom line was that in war someone had to win, and someone had to lose. War had long ago ceased to be about honor and country and religion. Those excuses were still employed to mask the true intention of conflicts, which was the exchange and theft of vast fortunes. War is a business transaction, a very loud and violent transaction, but a transaction nonetheless. For fools and the poor it was still a cause and a crusade.
Weaker men risked ruin in the market for a chance at wealth and power. They found the inherent danger seductive and undeniable, most particularly the risk of failure and destitution. Nothing, however, could compare with the ultimate risks and rewards of war, and nothing was more powerful than weighing a man’s fate through the sights of a gun or at the point of a sword. Those were the risks, and he lived for them, knowing full well his own misstep, providence or the supremacy of an adversary could bring about his own end. Never before had he faced a situation as dire and hopeless.
Waverly had been in tough spots before. He had survived ambushes in Vietnam and Laos, an assassination attempt in Columbia, gun battles in Iraq and a bloody knife fight with two Al Qa’eda operatives in a Syrian Marketplace. He’d beaten a serious bout with cancer and financial ruin. When his drinking and abusive nature got out of hand some years back Waverly’s wife walked out with their two young boys. One followed his dad into the military, but was distant and a far different man than his father. The other could not forgive as easily. He moved East, disavowing his father altogether.
This was different. He was trapped, all at once confronted by crimes against his own nation, all in the name of profits. He had wagered everything in framing Doug Springer for Ahmed Fallahi’s murder, all crimes against his nation, a fact which no amount of rationalization or true-bending could undo. Now that all that had gone horribly wrong it was natural to assume the full weight of the law and the nation would be upon him. When the phone rang and Waverly saw the number there was a moment when he was undecided which to pick up, the phone or the pistol. Death was preferable to disgrace and a life in prison-which he would surely face.
Waverly reached across the desk. His fingers moved across the smooth body of the pistol, reaching past it for the phone. He hit the talk button and lifted it to his ear.
“Yes, sir,” Waverly said low and dry.
“Quite a mess.” Umberto Shosa’s voice was unmistakable.
“That it is,” said Waverly, focusing briefly on the shattered glass on the floor across the room beneath a light brown bourbon stain. It was the result of a phone call from First Thrust’s legal advisor about the calamity in Michigan, and the arrest of Brower and McCullough.
It was second nature that both men would speak in vagaries. Despite all sorts of security precautions, there was always the likelihood of someone listening and recording. As such, those recordings would be inadmissible in a court of law, but they might pop up elsewhere; a call girl, an acquaintance with legal troubles, a disgruntled ex-wife or business partner, a fellow conspirator, ex-employee or a neighbor struggling to meet and IRS tax bill.
Waverly slumped heavily into his high-backed leather chair. He shook his head with a frown, and was glad Shosa couldn’t hear what Waverly was thinking. His hand lay beside the pistol. The glass covering the desk was cool to the touch.
“None of this comes back to me.”
“What do you suggest I do?” asked with a hint of contempt. He lifted the pistol and imagined pressing it to Shosa’s temple.
“I don’t suggest, Mister Wave? First Thrust employs thirteen hundred military contractors worldwide. I need those logistics, and their expertise. They are to be the operations arm of Shosa Industries. Tomorrow a team will meet with the Pentagon over a major contract bid for our Nano-weapons effort. Eight bungling fools will not risk all that. You will fix the mess you made or I will find someone who will.”
“Understood.”
“I’m leaving for my villa in Greece in a few hours.”
Waverly weighed the pistol in his hand. He knew Shosa was getting out, flying off in his private jet before things got too hot in the States. Greece held no extradition treaty with the United States. A hand full of strategic and highly publicized philanthropic efforts, a large donation to the Police Union in Athens and a longstanding friendship with the Prime Minister guaranteed Shosa would remain untouchable. He had a way out. There was no such escape for the coming storm for Waverly.
