“Okay, you guys,” Doug told the girls, “do you remember that night we went hiking on the other side of the island a couple years ago and that storm came up?”
“It totally poured,” said Megan. They were standing in the woods just behind the house. The roar of a motor boat sounded, coming across from the mainland. It was interrupted by the whumpf-whump-whumpf as the boat bounced heavily over growing wave tops. The wind built steadily, sending showers of gold and red leaves. Doug was running out of time. His only concern now was for the girls.
“We took shelter in that old abandoned inn?” Dana recalled.
“Out by Murray Bay,” said Doug.
“By that old cemetery in the woods, right?” Megan asked.
“Do you guys think you could find it?”
“Alone?”
“Men are coming and I have to try and stop them or you girls won’t be safe.” Doug lifted a nap sack with cash, canned food, water, matches, a big camping knife and a rolled up blanket. “If I am not there in the morning you two are to keep going to the old lighthouse. The guy who lives there will call the police. Tell them who you are, and give them this card.”
Doug pulled Molly’s card from his pocket and handed it to Megan.
“Dad, what do you mean if you…?”
“Listen to me,” he said quite seriously. “Who knows what could happen, but no matter what we have to have a back up plane, right?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Keep to the woods as much as you can. Don’t let anyone see you.” He hugged them both, and searched their frightened eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Doug watched them go, his heart leaving with them. When they were out of sight he started for the house. He could hear the boat’s powerful motor change in pitch as it slowed into Grand Island’s only public pier. Doug had fifteen or twenty minutes at best to get ready. He prayed it was enough time. At the back door he glanced at the woods one last time and prayed to see his girls again. Failing that, he prayed for their safety.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-three
The President had hardly slept all night. A couple of fifteen minute naps and ample amounts of bitter black coffee had helped him keep abreast of the rapidly changing events in the Gulf. He was standing at the window of the Oval Office. His striped blue neck tie lay across the big leather chair behind his desk. He was in a white shirt, still buttoned to the top button. The sleeves were rolled up along his forearms. A fine layer of sweat spread across the back of his neck, lightly staining the collar of the shirt. His shoulders were hunched against the ample tension growing there.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
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.
…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.
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-one
The survivors of the failed rescue mission, fearing annihilation if they continued fighting, had surrendered to the advancing Iranian army. Over the next twenty-four hours they would suffer the obligatory abuse of disgraced combatants; isolation, delayed medical care, little food or water, humiliation, summary beatings, sleep deprivation and mock executions. Their training into abuse and deprivation would help them to an extent. In that training there was always the promise that the nightmare would end, and that the abusers were comrades who would not cross certain lines. There would be no ultimate line here, but the line of death. Nothing could prepare a man for the prospect that the freedoms he had long enjoyed and defended were gone, and that he might never see home or family again.
The prisoners were separated almost immediately. The wounded were moved to the Baghiyyatollah al-Azam military hospital in Tehran. The others were scattered around the country to prevent any attempt at rescue by the Americans. Eventually all the captives would be moved to various locations around the Iranian capitol. There they would be kept in different locations throughout the city, and brought together where they could be paraded and humiliated before the World’s Press. There was no hint of the terrible time bomb each of them carried. There was no indication that they were as much pawns as guinea pigs for a new kind of war. For now they would be trophies for the Iranians, as proof of America’s disregard for the sovereignty of dissident nations.
There would be little point to the exercise, except some sad assertion by the Iranians of emasculated power. Grainy washed-out images of prisoners in white jumpsuits eating at a prison table in a window-less room, or seated together along a wall beneath artificial light all but erasing their captors abuse, would be shown around the world. The images would do nothing to change hearts in the West. Those in the Muslim world that harbored a bias against the West would cheer Iran’s David and Goliath defiance. Others in the Muslim world, who saw Iran as an ideological enemy almost as loathsome as America, would be searching for angles.
In Washington, the American President charted a course across the impossibly complex Chess match of International diplomacy and one-upmanship. In that game history could be changed as easily by generals and heads of state, as by sudden acts by obscure souls. The Germans and Austrians had learned that lesson only too well in 1914 when a boy of sixteen stepped from a crowd on a Sarajevo street to gun down Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. Within months Europe was embroiled in a war that would cost the lives of more than ten million. The president was struggling to learn the lessons of history and to keep a proper perspective. In the days and weeks to come it would take every ounce of discipline he could muster not to take every slight, every diplomatic rebuff, and every act that upped the ante towards war personally.
