The moment grew and deepened, with the specter of war and disaster looming at the edge of every decision. But nothing about this made any sense. No one could explain the distress beacon. Flybys confirmed an infra red strobe, the kind activated by downed flyers The latest satellite images only deepened the mystery, unable to see clearly through blowing dust. There was no wreckage, which wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility in such rugged terrain, which could quite easily swallow up and erase a single aircraft. The Iranians put out patrols along the coast and Highway Ninety-six to the east of the parachute and “body.” Strangest thing was that all aircraft had been accounted for in the area. Aside from the E2C Hawkeye and a pair of F-18 Hornets there wasn’t a damn thing in the sky. Even the Iranians, perhaps afraid of spooking the Americans into a fight, kept their aircraft on the ground.
Final approval for the operation came from the highest levels of the Pentagon. In Washington the President was informed as he returned from a cross-country speaking trip. Aside from constraints upon rules of engagement and potential escalation, he was satisfied with the military’s experience and prudence. In the end the final decision would depend upon three things; honor,a promise that no American soldier was ever left behind and Lt. Colonel McCallister, the man who would ultimately lead the mission.
Danzig found him on the flight deck. Before him three massive MH-53 Pave Low helicopters were silhouetted against the night sky. Magnificent and terrifying all at once, they were the most sophisticated and lethal helicopters in the world. At half a city block long and almost three stories in height it seemed comical that they had proved themselves in countless stealth and rescue missions. And when stealth failed as an option the Paves could open up on an adversary with 7.62mm mini-guns, a fifty caliber and an assortment missiles. It wasn’t an option McCallister intended to test on this mission. His teams had been fully briefed, and the crews well-prepared to charge across the sea at lightning speed and drop down to the desert before the Iranians knew what was happening. They’d be out and racing back for the safety of the CG inside forty minutes. Nice and easy. At least that was the plan.
Danzig stood next to him. Both men were quiet for a moment. McCallister was chewing on the end of an unlit Cuban cigar, a bit of a pre-mission ritual he believed brought good luck. They were looking off to the east, towards Iran.
“Give the word, Mac, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
McCallister breathed deeply, taking the cool salty air into his lungs.
“My team is ready, Sam.” The words sounded hollow almost from the moment they left him.
“Feels like our hands are a bit tied here,” said Danzig. “We’ll have a couple birds in the air, and more standing-by should you need them, but you will be alone for a while. Don’t fuck around out there.”
“I’d feel a bit better with some air support close by too.”
“Washington is telling me no dice. No one wants to start a war here.”
A sailor ran up with the latest intelligence of the target area. Even Danzig’s perfect poker face failed him as he looked over the report. He took a long breath and handed it over to McCallister.
“Looks like the Iranians are awake.”
McCallister looked over the report carefully. A column of enemy vehicles was on the move from the north. Another unit approached from the south along the coast. Add to that 2 Chinese Houdong class missile boats had been spotted north of Lavan Island moving south towards Chiruyeh.
McCallister nodded thoughtfully and gave Danzig’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is what we do.”
“Get home, Mac.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
His teams were already aboard the choppers. One by one they moved out onto the flight line as those General Electric twin turbo-shaft engines came to life. They cut a formidable image, so then why did McCallister have a nagging impression of the mission? Something made him anxious. He looked across the dark gulf waters. The business of war, he thought, was a craps game-eventually everyone's number came up. He couldn’t recall feeling this way about a mission before, and wondered if it wasn’t a sixth sense that had served him well all these years, or he was getting old and losing his nerve? They answers to those questions would have to wait.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Big Blue Sky: TEN
John “Mac” McCallister was a small but solid man, with the broad shoulders and physique of a competive swimmer rather than a soldier with thirty-four years in the Special Forces. His face was carved as much by a lifetime at war as by the perspective that ultimately peace was the goal, and that the purpose of men like John McCallister was to become obsolete in the world. A round pair of reading spectacles, which he found himself relying upon more and more, gave him a studious appearance. The father of four girls, McCallister had been married to the same fiery and tirelessly faithful Israeli woman he fallen in love with while on tour in Lebanon back in Eighty-four. A study in contrasts, McCallister had a ready smile, endless patience, disarming gentleness and a penchant for excruciating detail. At a glance one might easily mistake him for a Little League Coach or Driver’s Ed teacher than man who had fought and killed men in battle.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Nine
Chief Petty Officer Green’s mind spun through a stunning volume of scenarios. In this room, this close to the hostile Iranian coast there was no room for error, and certainly no room for blind reaction. The United States was not at war, at least not a shooting war, with Iran. It might come to that, Green knew, but he wasn’t going carry on his soul a mistake or misjudgment that started it either. Not that he had ever shied from a fight. He’d had his share growing up in the Projects, but he had never once thrown the first punch. Beside him, the AC saw the tension in Green’s face.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Seven
“…and welcome back to the program,” began the scrupulous quaffed FOX News host, like some manufactured TV-evangelist. “Could nuclear weapons only be the tip of the iceberg in Iran’s growing arsenal of Weapons of Mass destruction? Will the Iranian Mullah soon unleash a new and more terrible weapon against Israel and the West? My next guess says yes, and believes that the US and its allies are completely unprepared to deal with that looming threat. Umberto Shosa is the founder and CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS, and an expert in the field of Nano-tech warfare, which he says will be the next great arms race. Welcome to the show Mister Shosa.”