The line went dead. Waverly sighed and closed the phone and let it slide across the table. He pulled the slide back on the pistol to chamber a round, believing there was no other choice, as he certainly would no spend the rest of his life behind bars. It would be an honorable death, a soldier’s ending, rather than the humiliation of being disgraced and imprisoned. Strange but he didn’t feel anything. Lifting the pistol and pressing it to his temple, Waverly didn’t feel remorse or regret. His eyes rose to the portrait of Jesus on the wall as his finger tightened on the trigger. Waverly closed his eyes and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer and ask forgiveness before God. The phone rang again, the sound stabbing through him like a cold knife. Lowering the pistol he reached for the phone, surprised to find his hand trembling slightly.
“Waverly,” he said, not bothering to coceal a steadily sinking mood.
“I have some information,’ said the man’s voice at the other end. Waverly recognized it as a former Navy Seal that had come to the company about the same time as McCullough. Jonas, Pinkerton had earned the nickname “Injun Jonas” over his penchant for wearing the scalps of Taliban fighters.
“I’m listening.”
“A Michigan State Police cruiser thought he spotted our friend and his lady leaving a cheap motel in Rapid River up on the Lake Michigan shore.”
“He’s moving south.”
“That’s my bet.”
“Coming here?”
“I can have a couple of teams ready in an hour,” said Pinkerton, always just a step ahead.
“You take a team and I’ll take the other,” Waverly replied, a cool rush of relief washing through him, as though he’d received a reprieve from execution.
“Copy that.”
Waverly hung up the phone and went slowly around the desk, pushing the pistol into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. He adjusted a light jacket over it and knelt before the image of Jesus. He thanked the Lord for this second chance, not to change to a different path, but for one more opportunity to conceal his sins. But Arlen Waverly saw no hypocrisy in that act. Before the day was done, he vowed, Doug Springer would be dead. Already the legal department was cleaning up all evidence of connection between them and First Thrust. Brower, McCullough and the others would be characterized as rogue employees acting off the reservation. A Press Release was already being drafted concerning the mental stability of Brower for a bout with depression some years back. The others would have their reputations eviscerated in a public relations campaign designed to paint the company as the true victim.
The shades were drawn tightly, and the curtains pilled close to prevent any light from the outside. His laptop was open on the antique oak desk. The blue light from the screen-saver bathing various papers, and a loaded pistol. The only other light was upon a portrait of Jesus from a gift shop in Rome. The light was above the six by nine inch painting, sparkling upon the gold inlay behind the Savior’s handsomely bearded face.
There was a kneeling pad beneath the picture. Archer would pray there. Beneath Jesus were autographed pictures of Sarah Palin and Oliver North. Who, Waverly liked to quip, would have made the perfect parents, if only God had thought through Time a bit better. Near the drapes, nearly hidden in the deep shadow of the room was a framed Time Magazine cover with Arpel Bernstein holding a photograph of Waverly wearing dark sunglasses and cradling an Ak-47. A bold yellow caption in FRANKLIN GOTHIC HEAVY letters read:
GOOD VS. EVIL?
A Crusader takes on America’s War Industry
It wasn’t as simple as that. Nothing ever is. There is no evil, at least not in the religious sense of the word. God and the Devil hashing out their differences through the mortal puppetry of flesh and blood human beings is a cartoon. There is no evil, only the heart’s stubborn refusal to understand the processes and histories of an act. It was an argument Waverly would certainly not subscribe to, unlike ethics, the negotiation of pain and injustice between people, which he believed was completely in the eye of the beholder.
War was a simple thing to Waverly. It was so simple he could not understand how anyone could see it differently. The bottom line was that in war someone had to win, and someone had to lose. War had long ago ceased to be about honor and country and religion. Those excuses were still employed to mask the true intention of conflicts, which was the exchange and theft of vast fortunes. War is a business transaction, a very loud and violent transaction, but a transaction nonetheless. For fools and the poor it was still a cause and a crusade.
Weaker men risked ruin in the market for a chance at wealth and power. They found the inherent danger seductive and undeniable, most particularly the risk of failure and destitution. Nothing, however, could compare with the ultimate risks and rewards of war, and nothing was more powerful than weighing a man’s fate through the sights of a gun or at the point of a sword. Those were the risks, and he lived for them, knowing full well his own misstep, providence or the supremacy of an adversary could bring about his own end. Never before had he faced a situation as dire and hopeless.