By contrast, long smoldering anti-Western sentiments in Tehran roared to a conflagration. Decades of contrived paranoia, combined with potent Middle Eastern emotionalism erupted onto the streets the following day. A fear of Western aggression against Iran and Muslims, stoked and inflated by insular clerics, was personified by the bruised and pale faces of the captured Americans. It robbed the opposition of support and resolve, as many rallied to defend the nation. Men flocked to volunteer for militias and civil defense centers by the tens of thousands. The American President was burned in effigy amid hyper-agitated crowds. The Canadian Embassy was sacked, while diplomats and their families were spirited from the country by the Iranian high command.
There were calls for war in Congress and in the Iranian parliament. Another naval task force was ordered into the region, joining the two there already. For the moment cooler heads were prevailing, but peace is a child’s toy and nationalism a child on the verge of a tantrum. The leaders, seeking to thread their way towards peace, were burdened in knowing that prudent preparations for war steadily tipped the scales towards make war an eventuality. Among the American people fears of sleeper cells and impotent frustration rose to join cynical calls for war and retribution. There seemed to be little regard for the ultimate costs and predictable outcome of a war in either country.
Short of all out war, all the Iranians could hope for would be a bargaining position gained from their hostages. It would be a treacherous and dangerous road, risking war and greater isolation for the nominal admiration of peasants and stagnate Islamic states. The United Nations would condemn the taking of hostages, and echo the President’s demand for their unconditional release. No sanctions would be eased. There would be no quid pro quo over Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The CIA would quietly agree to stop encouraging Iranian officials to defect-for a time. A couple of spies would be unceremoniously released away from the glare and hype of the Press, and a contract to upgrade Iran’s power grid by a Serbian firm would be allowed after the crisis had abated. In the end, to most of the world, Iran’s reputation as a peasant nation fraudulently asserting itself among responsible developed nations would be confirmed, that is if it did not come to war. With each passing moment the likelihood of war increased dramatically, with some who actively worked to guarantee it would come about.
The prisoners were separated almost immediately. The wounded were moved to the Baghiyyatollah al-Azam military hospital in Tehran. The others were scattered around the country to prevent any attempt at rescue by the Americans. Eventually all the captives would be moved to various locations around the Iranian capitol. There they would be kept in different locations throughout the city, and brought together where they could be paraded and humiliated before the World’s Press. There was no hint of the terrible time bomb each of them carried. There was no indication that they were as much pawns as guinea pigs for a new kind of war. For now they would be trophies for the Iranians, as proof of America’s disregard for the sovereignty of dissident nations.
There would be little point to the exercise, except some sad assertion by the Iranians of emasculated power. Grainy washed-out images of prisoners in white jumpsuits eating at a prison table in a window-less room, or seated together along a wall beneath artificial light all but erasing their captors abuse, would be shown around the world. The images would do nothing to change hearts in the West. Those in the Muslim world that harbored a bias against the West would cheer Iran’s David and Goliath defiance. Others in the Muslim world, who saw Iran as an ideological enemy almost as loathsome as America, would be searching for angles.
In Washington, the American President charted a course across the impossibly complex Chess match of International diplomacy and one-upmanship. In that game history could be changed as easily by generals and heads of state, as by sudden acts by obscure souls. The Germans and Austrians had learned that lesson only too well in 1914 when a boy of sixteen stepped from a crowd on a Sarajevo street to gun down Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. Within months Europe was embroiled in a war that would cost the lives of more than ten million. The president was struggling to learn the lessons of history and to keep a proper perspective. In the days and weeks to come it would take every ounce of discipline he could muster not to take every slight, every diplomatic rebuff, and every act that upped the ante towards war personally.
By contrast, long smoldering anti-Western sentiments in Tehran roared to a conflagration. Decades of contrived paranoia, combined with potent Middle Eastern emotionalism erupted onto the streets the following day. A fear of Western aggression against Iran and Muslims, stoked and inflated by insular clerics, was personified by the bruised and pale faces of the captured Americans. It robbed the opposition of support and resolve, as many rallied to defend the nation. Men flocked to volunteer for militias and civil defense centers by the tens of thousands. The American President was burned in effigy amid hyper-agitated crowds. The Canadian Embassy was sacked, while diplomats and their families were spirited from the country by the Iranian high command.