“My pleasure, Don. Let me correct you a little. There are no Nano-warfare experts, at least in this country, because no one has dared to be on that battlefield yet.”
“But you firmly believe that our enemies are preparing, and may even be ready for that eventual battle?’
“What we are talking about, Don, are tiny machines at the molecular and atomic scale. These sub-microscopic machines can incredibly complex to serve limitless functions, from medical technology to warfare. China and Russia are already years ahead of the US in this technology, which is relatively simple and inexpensive to produce. I have little doubt that a nation like Iran could quite easily harness this technology, at potentially great peril to the US and her interests.”
“A new more deadly type of WMD?” The segment had taken on the scripted tone of a late night info-mercial.
“Self repeating machines that can be delivered in drinking water, a simple ventilation system, seeded from aircraft or sired from a small shell. Nano-weapons can be programmed to lie dormant and undetected for days or months or even years, virtually untraceable and allowing the perpetrators to get away completely.”
“And these weapons can be relatively inexpensive to produce, isn’t that right?”
“For much less than a million dollars. Well within reach of countries like Iran, and certainly within reach of terrorist organizations like Al Qaeda and Hezbollah.”
“So what is the solution?”
“This country needs to build an effective policy to prevent Iran and other belligerent nations from getting Nano-weapons technology, and it needs to become competitive with nations like China and Russia who have historically not acted with US interests in mind.”
“Scary stuff.” The host shook his head slowly, tapping a stack of papers on the desk. “I am sure we’ll be discussing this much more Umberto Shosa is a Nano-technology and warfare expert, and the CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS Mister Shosa, glad you’re on our side. Coming up next, a siteen year old dancing at a Texas strip club? Not only is it legal, but her parents are supporting her decision. We’ll be right…”
“My pleasure, Don. Let me correct you a little. There are no Nano-warfare experts, at least in this country, because no one has dared to be on that battlefield yet.”
“But you firmly believe that our enemies are preparing, and may even be ready for that eventual battle?’
“What we are talking about, Don, are tiny machines at the molecular and atomic scale. These sub-microscopic machines can incredibly complex to serve limitless functions, from medical technology to warfare. China and Russia are already years ahead of the US in this technology, which is relatively simple and inexpensive to produce. I have little doubt that a nation like Iran could quite easily harness this technology, at potentially great peril to the US and her interests.”
“A new more deadly type of WMD?” The segment had taken on the scripted tone of a late night info-mercial.
“Self repeating machines that can be delivered in drinking water, a simple ventilation system, seeded from aircraft or sired from a small shell. Nano-weapons can be programmed to lie dormant and undetected for days or months or even years, virtually untraceable and allowing the perpetrators to get away completely.”
“And these weapons can be relatively inexpensive to produce, isn’t that right?”
“For much less than a million dollars. Well within reach of countries like Iran, and certainly within reach of terrorist organizations like Al Qaeda and Hezbollah.”
“So what is the solution?”
“This country needs to build an effective policy to prevent Iran and other belligerent nations from getting Nano-weapons technology, and it needs to become competitive with nations like China and Russia who have historically not acted with US interests in mind.”
“Scary stuff.” The host shook his head slowly, tapping a stack of papers on the desk. “I am sure we’ll be discussing this much more Umberto Shosa is a Nano-technology and warfare expert, and the CEO of MICRO DEFENSE SYSTEMS Mister Shosa, glad you’re on our side. Coming up next, a siteen year old dancing at a Texas strip club? Not only is it legal, but her parents are supporting her decision. We’ll be right…”
Friday, June 11, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Six
“There’s a connection, Caspar?”