Waverly had been in tough spots before. He had survived ambushes in Vietnam and Laos, an assassination attempt in Columbia, gun battles in Iraq and a bloody knife fight with two Al Qa’eda operatives in a Syrian Marketplace. He’d beaten a serious bout with cancer and financial ruin. When his drinking and abusive nature got out of hand some years back Waverly’s wife walked out with their two young boys. One followed his dad into the military, but was distant and a far different man than his father. The other could not forgive as easily. He moved East, disavowing his father altogether.
This was different. He was trapped, all at once confronted by crimes against his own nation, all in the name of profits. He had wagered everything in framing Doug Springer for Ahmed Fallahi’s murder, all crimes against his nation, a fact which no amount of rationalization or true-bending could undo. Now that all that had gone horribly wrong it was natural to assume the full weight of the law and the nation would be upon him. When the phone rang and Waverly saw the number there was a moment when he was undecided which to pick up, the phone or the pistol. Death was preferable to disgrace and a life in prison-which he would surely face.
Waverly reached across the desk. His fingers moved across the smooth body of the pistol, reaching past it for the phone. He hit the talk button and lifted it to his ear.
“Yes, sir,” Waverly said low and dry.
“Quite a mess.” Umberto Shosa’s voice was unmistakable.
“That it is,” said Waverly, focusing briefly on the shattered glass on the floor across the room beneath a light brown bourbon stain. It was the result of a phone call from First Thrust’s legal advisor about the calamity in Michigan, and the arrest of Brower and McCullough.
It was second nature that both men would speak in vagaries. Despite all sorts of security precautions, there was always the likelihood of someone listening and recording. As such, those recordings would be inadmissible in a court of law, but they might pop up elsewhere; a call girl, an acquaintance with legal troubles, a disgruntled ex-wife or business partner, a fellow conspirator, ex-employee or a neighbor struggling to meet and IRS tax bill.
Waverly slumped heavily into his high-backed leather chair. He shook his head with a frown, and was glad Shosa couldn’t hear what Waverly was thinking. His hand lay beside the pistol. The glass covering the desk was cool to the touch.
“None of this comes back to me.”
“What do you suggest I do?” asked with a hint of contempt. He lifted the pistol and imagined pressing it to Shosa’s temple.
“I don’t suggest, Mister Wave? First Thrust employs thirteen hundred military contractors worldwide. I need those logistics, and their expertise. They are to be the operations arm of Shosa Industries. Tomorrow a team will meet with the Pentagon over a major contract bid for our Nano-weapons effort. Eight bungling fools will not risk all that. You will fix the mess you made or I will find someone who will.”
“Understood.”
“I’m leaving for my villa in Greece in a few hours.”
Waverly weighed the pistol in his hand. He knew Shosa was getting out, flying off in his private jet before things got too hot in the States. Greece held no extradition treaty with the United States. A hand full of strategic and highly publicized philanthropic efforts, a large donation to the Police Union in Athens and a longstanding friendship with the Prime Minister guaranteed Shosa would remain untouchable. He had a way out. There was no such escape for the coming storm for Waverly.
The line went dead. Waverly sighed and closed the phone and let it slide across the table. He pulled the slide back on the pistol to chamber a round, believing there was no other choice, as he certainly would no spend the rest of his life behind bars. It would be an honorable death, a soldier’s ending, rather than the humiliation of being disgraced and imprisoned. Strange but he didn’t feel anything. Lifting the pistol and pressing it to his temple, Waverly didn’t feel remorse or regret. His eyes rose to the portrait of Jesus on the wall as his finger tightened on the trigger. Waverly closed his eyes and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer and ask forgiveness before God. The phone rang again, the sound stabbing through him like a cold knife. Lowering the pistol he reached for the phone, surprised to find his hand trembling slightly.
“Waverly,” he said, not bothering to coceal a steadily sinking mood.