There were calls for war in Congress and in the Iranian parliament. Another naval task force was ordered into the region, joining the two there already. For the moment cooler heads were prevailing, but peace is a child’s toy and nationalism a child on the verge of a tantrum. The leaders, seeking to thread their way towards peace, were burdened in knowing that prudent preparations for war steadily tipped the scales towards make war an eventuality. Among the American people fears of sleeper cells and impotent frustration rose to join cynical calls for war and retribution. There seemed to be little regard for the ultimate costs and predictable outcome of a war in either country.
Short of all out war, all the Iranians could hope for would be a bargaining position gained from their hostages. It would be a treacherous and dangerous road, risking war and greater isolation for the nominal admiration of peasants and stagnate Islamic states. The United Nations would condemn the taking of hostages, and echo the President’s demand for their unconditional release. No sanctions would be eased. There would be no quid pro quo over Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The CIA would quietly agree to stop encouraging Iranian officials to defect-for a time. A couple of spies would be unceremoniously released away from the glare and hype of the Press, and a contract to upgrade Iran’s power grid by a Serbian firm would be allowed after the crisis had abated. In the end, to most of the world, Iran’s reputation as a peasant nation fraudulently asserting itself among responsible developed nations would be confirmed, that is if it did not come to war. With each passing moment the likelihood of war increased dramatically, with some who actively worked to guarantee it would come about.
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Thirty
At just under twenty thousand souls, Marquette is a veritable metropolis among the wide and unyielding wilderness of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The wilderness gave way to strip malls, fast-food restaurants and motels on the western approaches, where the growing city encroached and pushed back the forest. Front Street rose from this modern assertion against nature’s sovereignty. There the original town still clung to the Superior shore, perched upon hills and bluffs above an open harbor and the massive ore dock below the town.
Doug turned the car onto Front Street, where the businesses and shops were closed up for the night. Two squad cars racing up Main Street. Doug had heard the sirens and slipped into an empty space in front of the old Ironwood Theater. He shut off the lights, ducking out of sight with the girls as the sqauds raced past.
When it was clear Doug pulled back onto the street. He went quickly through the dark and sleeping town. Following the lakeshore, it took the better part of an hour to reach the mainland dock opposite Grand Island. It was just off the road and hidden from view by trees. To the east the first sliver of pale orange daylight fought a curtain of turquoise clouds, silhouetted like some army of giants trudging off to war. It would be daylight in a few hours.
The Island was separated from the mainland by a narrow channel. To one side was Munising bay, and the other side, the open waters of Superior. The lake was like polished obsidian, reflecting a hand full of lights from the island. Grand Iland was as much of a fortress as Doug could hope for. High cliffs and treacherous surfs protected it from three sides. A stalwart but widely dispersed collection of loners and survivalists inhabited the island, each hidden away and isolated by dense primeval forest. This time of year, most folks abandoned the island for the mainland. With Autumn, storms came up sudden and fierce, the combined assault of screaming winds, sudden squalls and thundering waves cutting off the island for days or weeks at a time. Doug could not imagine a better place to hide out.
There was an aluminum skiff nearby, with a single blond-wood oar inside. Doug dragged it to the rocky little beach as the girls piled whatever they could inside. That done, he pulled the creased and faded business card from his pocket and quickly dialed the number into his cell phone. The phone rang twice at the other end. A woman answered her voice groggy and filled with sleep. Doug quickly hung up without a word. He carried the phone over to a hollow log, teetering on the bank above the shore, and placed the phone inside. That done Doug returned to the girls, shoved the boat into the lake and climbed inside.
Doug carefully pushed the oar into the icy cold water, careful not to make any more noise than necessary. Sounds could carry great distances over the lake. Rowing slowly, pushing the oar smoothly into the dark water and pulling back firmly it took a little better than twenty minutes to reach the island. The house was just across a small yard. It was small, with white trim and a small fireplace. A family of tall birch with fiery yellow leaves all but hid the place from view. The owners were old friends who were away for the season. Doug knew the place would be well stocked with food and supplies. Best of all, from here he could see anyone approaching the island from almost anywhere along the mainland coast. There was a shotgun and a hand full of shells in the house, kept to ward off scavenging black bears inhabiting the island. As Doug helped the girls up from the beach he was confident the girls could be safe here, at least for a while.
