The ancient Ford was no match for the Yukon’s big two hundred fifty-five horsepower, V-eight engines. They barreled down on the Ford, struggling to get long either side of the Ford. For a time, racing at a deadly speed, weaving in and out of heavy traffic Doug managed to keep just ahead of them.
The Yukons caught a pocket and roared ahead, coming along either side of Doug and Molly. For a terrifyingly long minute they bumped the Ford between them, like wolves toying with a prey. Waverly was driving the first, a murderous steel to his eyes as he swung the Yukon sideways, slamming against the Ford and tossing Doug and Molly around inside. He was indeed toying with them, but toying to a predator is only prelude to a kill, and the time to kill was at hand.
“Can you get off a shot?” Doug cried above the grinding of metal and the whining of straining engines.
But Molly couldn’t get off a shot, not as the Ford was rocked and hammered violently about, and not without be sure she wouldn’t hit an innocent driver nearby. There was a garbage truck ahead. The Yukons pressed the old Ford between them, intent and running it hard into the truck. Doug yanked the wheel left and them right with every ounce of strength he possessed, knowing full well when the Yukons intended. He cried out against the strain, Molly still fighting for a clear shot and knew they had just seconds before disaster.
So that was it, he thought. This is how it would end. Doug would never see his girls again. Whatever god he might have believed it once seemed all the more cruel and terrible to take both parents from girls who had never harmed a soul. For an instant, just an instant he was ready to concede everything, so stopping fighting powers and forces much larger than Molly and him. For just and instant he could simply close his eyes and go peacefully to death.
Time slowed suddenly. Bits of glass, papers, a cell phone, a coffee cup seemed to tumble lazily in the small cab, as if suspended and independent of gravity. Cascades of bright orange sparks spit from the sides of the truck. Past the Ford’s windows, all but obscuring the assassins in the Yukons a pocket opened up. Doug looked to Molly. She was still in the fight, refusing to concede a single breath. Past her, beyond the monstrous hood of the big white Yukon traffic parted as people fled as best they could the battle among them.
It was that, a glimmer of hope, that brought time to its properly feverish pace. Doug felt fight and resolve return to him like a force of nature, and slammed a foot on break pedal. The ripping of steel and metal was horrendous as the Ford wrenched loose, grinding to a halt as the Yukons sped forward. Doug gunned the engine and something exploded under the hood, sending clouds of oil smoke that covered the windshield. Behind them the Yukons were picking their way through knots vehicles to continue the chase. Doug vowed to put as much road as possible between them, knowing full well he couldn’t outrun them forever.
“We can’t fight these guys,” he said, running hard, charging through a red light.
“Don’t see another way,” she said. “But I have to know you are in the fight with me, Doug.”
He reached over and held her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Till the end.”
Doug hit the gas and pulled the wheel to the right. The Ford lurched across three lanes of traffic, banged down a grassy embankment and tore through a chain-link fence, nearly overshooting a narrow side road.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-four
It was a war council, a meeting to discuss strategies of attack rather than opportunities for diplomacy. Any pretext of peace was simply to assuage the pride and ego of the nation, and to portray the coming storm as a righteous one. It was a war council, though the men and women wore the finest suits, and were attended by aides in perfect uniforms. All were well-manicured and held advanced degrees from the finest educational institutions known to man. They were constant on blackberries, running to this conference or that committee meeting or media interviews. And despite their wealth and accoutrements they were no different from the tribes gathered at fires on the African plain a hundred thousand years before. They were the same as the ancient Hittitites, Illyrians and Huns, or the Germanic tribes that raged against Rome.
War had been decided, as much by ignorance as by the inconsolable tide of anger by the American people over the still mysterious deaths of the captives. The efforts by the Administration to find a diplomatic solution were abandoned the moment the two freighters were sunk in the Strait of Hormuz. An oblique claim of responsibility by an Al Qa’eda franchise could not be completely verified. Given the strategic peril US forces in the Persian Gulf faced, the President couldn’t take the chance of losing an entire carrier group to a possible Iranian ruse.
Allied forces in the Gulf were already on a war footing. The latest urgent preparations were certain to alarm the already jumpy Iranians, who undoubtedly were monitoring every Allied movement and unguarded communication. From the moment the freighters exploded the carrier group off the Saudi coast was prepared for an attack. Though the Iranians fully comprehended the American response, it was not something they could ignore.