“I have some information,’ said the man’s voice at the other end. Waverly recognized it as a former Navy Seal that had come to the company about the same time as McCullough. Jonas, Pinkerton had earned the nickname “Injun Jonas” over his penchant for wearing the scalps of Taliban fighters.
“I’m listening.”
“A Michigan State Police cruiser thought he spotted our friend and his lady leaving a cheap motel in Rapid River up on the Lake Michigan shore.”
“He’s moving south.”
“That’s my bet.”
“Coming here?”
“I can have a couple of teams ready in an hour,” said Pinkerton, always just a step ahead.
“You take a team and I’ll take the other,” Waverly replied, a cool rush of relief washing through him, as though he’d received a reprieve from execution.
“Copy that.”
Waverly hung up the phone and went slowly around the desk, pushing the pistol into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. He adjusted a light jacket over it and knelt before the image of Jesus. He thanked the Lord for this second chance, not to change to a different path, but for one more opportunity to conceal his sins. But Arlen Waverly saw no hypocrisy in that act. Before the day was done, he vowed, Doug Springer would be dead. Already the legal department was cleaning up all evidence of connection between them and First Thrust. Brower, McCullough and the others would be characterized as rogue employees acting off the reservation. A Press Release was already being drafted concerning the mental stability of Brower for a bout with depression some years back. The others would have their reputations eviscerated in a public relations campaign designed to paint the company as the true victim.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-eight
It was still cool and crisp when Eli Germaine stepped outside for a cigarette. The sun was just coming up as a fat chartreuse disk above the hills to the east. He stretched with a weary groan, having spent the night as McCullough poured out every detail of a fantastic story. Germaine’s head was still spinning, trying to make sense of it all.
The door opened behind him, as one of the Federal Agents joined him, looking every bit as exhausted and bewildered. The man was tall and blond, with athletic Ivy League looks. He was in a dark brown suit, a blue and white silk tie folded and tucked in the pocket of his bright white dress shirt. Germaine offered him a cigarette. The agent politely waved it away.
“Trying to quit, thanks.”
“Heard all that?”
“Do we buy it?” asked the Agent.
“Hundred percent,” Germaine replied, pushing a cigarette into his lips. He fumbled in a pocket for the lighter. The cold air helped rouse him. “At least that he believes everything he told us. Whether or not it’s true…The kid was almost relieved to get it out.”
“Question is, what do we do with this?” The Agent, born and bred in Arizona wasn’t as accustomed to the cold. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he rocked on his heels, as if that would help to warm him.
Germaine flipped the top on his silver Marine Corps lighter and brought the tapered golden flame up to the cigarette. “That I leave to you Federal guys. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“I’ll need a copy of his statement?”
“Anything you need,” Germaine replied.
“I’ll send this to Washington.”
“Time enough to stop a war?”
The Agent shrugged. His words were hollow and cold, more a product of a lack of sleep than anything. “I don’t know anyone in Iran. Do you?”
Germaine frowned. The Agent couldn’t see it, but Germaine knew only too well the horrors of war and didn’t all appreciate the Agent’s flippancy. “We may all know someone in Iran before long.”
The Agent was silent for a moment. A chill ran through him, one deeper and very different from the chill of the Michigan morning. He felt a little foolish for the comment and could almost feel Germaine’s dissatisfaction. It wasn’t like him so say something that irresponsible, but trapped in the moment, he didn’t see any good way back. The moment hung heavily for a long moment.
“Pretty impressive how you connected with McCullough,” the Agent said, humbly.
“Bond between men who have been in combat,” said Germaine, with a half smile, taking a subtle shot at the lawyerly Fed. He took a long drag on the cigarette and flipped away into the frost-touched green grass. “Somehow he got all turned around and misplaced his loyalty. I was just helping a fellow Marine and a good American find them again.”
“We’ll see.”
Germaine was less than pleased with the reply, though he knew it to be an honest one that was perhaps accurate. Still, he took all of this very personal. As he started for the door Germaine stopped and laid a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder, specifically intending to make a point.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “I expect that to weigh heavily on this man’s case. Are we clear?”
“And Brower?”