Doug hauled the boat onto the bank and covered it with branches and an old tarp. Careful to leave nothing behind, he followed the girls up to the house. There was a key hidden beneath a planter beside the back door. It had been weeks since anyone had lived in the place. The house seemed to exhale as Doug shoved the door open with his shoulder, the stale air escaping into the cold clear night. Doug started a fire and pulled out the sofa bed for the girls. He found the shotgun, dropped two shells into the twin barrels, fell back in a soft leather chair beside the girls and fell quickly to sleep with the gun cradled in his lap.
Doug turned the car onto Front Street, where the businesses and shops were closed up for the night. Two squad cars racing up Main Street. Doug had heard the sirens and slipped into an empty space in front of the old Ironwood Theater. He shut off the lights, ducking out of sight with the girls as the sqauds raced past.
When it was clear Doug pulled back onto the street. He went quickly through the dark and sleeping town. Following the lakeshore, it took the better part of an hour to reach the mainland dock opposite Grand Island. It was just off the road and hidden from view by trees. To the east the first sliver of pale orange daylight fought a curtain of turquoise clouds, silhouetted like some army of giants trudging off to war. It would be daylight in a few hours.
The Island was separated from the mainland by a narrow channel. To one side was Munising bay, and the other side, the open waters of Superior. The lake was like polished obsidian, reflecting a hand full of lights from the island. Grand Iland was as much of a fortress as Doug could hope for. High cliffs and treacherous surfs protected it from three sides. A stalwart but widely dispersed collection of loners and survivalists inhabited the island, each hidden away and isolated by dense primeval forest. This time of year, most folks abandoned the island for the mainland. With Autumn, storms came up sudden and fierce, the combined assault of screaming winds, sudden squalls and thundering waves cutting off the island for days or weeks at a time. Doug could not imagine a better place to hide out.
There was an aluminum skiff nearby, with a single blond-wood oar inside. Doug dragged it to the rocky little beach as the girls piled whatever they could inside. That done, he pulled the creased and faded business card from his pocket and quickly dialed the number into his cell phone. The phone rang twice at the other end. A woman answered her voice groggy and filled with sleep. Doug quickly hung up without a word. He carried the phone over to a hollow log, teetering on the bank above the shore, and placed the phone inside. That done Doug returned to the girls, shoved the boat into the lake and climbed inside.
Doug carefully pushed the oar into the icy cold water, careful not to make any more noise than necessary. Sounds could carry great distances over the lake. Rowing slowly, pushing the oar smoothly into the dark water and pulling back firmly it took a little better than twenty minutes to reach the island. The house was just across a small yard. It was small, with white trim and a small fireplace. A family of tall birch with fiery yellow leaves all but hid the place from view. The owners were old friends who were away for the season. Doug knew the place would be well stocked with food and supplies. Best of all, from here he could see anyone approaching the island from almost anywhere along the mainland coast. There was a shotgun and a hand full of shells in the house, kept to ward off scavenging black bears inhabiting the island. As Doug helped the girls up from the beach he was confident the girls could be safe here, at least for a while.
Doug hauled the boat onto the bank and covered it with branches and an old tarp. Careful to leave nothing behind, he followed the girls up to the house. There was a key hidden beneath a planter beside the back door. It had been weeks since anyone had lived in the place. The house seemed to exhale as Doug shoved the door open with his shoulder, the stale air escaping into the cold clear night. Doug started a fire and pulled out the sofa bed for the girls. He found the shotgun, dropped two shells into the twin barrels, fell back in a soft leather chair beside the girls and fell quickly to sleep with the gun cradled in his lap.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-nine
When Doug awoke it was still dark. He could hear the girls whispering in the back seat. Doug pulled himself up, feeling weak and momentarily disoriented. He pulled the mirror aside and found the girls looking up at him.
“How long was I out?” he asked, his throat parched and sore. The stabbing pain in his temple had not subsided, but instead was replaced by a nauseous thumping pain.
“Dad, you need to go to a hospital.” Megan slid forward and gingerly ran her fingers across his hair. Dana leaned forward beside her.