They prepared for an immediate American retaliation. Neighborhood civil defense teams mobilized in every Iranian city, while tens of thousands began evacuating to the countryside and mountains. The Iranian air force scattered throughout the country, hiding in long prepared bunkers among villages, in farms and elsewhere. The Iranian navy left ports for protected coves and coastal areas, from which they prepared to launch a massive assault against the Americans.
Terror cells already activated across Western Europe and America had fallen one by one by sudden police raids. But not all of them had been discovered. These remaining cells prepared to carry out attack against civilian targets the instant the attack against Iran began.
The President leaned at the conference table in the Situation Room staring up at the satellite image of the Gulf and Middle East. This was the historic crucible of mankind’s legacy of war and violence. He appeared exhausted and hopeless, rubbing at the intractable tension now a permanent feature to his brow. The staff, joint chiefs and cabinet members sat pensively, not wishing to disturb thoughts upon which would weigh history forever.
He had hoped to stop a war, and had even run on that promise as a presidential candidate. But peace is not a decision, just as stopping a war is not a decision. Both are living creatures, and like living creatures must be starved or fed or killed just as surely as any other creature. The saddest thing was that peace was the most difficult to nurture and the easiest to kill, for a good peace could die from simple neglect. Peace was fed from the soul. It was heavenly and spiritual and antithetical to the hate and revenge and greed and ego that fed war. He had hoped to stop a war, and now felt as if he had filed the nation, the world and even the innocents in Iran who would suffer so terribly.
He stood and turned to the others. “I want an ultimatum to the Iranians. I’ll call the Chinese Premiere myself to make certain the message is delivered immediately.”
“They’ll need time to debate the points, Mister President,” said the Secretary of State. She had come to the job a little reluctantly, after running as candidate in a long and bitter election. But she had taken to the job at a historic moment, facing a daunting array of International issues, from multiple wars, a resurgence of high-seas piracy, a global recession, the environment and Nuclear proliferation.
She leaned back in her chair, a peach suit coat bunching slightly at the shoulders, her short blond hair lightly brushing the collar of a simple white blouse. The secretary’s eyeglasses teetered at the end of her nose. She was looking at the President, wondering how she might have managed all this if she had won the Presidency. The Secretary could hardly imagine weathering the crisis any differently.
“Time they don’t have,” the President replied.
“I think an ultimatum forces a situation,” said the defense secretary. “It backs everyone into a corner, and that gives us limited opportunities.”
“If see your point,” said the President, “but I do want to give the Iranians fewer options, with an expiration date.”
The secretary of State drew away her eyeglasses, holding them out before the notes and paper before her.
“My suggestion, if I was sitting in that chair,” she shared a warm smile with the President, precisely what was called for at that moment. “Carrot and stick. Offer them something they need with an expiration date which will undercut their international support if they refuse.”
The President sat on the table beside her. “I’m listening.”
She leaned back, finding for the first time that she truly liked the President, and that she had always respected him, but never quite realized it, or admitted it to herself before now.
Behind the scenes we deliver the message through the Chinese, making it abundantly clear the clock is ticking down to zero. We also play this fully in the Press and win the game on that court.”
The President folded his arms and chuckled. “Total bullshit.”
“The secretary laughed. “Welcome to the world of International diplomacy.”
War had been decided, as much by ignorance as by the inconsolable tide of anger by the American people over the still mysterious deaths of the captives. The efforts by the Administration to find a diplomatic solution were abandoned the moment the two freighters were sunk in the Strait of Hormuz. An oblique claim of responsibility by an Al Qa’eda franchise could not be completely verified. Given the strategic peril US forces in the Persian Gulf faced, the President couldn’t take the chance of losing an entire carrier group to a possible Iranian ruse.
Allied forces in the Gulf were already on a war footing. The latest urgent preparations were certain to alarm the already jumpy Iranians, who undoubtedly were monitoring every Allied movement and unguarded communication. From the moment the freighters exploded the carrier group off the Saudi coast was prepared for an attack. Though the Iranians fully comprehended the American response, it was not something they could ignore.
They prepared for an immediate American retaliation. Neighborhood civil defense teams mobilized in every Iranian city, while tens of thousands began evacuating to the countryside and mountains. The Iranian air force scattered throughout the country, hiding in long prepared bunkers among villages, in farms and elsewhere. The Iranian navy left ports for protected coves and coastal areas, from which they prepared to launch a massive assault against the Americans.
