The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-two

CLASSIFIED REPORT:
…a five year plan from 2010 through 2015 that intends to make Iran the preeminent regional power. A multi-faceted effort by the Iranians is already underway to strengthen and broaden regional and international relations, a critical aim of the so-called Five year Plan. The Iranians are aggressively strengthening their military’s deterrent capabilities, as well as expanding offensive capabilities.

This effort could be controlled by a policy of containment and through continuing support for a growing internal opposition. The assessment of this report indicates that time favors the opposition over the current government. It also cautions against a direct attack against the religious ruling authority to prevent offending moderate Iranians who could eventually support the opposition against the political regime. A continued effort must be made to support and strengthen moderates among the religious ruling authority.

The Iranian’s have no illusions about winning a conventional war against the United States and her allies. If threatened or attack they will fight war of attrition and/or terrorism. Through embassies and internationally protected diplomatic channels they have built a substantial global network throughout the West capable of sowing substantial damage in a protracted asymmetric warfare strategy. Iran’s substantial ideological, financial and material support for such groups as Hezbollah is part of that international network. Although it is beyond the scope of this report, the assessment of the West’s ability to prevent such attacks from occurring would be a failure. Though a number of these cells are currently under limited surveillance the resources available to stop multiple simultaneous attacks in progress would meet with only limited success. In that regard, it must be said that Iran would not activate these cells unless faced with an active attack against its sovereignty. Bus stations, shopping malls, airports, sporting events, and any place Americans gather in numbers would be considered targets of choice. In a country of three hundred million it would be impossible to prevent possibly very substantial civilian casualties. An assessment of potential casualty figures, should 10% of the cells reach their targets, could reasonably exceed…


Doug woke with a start, the shotgun almost spilling from his lap. He sat forward and wiped a cold clammy sweat from his face, wincing when he brushed across the gash at his temple. The pain had faded, retreating to the area immediately around the gash. It was deep enough that most any movement of his face, touching his nose, blinking, raising his eye brows brought a wave of needle sharp pain. It was enough to stifle a yawn, drawing instead a teeth-gritting groan.

The girls were still asleep, dressed in the clothes they had worn from the house. Dana was turned to one side. She was covered protectively by her big sister’s arm. There was a big sliver butcher knife on the end table beside the sofa bed where the girls swept. Doug hadn’t noticed it the night before. He wondered if Megan had placed there and he had missed as he tucked them in, or if Megan got up to get it during the night.

The fire had gone out, and the morning cold had crept into the house. The wind had come up as well, rushing across the bay from the mainland. It whistled through gaps in the old windows and pushed branches noisily against the house. Waves thumped against the bank, joined in the constant soft chorus from the lake.

Doug went into the kitchen hoping to find a bit of coffee before getting some wood for the fire. He set the shotgun beside the door and stretched an uncomfortable sleep from his body. Doug checked the cupboards, but could only find canned goods, pancake mix and a couple of cans of soda. Under the sink was a bottle of propane, matches and another box of shotgun shells. Doug removed a couple of extra shells and slipped them into his pocket.

It was bright and clear when he stepped outside. An early golden sunlight painted the small birch trees along the shore line. Waves splashed against the island, sending up fat white sprays of water. Doug rubbed the sleep from his eyes and bent to gather up several pieces of firewood from the pile beside the house. That’s when he noticed the two black Suburbans parked near the pier on the mainland.

He ducked quickly out of sight and slippeded back inside the house. There were a pair of old binoculars on top of the refrigerator. Doug snuck past the sleeping girls to the front window and pulled aside the shade. He kept back from the window, poking his head out and lifting the binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the far shore as best he could.

He counted eight men in all. Several were armed with pistols strapped to their thighs. Two of the men hovered near the top of the road. They cradled military-style automatic weapons. Through a gap in the trees Doug could see that a third Suburban blocked the entrance from the highway. One man strode slowly along the beach, a pistol held against his leg. He was searching the bank carefully, while the others tore apart the inside of Jane’s Honda. They looked military, with severe haircuts, but with the opulence and arrogant swagger of military contractors. Whoever they were, Doug had no illusions about their intentions.

It was quite certain that they weren’t law enforcement. The passenger-side window of the car had been smashed. The trunk was open as well. The contents, tools, a blanket, camping stuff and an old bag of recycled magazines and news papers were strewn across the ground. There was no careful collection of evidence. These men were hunters, and Doug was their prey. His heart raced haphazardly, the chill of fear and dread washing through his body. It was a nauseous feeling. He glanced back at the girls, as if renewing his resolve for the fight to come, then back to the window.


The man on the beach bent, peering into the fallen log where Doug had stashed the cell phone. He called several of the others over, each taking their turn to look while being careful not to touch it in any way.

“Dad?” It was Dana. She was still dressed, standing in her stocking feet on the cold floor. Her blue ski jacket was undone, but pulled tight around her.

Dad, it’s cold,” she complained, being careful not to disturb her sleeping sister.

“I know, honey,” Doug replied.

Doug turned back across the channel. The men stood along the beach looking back across t the island. It would be a relatively simple process of elimination to deduce where Doug and the girls were hiding. The lake was choppy, boiling to small white caps. Not enough to prevent anyone who truly wished from crossing to the island. And these men would come. Doug knew they’d come.