“Remember when I was a little girl,” Dana began. “When I fell off the monkey bars and the doctor said I shouldn’t sleep for a day because I might never wake up?”
“Right now,” said Doug, “I’m more concerned about you two.”
Doug turned and explored the girl’s faces with his fingers, as if they were rare and precious works of art. Their expressions were strange. They were calm and committed, and Doug wanted to sweep them into his arms as his heart swelled nearly to bursting from pride.
“Dad, we’re worried about you too.”
In glimpses Doug could make sense of bits and pieces. How they all fit together, and how they related to Fallahi would remain unanswerable for a time. The bigger picture eluded him for now. The best he could figure was that whoever wanted Fallahi dead benefitted from framing Doug for murder. What else would explain why he and the girls weren’t dead already? Doug doubted that whoever was behind the murder believed that Doug would escape before the police arrived. No doubt they would come looking for him now. Doug resolved to be ready for them when that eventuality arose.
“Okay, then,” he turned and started the engine. Doug rolled the window down and let the cold night air bring him around. He groaned and washed his hands across his face, then guided the Honda back onto the muddy road.
They headed south through the forest, and caught Forty-one east. Just outside Marquette he pulled into a drive-thru ATM. Doug emptied the account of fifteen hundred in cash. There was a security camera above the ATM. On the back of a bank slip he hastily scribbled a simple note, and held it up. It read:
I AM INNOCENT
“How long was I out?” he asked, his throat parched and sore. The stabbing pain in his temple had not subsided, but instead was replaced by a nauseous thumping pain.
“Dad, you need to go to a hospital.” Megan slid forward and gingerly ran her fingers across his hair. Dana leaned forward beside her.
“Remember when I was a little girl,” Dana began. “When I fell off the monkey bars and the doctor said I shouldn’t sleep for a day because I might never wake up?”
“Right now,” said Doug, “I’m more concerned about you two.”
Doug turned and explored the girl’s faces with his fingers, as if they were rare and precious works of art. Their expressions were strange. They were calm and committed, and Doug wanted to sweep them into his arms as his heart swelled nearly to bursting from pride.
“Dad, we’re worried about you too.”
In glimpses Doug could make sense of bits and pieces. How they all fit together, and how they related to Fallahi would remain unanswerable for a time. The bigger picture eluded him for now. The best he could figure was that whoever wanted Fallahi dead benefitted from framing Doug for murder. What else would explain why he and the girls weren’t dead already? Doug doubted that whoever was behind the murder believed that Doug would escape before the police arrived. No doubt they would come looking for him now. Doug resolved to be ready for them when that eventuality arose.
“Okay, then,” he turned and started the engine. Doug rolled the window down and let the cold night air bring him around. He groaned and washed his hands across his face, then guided the Honda back onto the muddy road.
They headed south through the forest, and caught Forty-one east. Just outside Marquette he pulled into a drive-thru ATM. Doug emptied the account of fifteen hundred in cash. There was a security camera above the ATM. On the back of a bank slip he hastily scribbled a simple note, and held it up. It read:
I AM INNOCENT
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-eight
The girls were down quickly, dressed in jeans and tennis shoes. Coats and blankets were bundled in their arms. Dana cradled an old Alf stuffed animal that had once been Jane’s. Doug took very little. He had his cell phone, a bank ATM and credit card and a single business card he’d kept since that blustery October day at ground zero. Doug took one last look around the house before ushering the girls out the back door. He paused momentarily to consider the pistol one last time before turning away leaving it behind. No doubt he would be considered a fugitive, but the last thing he wished to be considered was armed and dangerous.
They could hear the sirens approaching, out past the low curve of the two lane road. Doug swung Jane’s silver Honda Civic out of the driveway, spitting gravel. Running without lights, he pushed the gas pedal towards the floor. He could see the flashing blue lights splashed across the dark canyon of tall pine. The girls held each other in the back, watching as the lights faded before being swallowed by the night as Doug raced away in the opposite direction.
He hated to think what this might do to the girls. After all they had been through, it wasn’t right they should suffer this too. He cursed Fallahi and the men who brought their violence into his home. Someone would have to pay for that. But now they were running. They were running for their lives, ripped from the peace and privacy of their mourning. Doug fought to keep his rage from getting the better of him. He gripped the wheel until he felt the blood leave his knuckles and did all he could to keep the girls see that he was all but coming apart inside. He turned onto a muddy old logging road, nearly overgrown with grass. It was all Doug could do to stay focused and not pass out again. That he was being tracked through the deep and dark Michigan forest was simply not a consideration at the moment.