Terror cells already activated across Western Europe and America had fallen one by one by sudden police raids. But not all of them had been discovered. These remaining cells prepared to carry out attack against civilian targets the instant the attack against Iran began.
The President leaned at the conference table in the Situation Room staring up at the satellite image of the Gulf and Middle East. This was the historic crucible of mankind’s legacy of war and violence. He appeared exhausted and hopeless, rubbing at the intractable tension now a permanent feature to his brow. The staff, joint chiefs and cabinet members sat pensively, not wishing to disturb thoughts upon which would weigh history forever.
He had hoped to stop a war, and had even run on that promise as a presidential candidate. But peace is not a decision, just as stopping a war is not a decision. Both are living creatures, and like living creatures must be starved or fed or killed just as surely as any other creature. The saddest thing was that peace was the most difficult to nurture and the easiest to kill, for a good peace could die from simple neglect. Peace was fed from the soul. It was heavenly and spiritual and antithetical to the hate and revenge and greed and ego that fed war. He had hoped to stop a war, and now felt as if he had filed the nation, the world and even the innocents in Iran who would suffer so terribly.
He stood and turned to the others. “I want an ultimatum to the Iranians. I’ll call the Chinese Premiere myself to make certain the message is delivered immediately.”
“They’ll need time to debate the points, Mister President,” said the Secretary of State. She had come to the job a little reluctantly, after running as candidate in a long and bitter election. But she had taken to the job at a historic moment, facing a daunting array of International issues, from multiple wars, a resurgence of high-seas piracy, a global recession, the environment and Nuclear proliferation.
She leaned back in her chair, a peach suit coat bunching slightly at the shoulders, her short blond hair lightly brushing the collar of a simple white blouse. The secretary’s eyeglasses teetered at the end of her nose. She was looking at the President, wondering how she might have managed all this if she had won the Presidency. The Secretary could hardly imagine weathering the crisis any differently.
“Time they don’t have,” the President replied.
“I think an ultimatum forces a situation,” said the defense secretary. “It backs everyone into a corner, and that gives us limited opportunities.”
“If see your point,” said the President, “but I do want to give the Iranians fewer options, with an expiration date.”
The secretary of State drew away her eyeglasses, holding them out before the notes and paper before her.
“My suggestion, if I was sitting in that chair,” she shared a warm smile with the President, precisely what was called for at that moment. “Carrot and stick. Offer them something they need with an expiration date which will undercut their international support if they refuse.”
The President sat on the table beside her. “I’m listening.”
She leaned back, finding for the first time that she truly liked the President, and that she had always respected him, but never quite realized it, or admitted it to herself before now.
Behind the scenes we deliver the message through the Chinese, making it abundantly clear the clock is ticking down to zero. We also play this fully in the Press and win the game on that court.”
The President folded his arms and chuckled. “Total bullshit.”
“The secretary laughed. “Welcome to the world of International diplomacy.”
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-three
Molly shook the officer’s hands. They politely touched the brim of the hats and nodded. Half way to the truck she waved once more. Molly climbed back inside beside Doug with the strangest expression, somewhere between relief and nervousness. Doug gave up trying to decipher it. One of the State cruisers pulled around in front of them. The first remained behind them, lights blazing.
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Apparently one of the contractors spilled his guts last night. Word’s getting around that we’re on a mission…” Doug cut her off, as he started the truck.
“Mission from God?”
“You might say that.”
“It’s a hundred and six miles to Chicago,” he quoted a line from an old movie, “we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, its dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
The State cops escorted Doug and Molly as far as the Illinois state line. They pulled to the side of the road. The cop that had first pulled them over told how he had a son that had just enlisted in the Army, and that he had no interest in seeing his only son go off to war. They couldn’t guarantee anything past the Wisconsin line, but Doug and Molly were grateful for having seen them this far. As they crossed into Illinois they had no way of knowing that Waverly and his teams were already tracking them from the moment they were pulled over outside of Milwaukee. Waverly and his men were waiting for them, and they didn’t have to wait long.
Doug and Molly failed to notice the two white Yukon Denalis parked at an onramp. Doug was lost in the rightwing drumbeat to war on the radio. In between the hysterical outrage and knee-jerk foolishness, the news was filled with anecdotes of war preparations and protests around the world. Wars are a product of building tension in the minds and souls of each individual. The tension that is built is not easily dissipated, and is most easily dissipated in the violent predisposition of the human animal. It was a lesson those who have been to war understand, and a lesson Doug had seen again and again.
