The brutal realization that this was all but over found Waverly all at once. That he this former American hero was now shown to be a traitor was the bitterest pill. Doug noticed it, as if cloud had passed across him, as if the air had suddenly left him. He seemed to age in an instant and had now become, in Doug’s eyes, decrepit. A man’s sins always find him.
But ego makes fools of men. The once-upon-a-time patriot was now a fugitive with rapidly dwindling options. Still, Waverly was hardly ready to concede defeat, even in the face of it. He was desperate for the retribution his crimes would bring, for his own life and for the sudden wish to take all this back from the place where everything had gone wrong. a cornered man is a dangerous man, but a man who traps himself against the world will fight to the end rather than face his crimes.
He still held the gun on Doug, resting it in his lap, a finger covering the trigger. Doug felt distant from the world outside the car, which seemed oblivious to the coming calamity. To one side of the street the great expanse of Lake Michigan, its blue-green waters touched by tiny white caps from a strengthening wind. It was warm enough that there were joggers and bicyclers about. On the other side of the road, facing the tall white stones of Calvary Cemetery, like some peaceful city of the dead, a city Doug feared he might soon join.
“I know everything,” said Doug. “It will be simple for anyone to follow that trail, and all of this will be exposed.”
“Look like I give shit what you know?”
“No feeling for starting a war and destroying the lives of millions for money?”
‘’it is about the money!” Waverly pounded the dashboard. The war is the marklet, death and misery and refugees on CNN the selling points.”
“How can you justify that? How do you live with yourself?”
“You know everything, like you said. You figure it out.”
The road bent, running straight among the deep canyon of old brownstones, apartment buildings and full gold and rust autumn trees. The traffic deepened and slowed through carefully staggered and timed traffic lights.
“And you see me as the enemy?” asked Doug, steering around a truck waiting to turn.
“Anything standing in the way of what I want is the enemy.” Waverly motioned off to the left, towards a narrow side street and an alley running behind a small Italian restaurant. Iy was an abrupt act, as if Waverly had thought of it only that moment. “Turn down that alley. This is where you and I come to the end our road.”
Doug had to break hard, the back end of the little white Honda fishtailing a bit. The action drew angry shouts and honks from passing cars.
“Going to kill me?” Doug split his attention on the oncoming traffic and figuring a way to escape. Waverly snapped back the bolt on the submachine gun.
“Needed you for a hostage, that’s all,” he said. “Now you’re a liability.”
But Doug wasn’t ready to die just yet, and not without a good fight. He hit the gas and swung into the path of an oncoming delivery truck. But the driver swerved at the last second. Rather than smash through Waverly’s door it tore away the front end in a stunning eruption of glass and motor parts and metal. The Honda spun away like a top and was smashed from the rear by a second vehicle.
Even tensed and expecting the collision, Doug was stunned by the force of it. The airbags exploded in the men’s faces, with the force of an openhanded slap. The gun flew from Waverly’s hand, winding up at his feet beneath the collapsing dash.
Doug instantly went for the door handle and pulled hard. The door refused to budge. He cried as panic rose like a torrent and threw himself against the door until it fell open, spilling Doug onto the hard pavement. Behind him, Waverly was just coming around, momentarily knocked unconscious by the wreck. He looked over to where Doug fought and kicked to untangle his legs from the seatbelt. Waverly reached for the gun, pushing against the dash to reach it. He found it just as Doug managed to break free, now fighting for his feet in the road.
Waverly managed a long burst from the Bushmaster, blowing out the windshield as he sprayed the street with bullets. They skipped off the street around Doug, and slapped into the delivery truck, wounding the driver and ricocheting everywhere. Doug stumbled and fell, as Waverly struggled from the wreckage, but as up quickly and running down the street and out of sight.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Seventy-one
The clock was ticking steadily down to war, which with each passing moment seemed more and more inevitable. It grew beyond its human creators, fed by the cruelty, impatience and ignorance of their hearts. It grew out of all proportion, until nothing more could be seen, and peace was a naïve and cowardly alternative. And like rogue militias looting a captured village, each nation angled for the greatest benefit.
The Syrians were only too eager to give the Americans fly over permission. Closer to the West, they stood to benefit greatly throughout the region following a predictable Iranian defeat. They would emerge as the regions superpower, an opportunity they had waited for decades to achieve. My contrast, America’s Israeli allies declined permission, not wishing to provoke any sort of Arab backlash, despite that they were eager so see Iran crushed.