Asgari was clearly in turmoil. In his long and varied career at Bethesda he had never come across anything so explosive. The dimension ran the gamut from the political to the legal, and into darker place beyond the law. It sent a shiver down his spine, and caused him to think odd and unnatural thoughts, not the least of which was who to trust and who posed a threat. Even with Molly that danger gave him pause, calling briefly into question the motives of a dear friend.
“I think they are related somehow,” he finally said.
She looked up sharply, searching his eyes and finding a growing terror there. It was enough to shake her world, like someone feeling the world tremble beneath their feet for the very first time.
“Do you know what you are saying?”
Caspar shook his head and took a deep breath. “I think this is very dangerous information to have, Molly.”
“I think we should make this official.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
She looked again at the X-rays, as if there was a chance Asgari could have been mistaken. He was far too thorough, and even she could see the evidence plainly. But who? And why?
“Have you told anyone about this?” she asked.
“Seriously?” he scoffed.
Molly thought again, turning to look again at Bernstein’s body. She looked one last time at the Xrays and then to the Doctor.
“And nothing about what you’ve found in the notes or your report?” she asked.
“Only preliminaries, and that it appeared to be an aneurism.”
“Can we leave it as inconclusive a bit longer.”
Caspar’s lip quivered slightly, an indication of terror, but also a growing impotent rage. “A part of me would leave this be for good and forget any of this.”
“Let me get some perspective.” Molly touched his cheek and managed smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope,” he said, unconvinced. “I think this is only just beginning.”
Asgari was clearly in turmoil. In his long and varied career at Bethesda he had never come across anything so explosive. The dimension ran the gamut from the political to the legal, and into darker place beyond the law. It sent a shiver down his spine, and caused him to think odd and unnatural thoughts, not the least of which was who to trust and who posed a threat. Even with Molly that danger gave him pause, calling briefly into question the motives of a dear friend.
“I think they are related somehow,” he finally said.
She looked up sharply, searching his eyes and finding a growing terror there. It was enough to shake her world, like someone feeling the world tremble beneath their feet for the very first time.
“Do you know what you are saying?”
Caspar shook his head and took a deep breath. “I think this is very dangerous information to have, Molly.”
“I think we should make this official.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
She looked again at the X-rays, as if there was a chance Asgari could have been mistaken. He was far too thorough, and even she could see the evidence plainly. But who? And why?
“Have you told anyone about this?” she asked.
“Seriously?” he scoffed.
Molly thought again, turning to look again at Bernstein’s body. She looked one last time at the Xrays and then to the Doctor.
“And nothing about what you’ve found in the notes or your report?” she asked.
“Only preliminaries, and that it appeared to be an aneurism.”
“Can we leave it as inconclusive a bit longer.”
Caspar’s lip quivered slightly, an indication of terror, but also a growing impotent rage. “A part of me would leave this be for good and forget any of this.”
“Let me get some perspective.” Molly touched his cheek and managed smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope,” he said, unconvinced. “I think this is only just beginning.”
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Five
It occurred to Molly that a morgue ought to smell like something. There should have been some hint of death or sickness layering an artificial chill to the air. There should have been the pungent bite of ammonia and disinfectant, but there was nothing. It was as if the living were as transient in this place as the dead, and perhaps less welcome. Federal Agent Molly Karaman was certainly use to feeling unwelcome. For the last two years she had bounced around half the Middle East consulting on Terrorist bombings. Too often she suffered the ambient and overt distrust of cultures that viewed America ultimately as an adversary, but which also saw the necessity of short term cooperation, like riding a tiger to cross a swollen river. That she was a professional woman in a patriarchal world only complicated matters.
She waited at the door for the guard, staring into her reflection from the thick security glass. Molly was disarmingly pretty, with long wavy black hair, normally worn up and more official looking. For this call it didn’t seem to matter. Her skin was fair with deep green exotic eyes, the blessing of her Latin and Turkish heritage. But at thirty-seven Molly helped shadowed by the unjust conventions of society that believed men age with distinction while women simply age, becoming less substantial and less important. Her mother always told Molly she had her father’s looks. Truth was, she had never known him, except from a hand full of scratched and faded Polaroids taken when he and Molly’s mother were courting. All she knew was that they met in Paris where Molly’s mother was visiting relatives. Two weeks after their wedding he was knifed in a mugging and died alone in an alley. Molly’s mother flew home to New York where she learned soon after she was pregnant.