It was Molly who noticed the Yukons coming up quickly behind them, running side by side. She knew in an instant and had a sinking feeling things were about to take a very bad turn. She drew her pistol and pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Doug looked over sharply.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
Doug checked the mirror and shook his head. “These guys don’t give up, huh?”
“Still think we can pull this off.”
“Do we have a choice any longer?” he replied.
She checked the mirror again. The Yukons were looming, almost upon them now. There could be no doubt about their intention.“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“For history.”
“And if no one ever hears?”
Doug pushed the gas pedal down hard, briefly putting space between them and the Yukons. “For my girls, and for my soul.”
“Worth dying over?” she asked.
“Can’t think of a better purpose.”
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Apparently one of the contractors spilled his guts last night. Word’s getting around that we’re on a mission…” Doug cut her off, as he started the truck.
“Mission from God?”
“You might say that.”
“It’s a hundred and six miles to Chicago,” he quoted a line from an old movie, “we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, its dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
The State cops escorted Doug and Molly as far as the Illinois state line. They pulled to the side of the road. The cop that had first pulled them over told how he had a son that had just enlisted in the Army, and that he had no interest in seeing his only son go off to war. They couldn’t guarantee anything past the Wisconsin line, but Doug and Molly were grateful for having seen them this far. As they crossed into Illinois they had no way of knowing that Waverly and his teams were already tracking them from the moment they were pulled over outside of Milwaukee. Waverly and his men were waiting for them, and they didn’t have to wait long.
Doug and Molly failed to notice the two white Yukon Denalis parked at an onramp. Doug was lost in the rightwing drumbeat to war on the radio. In between the hysterical outrage and knee-jerk foolishness, the news was filled with anecdotes of war preparations and protests around the world. Wars are a product of building tension in the minds and souls of each individual. The tension that is built is not easily dissipated, and is most easily dissipated in the violent predisposition of the human animal. It was a lesson those who have been to war understand, and a lesson Doug had seen again and again.
It was Molly who noticed the Yukons coming up quickly behind them, running side by side. She knew in an instant and had a sinking feeling things were about to take a very bad turn. She drew her pistol and pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Doug looked over sharply.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
Doug checked the mirror and shook his head. “These guys don’t give up, huh?”
“Still think we can pull this off.”
“Do we have a choice any longer?” he replied.
She checked the mirror again. The Yukons were looming, almost upon them now. There could be no doubt about their intention.“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“For history.”
“And if no one ever hears?”
Doug pushed the gas pedal down hard, briefly putting space between them and the Yukons. “For my girls, and for my soul.”
“Worth dying over?” she asked.
“Can’t think of a better purpose.”
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-two
Molly and Doug were making good time on the long empty stretch of highway between Sheboygan and Milwaukee. Rolling hills and farms shimmered as the morning frost burned away beneath the endless embrace of blue Wisconsin sky. Deer peeked cautiously from clusters of autumn woods flanking the gray two lane ribbon of highway. Molly was looking out the window, sort of leaning against the door. Her gaze was distant, brow furled as she fought with Moon’s death, and if she might have done something differently to save him. Doug reached over and laid a hand upon hers, in a feeble effort to comfort her somehow. She looked over at him, struggling to smile, rescued by his touch. She held his hand in hers, filling them both with a warm rush of electricity.
“You’re not afraid?” she asked.
“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.
Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.
“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.
“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.
“If there’s still enough time.”
“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”
“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.
“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”
“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.
“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”
“And the Nano-weapon angle?”
“Delivery?”
Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.
Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.
“Best laid plans,” he muttered.
“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.
The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.
“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”
“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”
The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”
“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”
“Are you armed, ma’am?”
“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”
“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”
“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.
“Sorry?”
She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”
She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.
“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”
Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.
“You’re not afraid?” she asked.
“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.
Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.
“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.
“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.
“If there’s still enough time.”
“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”
“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.
“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”
“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.
“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”
“And the Nano-weapon angle?”
“Delivery?”
Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.
Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.
“Best laid plans,” he muttered.
“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.
The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.
“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”
“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”
The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”
“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”
“Are you armed, ma’am?”
“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”
“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”
“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.
“Sorry?”
She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”
She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.
“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”
Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-one
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