From Moscow to Beijing to Washington diplomats worked desperately at ever changing tasks and goals. What had been an effort to find a resolution was now an endeavor to shore up alliances, to win concessions from countries sympathetic to Iran and to keep the conflict from becoming a wider issue. Indonesia, a moderate Islamic nation would receive economic considerations for not having an official view of the war. A pending arms deal would be sped up for Egypt, which, in a quid pro quo, undertook a crackdown on radical groups. Turkey, straining socially from the economic downturn used the crisis to strengthen its European Union ties, while the US convinced Iraq to crackdown on Kurdish separatists using Northern Iraq as staging areas for incursions into Turkey.
That ticking clock was apparent nowhere as great as in the Gulf. On the Allied side, soldiers, airmen and sailors consoled themselves with death and exhorted one another to victory. Every moment became its own philosophy, alte3rnating with hope, preeminence and fatalism. They said goodbye to one another, to themselves and to the world. With that they surrendered their fate to god and the universe. It was no different on the Iranian side, for the militiamen digging trenches and building bunkers, for the airmen and seamen who faced almost certain death in the coming hours, and the thousands fleeing cities and coastal areas. But fate hinges upon the small perhaps as much as the large, and the fate of millions depended upon a desperate fight taking place thousands of miles away.
The Syrians were only too eager to give the Americans fly over permission. Closer to the West, they stood to benefit greatly throughout the region following a predictable Iranian defeat. They would emerge as the regions superpower, an opportunity they had waited for decades to achieve. My contrast, America’s Israeli allies declined permission, not wishing to provoke any sort of Arab backlash, despite that they were eager so see Iran crushed.
From Moscow to Beijing to Washington diplomats worked desperately at ever changing tasks and goals. What had been an effort to find a resolution was now an endeavor to shore up alliances, to win concessions from countries sympathetic to Iran and to keep the conflict from becoming a wider issue. Indonesia, a moderate Islamic nation would receive economic considerations for not having an official view of the war. A pending arms deal would be sped up for Egypt, which, in a quid pro quo, undertook a crackdown on radical groups. Turkey, straining socially from the economic downturn used the crisis to strengthen its European Union ties, while the US convinced Iraq to crackdown on Kurdish separatists using Northern Iraq as staging areas for incursions into Turkey.
That ticking clock was apparent nowhere as great as in the Gulf. On the Allied side, soldiers, airmen and sailors consoled themselves with death and exhorted one another to victory. Every moment became its own philosophy, alte3rnating with hope, preeminence and fatalism. They said goodbye to one another, to themselves and to the world. With that they surrendered their fate to god and the universe. It was no different on the Iranian side, for the militiamen digging trenches and building bunkers, for the airmen and seamen who faced almost certain death in the coming hours, and the thousands fleeing cities and coastal areas. But fate hinges upon the small perhaps as much as the large, and the fate of millions depended upon a desperate fight taking place thousands of miles away.
The Big Blue Sky: Seventy
“Get up,” Waverly ordered.
“You might as well pull the trigger,” Doug said. He felt sure Molly was dying, and was helpless to do anything for her. He was exhausted and beaten and couldn’t find the strength to give a damn any longer.
“You’re my ticket out of here, right now.”
Waverly shoved Doug through the classroom, and past the body of the young contractor, a bullet hole through his forehead, a surprised expression frozen upon his pale face. The hallway was quiet and deserted. There was more gunfire, far off across the campus. It began with a brief exchange, building quickly to a blistering and sustained fusillade before ending abruptly.
“Sounds like it’s about finished for your men,” said Doug. He groaned in pain as Waverly jammed the barrel of the Bushmaster into his back, forcing him into a stairwell.
The fire exit at the bottom of the stairs was unguarded. Down on the street a young rookie cop stood behind the door of a white and blue Evanston police cruiser. His attention was off in another direction. Doug nearly cried out, but Waverly had a clear shot and could have taken the boy down easily. There was a parking lot close by. They used the cars for cover and were across the grassy lawn quickly. Crossing the road the pair cut across tennis courts and commandeered a little white Honda. Waverly forced Doug behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. They headed south into the city, passed by a steady stream of emergency and police vehicles headed towards the university. The shooting was over now. All the contractors and one campus cop lay dead.
“You might as well pull the trigger,” Doug said. He felt sure Molly was dying, and was helpless to do anything for her. He was exhausted and beaten and couldn’t find the strength to give a damn any longer.
“You’re my ticket out of here, right now.”