The guard opened the door, tearing Molly from thoughts of her childhood, and what might have been. The guard was a young marine corporal. He dutifully checked her FBI identification and waved her through. It was a quick walk down another sterile hallway and through second set of set of doors. Here was the low scent of death and blood and disinfectant, and Molly almost felt rescued for it.
Arpel Bernstein lay naked upon the cold steel examining table, well beyond all modesty. His flesh was ashen in color and drawn. The only color was at the giant “Y” incision across his torso and round belly, and the tuft of pubic hair. At a glance he seemed like some hastily re-stuffed toy. The flesh of his head, like some thick rubber mat, had been neatly cut and was rolled down over his eyes. The top of the skull had been removed, exposing the grayish pink brain within. Leaning over the body was a heavy set balding man that Molly knew only too well. His expression was fixed as he peered at the scribbled notes of an autopsy report through a pair of heavy framed eyeglasses.
He was Doctor Caspar Asgari, a man of gruff manners and meticulous standards. In court, often called upon for his expertise, Asgari’s reputation was unassailable, respected by both the prosecution and the defense alike, which is what made his expression so vexing for Molly. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, as though preparing herself. She had a feeling that what should have been a simple case was about to become something more.
“Hello, dear,” he said, without looking up from the report. His accent was still thick, and layered with British, though he had fled the Shah’s Iran almost forty years earlier. Asgari turned the page and scratched the back of his neck. He liked her. He liked her complexity and how she was less interested in law enforcement than justice. As for Molly she sometimes liked to imagine her father would have been something like Caspar Asgari.
“Don’t like that look,” she said.
“The face I was born with, I’m afraid.”
She was looking for anything that might indicate the incident with the water had contributed to the Congressman’s death. For the moment she was still be held for “psychiatric evaluation.”
“Is there a case here, Caspar?”
He shrugged, thoroughly stumped. “In my opinion he was not a healthy man to begin with. The Congressman had severe arterial blockage, aggravated by dangerously high hypertension, but that did not kill him.”
“What does that leave?”
“Something…strange, I don’t…come take a look at this.”
He drew back the folded flesh at Arpel’s temple. With two fingers Asgari pointed to a reddish sort of blister, no more than an inch in diameter.
“Looks like a burn,” she remarked.
“In fact it is. I thought perhaps it had happened in the ambulance or at the hospital, but then I decided took a look at his brain, believing that he had died from an aneurism.”
“That was my first thought when I saw the news footage.”
“Indeed,” he said, wagging a finger knowingly. “But when I opened the brain cavity a great deal of blood poured out.”
“So it was a hemorrhage?’
“Ah but here.” Asgari bulled back the spongy brain and ran a long cotton swab along the inside of the skull. He held it up. It was stained rust red with blood, but also with a charcoal black substance.
“There, you see?” he said.
“What is that?”
“Come,” he said. She followed him across the room to two large x-ray images at a small desk. He held one of them up against the light for her to see. Tree-like blood vessels showed up as solid black. Limbs and branches converged then came to a sudden stop, appearing as though they had dissolved. Molly leaned closer, squinting at the image.
“That would be…”
“The hemorrhage,” Asgari finished the sentence. From the table he produced several other X-rays. They were similar, showing blood vessels of the brain. Except in these other images there were tears or bubbles at the point of rupture, but nothing like in the first image.
“These are normal hemorrhages,” he continued. “But in Bernstein’s X-ray it, the, the blood vessels were burned away.”
“From inside.”
“I believe so,” he said.
“Is that possible?”
He chuckled darkly. “That isn’t even the strangest part.” He produced two more X-rays. Each showed the same dissolved pattern as Bernstein’s.
“These are also his?”
He pointed to the image on the left. “This is of an Army Colonel from the Pentagon Accounting and procurement office who died suddenly three weeks ago.”
Molly pointed to the second image. “And this one?”
“A US Attorney who, coincidentally, was working closely with Bernstein.”