Still, Doug felt safe here. He knew these roads well. He’d hunted these forests as a boy, and hiked them a hundred times with Jane and the girls. This is where he came to escape the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the undeclared Pakistani Civil War and the Intifada in Gaza and the West bank. He knew where the roads softened under bubbling springs and where they were rutted the worst. He knew by heart the twists and sharp turns, where they doubled back, where they ran to dead ends, or where they crossed hidden creeks and cut through all but impassable thickets.
In the back Dana and Megan were quiet. They were smart and level-headed girls. Jane had given them the foundations to become competent women. Doug would have liked to take some credit, but felt he had spent too much time away. They were fully aware of the gravity of the situation, and came to it with a maturity Doug was awe by.
He worried, though. He worried what all this would mean to them. He worried about the scars it might leave. Foremost in his mind was the thought that every mistake he made through all of this would be magnified immeasurably in their young psyches. For now his primary concern was in keeping them safe until he could properly sort this all out. Just how he would accomplish that was still open to debate.
Winning the debate at that moment was his injury, which wasn’t critical, but serious enough that he just wanted to close his eyes and be done with the pain thundering in his head. Since leaving the house Doug was holding onto consciousness by threads. Rounding a narrow bend, limbs and branches scraping the car loudly, and skidding along a muddy decline, Doug could feel that tenuous hold slipping away. He pulled off the road into a small. Grassy clearing, and with the last ounce of strength remaining looked back at the girls.
“Sorry,” he said, “ but I have to pass out for a while.”
They could hear the sirens approaching, out past the low curve of the two lane road. Doug swung Jane’s silver Honda Civic out of the driveway, spitting gravel. Running without lights, he pushed the gas pedal towards the floor. He could see the flashing blue lights splashed across the dark canyon of tall pine. The girls held each other in the back, watching as the lights faded before being swallowed by the night as Doug raced away in the opposite direction.
He hated to think what this might do to the girls. After all they had been through, it wasn’t right they should suffer this too. He cursed Fallahi and the men who brought their violence into his home. Someone would have to pay for that. But now they were running. They were running for their lives, ripped from the peace and privacy of their mourning. Doug fought to keep his rage from getting the better of him. He gripped the wheel until he felt the blood leave his knuckles and did all he could to keep the girls see that he was all but coming apart inside. He turned onto a muddy old logging road, nearly overgrown with grass. It was all Doug could do to stay focused and not pass out again. That he was being tracked through the deep and dark Michigan forest was simply not a consideration at the moment.
Still, Doug felt safe here. He knew these roads well. He’d hunted these forests as a boy, and hiked them a hundred times with Jane and the girls. This is where he came to escape the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the undeclared Pakistani Civil War and the Intifada in Gaza and the West bank. He knew where the roads softened under bubbling springs and where they were rutted the worst. He knew by heart the twists and sharp turns, where they doubled back, where they ran to dead ends, or where they crossed hidden creeks and cut through all but impassable thickets.
In the back Dana and Megan were quiet. They were smart and level-headed girls. Jane had given them the foundations to become competent women. Doug would have liked to take some credit, but felt he had spent too much time away. They were fully aware of the gravity of the situation, and came to it with a maturity Doug was awe by.
He worried, though. He worried what all this would mean to them. He worried about the scars it might leave. Foremost in his mind was the thought that every mistake he made through all of this would be magnified immeasurably in their young psyches. For now his primary concern was in keeping them safe until he could properly sort this all out. Just how he would accomplish that was still open to debate.
Winning the debate at that moment was his injury, which wasn’t critical, but serious enough that he just wanted to close his eyes and be done with the pain thundering in his head. Since leaving the house Doug was holding onto consciousness by threads. Rounding a narrow bend, limbs and branches scraping the car loudly, and skidding along a muddy decline, Doug could feel that tenuous hold slipping away. He pulled off the road into a small. Grassy clearing, and with the last ounce of strength remaining looked back at the girls.
“Sorry,” he said, “ but I have to pass out for a while.”
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-seven
“Dad! Dad!” It was Megan’s voice.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
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