Waverly shoved Doug through the classroom, and past the body of the young contractor, a bullet hole through his forehead, a surprised expression frozen upon his pale face. The hallway was quiet and deserted. There was more gunfire, far off across the campus. It began with a brief exchange, building quickly to a blistering and sustained fusillade before ending abruptly.
“Sounds like it’s about finished for your men,” said Doug. He groaned in pain as Waverly jammed the barrel of the Bushmaster into his back, forcing him into a stairwell.
The fire exit at the bottom of the stairs was unguarded. Down on the street a young rookie cop stood behind the door of a white and blue Evanston police cruiser. His attention was off in another direction. Doug nearly cried out, but Waverly had a clear shot and could have taken the boy down easily. There was a parking lot close by. They used the cars for cover and were across the grassy lawn quickly. Crossing the road the pair cut across tennis courts and commandeered a little white Honda. Waverly forced Doug behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. They headed south into the city, passed by a steady stream of emergency and police vehicles headed towards the university. The shooting was over now. All the contractors and one campus cop lay dead.
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-nine
“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.
“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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-eight
Waverly clutched the plastic stock of his Bushmaster submachine gun so tightly his knuckles were white. Things were spinning rapidly out of control. His men had become wolves, and he was the leader of that ravenous pack. They were almost blind as he was to the consequences of their actions. But it had become far more than business. Archer Waverly meant to kill Doug Springer if it was the last thing he did.
The campus was more or less deserted for a Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t certain whether or not that was an advantage. It was what it was, he thought, tugging the bolt back and chambering a round.
“This ends here,” he told the men, standing in more or less of a defensive posture. “Teams of two. Ten thousand on top of the current bonus for the team that takes Springer out.”
“Then what?’ asked one of the men.
“Then I don’t care,” he growled in reply.
“Just get it done.”
Waverly and one of the other men waited as the first two teams headed off in different directions. When they were gone he motioned to the Tech Institute. Already he could hear sirens in the distance, coming from several different directions. He knew exactly where they were headed.
“Our boy is in there.”
“How do you know?” the young veteran contractor, a former artillery spotter, asked.
“We don’t have much time,” said Waverly. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here and enjoy that money.”
“What about the others?”
Waverly looked at him with a cold empty stare. “What others?”
The campus was more or less deserted for a Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t certain whether or not that was an advantage. It was what it was, he thought, tugging the bolt back and chambering a round.
“This ends here,” he told the men, standing in more or less of a defensive posture. “Teams of two. Ten thousand on top of the current bonus for the team that takes Springer out.”
“Then what?’ asked one of the men.
“Then I don’t care,” he growled in reply.
“Just get it done.”
Waverly and one of the other men waited as the first two teams headed off in different directions. When they were gone he motioned to the Tech Institute. Already he could hear sirens in the distance, coming from several different directions. He knew exactly where they were headed.
“Our boy is in there.”
“How do you know?” the young veteran contractor, a former artillery spotter, asked.
“We don’t have much time,” said Waverly. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here and enjoy that money.”
“What about the others?”
Waverly looked at him with a cold empty stare. “What others?”
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-seven
Just north of Chicago, Northwestern University felt like less of a campus than an organic amendment to the Idyllic suburb of Evanston. Attractive ivy covered buildings, joined by meandering walkways and curious sculpture gardens are shrouded in the sheltering shade of oak and maple and tall pine. The university borders Lake Michigan and a pretty lagoon to the east, the lake’s deep waters adding a drama and thoughtfulness to the intimacy of the place. Doug had been here before, long ago, researching a story. He knew it well enough to believe it was their best chance at evading their would-be killers.
The old Ford finally quit just across from the University. It just quit, as if understanding that it had given all it could to Doug and Molly and their cause. Molly checked her weapon once more. She had a full clip in the pistol and a spare in her coat pocket. It would be nothing against the contractor’s firepower, Doug paused before climbing out, patting the gray vinyl dash affectionately.
“Rest in peace, baby,” he said.
“We should go,” Molly urged, looking off along the street. The Yukons would be upon them shortly. It was a simple deduction to figure where Doug and Molly had gone.
They hurried across the street, just reaching the white stone, sprawling Technological Institute when the Yukons screeched to a stop beside the still smoking Ford. They counted six men, piling out onto the street, each in dark black jackets and cradling automatic weapons. Doug recognized Waverly from various news articles and the Bernstein congressional hearings into First Thrust.
“We’re gonna need help,” said Molly.