“We gave him every opportunity. He made his choice.”
The door opened behind him, as one of the Federal Agents joined him, looking every bit as exhausted and bewildered. The man was tall and blond, with athletic Ivy League looks. He was in a dark brown suit, a blue and white silk tie folded and tucked in the pocket of his bright white dress shirt. Germaine offered him a cigarette. The agent politely waved it away.
“Trying to quit, thanks.”
“Heard all that?”
“Do we buy it?” asked the Agent.
“Hundred percent,” Germaine replied, pushing a cigarette into his lips. He fumbled in a pocket for the lighter. The cold air helped rouse him. “At least that he believes everything he told us. Whether or not it’s true…The kid was almost relieved to get it out.”
“Question is, what do we do with this?” The Agent, born and bred in Arizona wasn’t as accustomed to the cold. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he rocked on his heels, as if that would help to warm him.
Germaine flipped the top on his silver Marine Corps lighter and brought the tapered golden flame up to the cigarette. “That I leave to you Federal guys. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“I’ll need a copy of his statement?”
“Anything you need,” Germaine replied.
“I’ll send this to Washington.”
“Time enough to stop a war?”
The Agent shrugged. His words were hollow and cold, more a product of a lack of sleep than anything. “I don’t know anyone in Iran. Do you?”
Germaine frowned. The Agent couldn’t see it, but Germaine knew only too well the horrors of war and didn’t all appreciate the Agent’s flippancy. “We may all know someone in Iran before long.”
The Agent was silent for a moment. A chill ran through him, one deeper and very different from the chill of the Michigan morning. He felt a little foolish for the comment and could almost feel Germaine’s dissatisfaction. It wasn’t like him so say something that irresponsible, but trapped in the moment, he didn’t see any good way back. The moment hung heavily for a long moment.
“Pretty impressive how you connected with McCullough,” the Agent said, humbly.
“Bond between men who have been in combat,” said Germaine, with a half smile, taking a subtle shot at the lawyerly Fed. He took a long drag on the cigarette and flipped away into the frost-touched green grass. “Somehow he got all turned around and misplaced his loyalty. I was just helping a fellow Marine and a good American find them again.”
“We’ll see.”
Germaine was less than pleased with the reply, though he knew it to be an honest one that was perhaps accurate. Still, he took all of this very personal. As he started for the door Germaine stopped and laid a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder, specifically intending to make a point.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “I expect that to weigh heavily on this man’s case. Are we clear?”
“And Brower?”
“We gave him every opportunity. He made his choice.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-seven
To the Iranians America’s imperialistic hands were fully around their throats. It was unavoidable that some would perceive that as a death grip. Those men were determined to strike a blow, however feeble, against their aggressors. Revenge is never about the truth, but always about the heart. In it they could level any accusation. America’s support for Israel blossomed into a conspiracy that was almost mythical in its size and scope and treachery. There were tales of oil, of racial and religious hatreds, historical hyperbole, of a new crusade and more. In the end, however, war, like politics and marriage, is always about revenge.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-six
When Doug awoke just before dawn, in the cheap no-name motel along Route Seven, just outside Rapid River, Molly was in the shower. Doug was still dressed, still wearing his shoes, just as he had when he collapsed upon the bed sometime after two that morning. He had no recollection of Molly getting up, or even getting into bed with him. From the moment is head hit the pillow Doug was out cold. He awoke disoriented, only the soul shattering fatigue and pain burning through his body reminding Doug that all of this hadn’t been some terrible dream.
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-five
The Sherriff’s station in Munising was almost hidden in the shadow of the tall autumn forests shrouding the steep hills at the back of the town. It faced the hockey rink, and a small service road leading up to the football field, which overlooked the town and bay from a small bowl among the hills. The station appeared out of date, an unassuming place of brown brick, so flat and small that one could easily miss the place unless otherwise searching specifically. Bordered by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs, this night it was bustling with activity, as never before, crowded with county sheriffs, a State Police contingent, investigators, cops and Chiefs from Munising to Marquette, and a hand full of Federal Agents from a half dozen different agencies.
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
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