She waited at the door for the guard, staring into her reflection from the thick security glass. Molly was disarmingly pretty, with long wavy black hair, normally worn up and more official looking. For this call it didn’t seem to matter. Her skin was fair with deep green exotic eyes, the blessing of her Latin and Turkish heritage. But at thirty-seven Molly helped shadowed by the unjust conventions of society that believed men age with distinction while women simply age, becoming less substantial and less important. Her mother always told Molly she had her father’s looks. Truth was, she had never known him, except from a hand full of scratched and faded Polaroids taken when he and Molly’s mother were courting. All she knew was that they met in Paris where Molly’s mother was visiting relatives. Two weeks after their wedding he was knifed in a mugging and died alone in an alley. Molly’s mother flew home to New York where she learned soon after she was pregnant.
The guard opened the door, tearing Molly from thoughts of her childhood, and what might have been. The guard was a young marine corporal. He dutifully checked her FBI identification and waved her through. It was a quick walk down another sterile hallway and through second set of set of doors. Here was the low scent of death and blood and disinfectant, and Molly almost felt rescued for it.
Arpel Bernstein lay naked upon the cold steel examining table, well beyond all modesty. His flesh was ashen in color and drawn. The only color was at the giant “Y” incision across his torso and round belly, and the tuft of pubic hair. At a glance he seemed like some hastily re-stuffed toy. The flesh of his head, like some thick rubber mat, had been neatly cut and was rolled down over his eyes. The top of the skull had been removed, exposing the grayish pink brain within. Leaning over the body was a heavy set balding man that Molly knew only too well. His expression was fixed as he peered at the scribbled notes of an autopsy report through a pair of heavy framed eyeglasses.
He was Doctor Caspar Asgari, a man of gruff manners and meticulous standards. In court, often called upon for his expertise, Asgari’s reputation was unassailable, respected by both the prosecution and the defense alike, which is what made his expression so vexing for Molly. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, as though preparing herself. She had a feeling that what should have been a simple case was about to become something more.
“Hello, dear,” he said, without looking up from the report. His accent was still thick, and layered with British, though he had fled the Shah’s Iran almost forty years earlier. Asgari turned the page and scratched the back of his neck. He liked her. He liked her complexity and how she was less interested in law enforcement than justice. As for Molly she sometimes liked to imagine her father would have been something like Caspar Asgari.
“Don’t like that look,” she said.
“The face I was born with, I’m afraid.”
She was looking for anything that might indicate the incident with the water had contributed to the Congressman’s death. For the moment she was still be held for “psychiatric evaluation.”
“Is there a case here, Caspar?”
He shrugged, thoroughly stumped. “In my opinion he was not a healthy man to begin with. The Congressman had severe arterial blockage, aggravated by dangerously high hypertension, but that did not kill him.”
“What does that leave?”
“Something…strange, I don’t…come take a look at this.”
He drew back the folded flesh at Arpel’s temple. With two fingers Asgari pointed to a reddish sort of blister, no more than an inch in diameter.
“Looks like a burn,” she remarked.
“In fact it is. I thought perhaps it had happened in the ambulance or at the hospital, but then I decided took a look at his brain, believing that he had died from an aneurism.”
“That was my first thought when I saw the news footage.”
“Indeed,” he said, wagging a finger knowingly. “But when I opened the brain cavity a great deal of blood poured out.”
“So it was a hemorrhage?’
“Ah but here.” Asgari bulled back the spongy brain and ran a long cotton swab along the inside of the skull. He held it up. It was stained rust red with blood, but also with a charcoal black substance.
“There, you see?” he said.
“What is that?”
“Come,” he said. She followed him across the room to two large x-ray images at a small desk. He held one of them up against the light for her to see. Tree-like blood vessels showed up as solid black. Limbs and branches converged then came to a sudden stop, appearing as though they had dissolved. Molly leaned closer, squinting at the image.
“That would be…”
“The hemorrhage,” Asgari finished the sentence. From the table he produced several other X-rays. They were similar, showing blood vessels of the brain. Except in these other images there were tears or bubbles at the point of rupture, but nothing like in the first image.
“These are normal hemorrhages,” he continued. “But in Bernstein’s X-ray it, the, the blood vessels were burned away.”
“From inside.”
“I believe so,” he said.
“Is that possible?”
He chuckled darkly. “That isn’t even the strangest part.” He produced two more X-rays. Each showed the same dissolved pattern as Bernstein’s.
“These are also his?”
He pointed to the image on the left. “This is of an Army Colonel from the Pentagon Accounting and procurement office who died suddenly three weeks ago.”
Molly pointed to the second image. “And this one?”
“A US Attorney who, coincidentally, was working closely with Bernstein.”
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