“These guys are ready for war,” Doug remarked. “I don’t see this ending good.”
A student passed, just pushing through the glass and metal doors of the Institute. It was a young blond coed, cell phone pressed between her chin and shoulder, babbling about some hot guy in her Biomedical Engineering class. Molly flashed a badge and yanked the phone away, lifting the receiver to her mouth.
“She’ll call you back,” Molly abruptly hung up on the person at the other end. Quickly Molly dialed nine-one-one. The emergency operator answered immediately.
“This is Agent Molly Karaman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am on the Northwestern campus at the Technological Institute. I have a weapon. There are six gunmen, white males, at the University, all wearing black jackets and carrying automatic weapons. Please send help.”
The old Ford finally quit just across from the University. It just quit, as if understanding that it had given all it could to Doug and Molly and their cause. Molly checked her weapon once more. She had a full clip in the pistol and a spare in her coat pocket. It would be nothing against the contractor’s firepower, Doug paused before climbing out, patting the gray vinyl dash affectionately.
“Rest in peace, baby,” he said.
“We should go,” Molly urged, looking off along the street. The Yukons would be upon them shortly. It was a simple deduction to figure where Doug and Molly had gone.
They hurried across the street, just reaching the white stone, sprawling Technological Institute when the Yukons screeched to a stop beside the still smoking Ford. They counted six men, piling out onto the street, each in dark black jackets and cradling automatic weapons. Doug recognized Waverly from various news articles and the Bernstein congressional hearings into First Thrust.
“We’re gonna need help,” said Molly.
“These guys are ready for war,” Doug remarked. “I don’t see this ending good.”
A student passed, just pushing through the glass and metal doors of the Institute. It was a young blond coed, cell phone pressed between her chin and shoulder, babbling about some hot guy in her Biomedical Engineering class. Molly flashed a badge and yanked the phone away, lifting the receiver to her mouth.
“She’ll call you back,” Molly abruptly hung up on the person at the other end. Quickly Molly dialed nine-one-one. The emergency operator answered immediately.
“This is Agent Molly Karaman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am on the Northwestern campus at the Technological Institute. I have a weapon. There are six gunmen, white males, at the University, all wearing black jackets and carrying automatic weapons. Please send help.”
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-six
The order had already gone out to Allied forces throughout the Gulf. The order to attack Iran would come in less than seven hours, just before the President addressed the nation. The British and French protested vociferously, but had been appeased with economic concessions over the post-war Iranian State. There was no interest on the American side in occupying the country. This was punishment pure and simple. The Iranian state would be hammered with a ferocity that would have stunned Saddam in the last days of his reign. The pieces would be left for others to squabble over.
Twelve thousand Marines were moving from Kuwait and would strike over land to cut off Iran from her fuel supplies. Another five thousand would secure Gulf Islands to prevent the Iranians from using them as bases to attack the American fleet now largely trapped in the Gulf. Using the cover of an anti-Taliban built up two armored divisions would drive south out of Helmand Province in Southern Afghanistan, where they would support the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions in seizing Iran’s Ports on the Gulf of Oman.
A massive cyber attack would shutdown the country hours before the attack commenced, sowing chaos and terror. From bases in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and from three different carrier groups, the country would be steadily dismantled from the air. Secondary strikes would degrade communications, support and supply efforts by the Iranians. Cities would be isolated quickly by severing power lines, targeting roads and bridges and disrupting cell phone communications. The Islamic Republic of Iran had precious little time left, if the attack went forward. Iran would continue, as Iraq had after Saddam, but what that would be was impossible to know for sure.
Twelve thousand Marines were moving from Kuwait and would strike over land to cut off Iran from her fuel supplies. Another five thousand would secure Gulf Islands to prevent the Iranians from using them as bases to attack the American fleet now largely trapped in the Gulf. Using the cover of an anti-Taliban built up two armored divisions would drive south out of Helmand Province in Southern Afghanistan, where they would support the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions in seizing Iran’s Ports on the Gulf of Oman.
A massive cyber attack would shutdown the country hours before the attack commenced, sowing chaos and terror. From bases in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and from three different carrier groups, the country would be steadily dismantled from the air. Secondary strikes would degrade communications, support and supply efforts by the Iranians. Cities would be isolated quickly by severing power lines, targeting roads and bridges and disrupting cell phone communications. The Islamic Republic of Iran had precious little time left, if the attack went forward. Iran would continue, as Iraq had after Saddam, but what that would be was impossible to know for sure.
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