Doug yawned and shook the lingering sleep fogging his thoughts and weighing upon every movement. The window of the old Ford truck was down, the cold wind and errant drops of icy rain helping to revive him. Doug cried out and pulled at the wheel, doing everything he could to speed that process, and battle the confusing cascade of broken thoughts of Molly, the girls, Jane and more.
He rounded a wide bend, descending a long hill. There was something in the road ahead, but it was far away, and impossible to tell for sure. At first it appeared to be a terrible accident. The smaller of the two vehicles had taken a terrible broadside and had skidded off onto the shoulder. Parts of the vehicle lay scattered across the road: plastic and metal parts. The right front tire was missing, the rear tire flat on its side beneath the rear panel. The passenger side had clearly taken the full force of the impact, and was crush from the front fender clear to the rear bumper, all of it driven nearly to the center of what remained of the vehicle. Doug muttered a small prayer for anyone inside, until he saw someone climb from the larger vehicle, cocked at an angle, and partly on the steep slope at the side of the road, with an automatic weapon in his hands.
He hadn’t recognized the big black Suburban at first, but now knew instantly what had happened. The driver remained inside, apparently dazed from the impact, and leaning over the steering wheel. It was the man seated behind the driver with the weapon, now standing dead center in the road, leveling the gun at Doug and the on-rushing Ford, waving it back.
Doug jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator without thinking. Even as the gunman raised the weapon to his shoulder and prepared to fire, Doug could see the expression flee the man’s face, resigned fully to the realization he was about to die. Doug ducked precisely the instant bullets skipped off the hood and slapped through the windshield, burying themselves in the vinyl seat above him.
He was only vaguely aware of the initial impact, a sickly wet thump as the Ford and gunman met suddenly. The impact carried the man violently backwards, his chest already crushed, his vital organs rupturing in a spray of bright red blood from his mouth and nose. It was eclipsed by the abrupt calamity of the Ford hammering the Suburban sideways, severing the dying gunman’s legs, and mortally wounding the grizzled veteran within.
The Suburban slid sideways and tipped, tumbling down the steep embankment, where it came to a rest against a tree on one side. The tires spun impotently in air, the engine revving momentarily, as if in a final dying gasp. The riotous sound, the scrape and crash of the impact fled, echoing among the trees and night, replaced quickly by absolute silence; the aftermath of a terrific battle.
Doug sat up, looking out from the bullet riddled windshield of the old Ford to the smoking heap of the suburban, half amazed to be unhurt let alone alive. He climbed out and picked up the automatic weapon lying in the road beside the bisected gunman’s still quivering body. From the Suburban a single figure climbed from the driver’s shattered window. Doug, without a shred of emotion or remorse (both would come later) slid the bolt back to chamber a round and fired once. The figure grunted and tumbled backwards from view. Doug tossed the weapon aside and turned towards the shattered remains of the Jetta.
Molly fought for consciousness. Time came as fragmented as the bits of glass in her lap. Shards peppered her hands and face, trickling silky-warm blood. She had only the vaguest impression of what had happened, and little more of the press of a body against her. Pain, such as it was, hadn’t come yet, but still remained hidden behind a shroud of shock and bewilderment. A feeble whimper escaped her blood speckled lips.
There was someone above her, and though she sensed an urgency in some distantly familiar voice, it was still far too much far too soon to process properly. All at once, with that voice the world and an ocean of boiling hot pain came flooding in upon her.
“Come on,” Doug Springer cried. “We have to get out of here.”
Doug strained to open her door, which had jammed during the impact. The sickly sweet bite of leaking gasoline filled the air, strong enou8gh that Doug fought a growing panic, as he pressed a foot to the car for leverage and gave one last mighty heave. The door snapped open, groaning loudly on its hinges, the edge grinding into the gravel at the side of the road. Molly slid sideways from the vehicle, falling into Doug’s arms as he pulled her free and laid her gently on the grassy shoulder.
“My partner,” she moaned, tensing as Doug pulled a bit of glass imbedded in her cheek. Dark red blood gushed immediately.
“Don’t move,” said Doug. He looked back along the road, past the carnage and over the deserted highway. It wouldn’t be long before someone came along, but he was afraid to move Molly before he was certain she wasn’t seriously injured. He looked over carefully, touching her limbs, pressing gently on her stomach and lower ribs, relieved that she didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but for some cuts and bruises.
Moon,” she said blankly. Her eyes stared into the whispering rain and swiftly moving storm clouds and knew. “Is he?”
“I’m sorry, Molly.”
She looked up into his eyes. He slowly drew his hand from her forehead. The blood flowing from the wound in her cheek had slowed. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and pressed it there. She tried to sit up, falling back with a groan. He helped her, holding her shoulders. Molly fell back against his chest, felt suddenly safe there.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so, but we’d better hurry,” she said, “before I pass out.”
Molly wished to stand, but her legs were having none of it, and Doug caught her once more. He lifted her into his arms, stepping over part of the gunman. Molly looked at him as if he was a savior or some sort of guardian angel. A moment later she passed out cold.
Showing posts with label arts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label arts. Show all posts
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-one
The bodies lay in the alley, not twenty yards from bristling coils of razor wire strung across the street and around the long apartment block in both directions. The man was face down, appearing as though he had been frozen in mid run. He was dressed in a loose fitting beige kafiya. His body dipped unnaturally in the middle where dark blood pooled, as if it was held in a bowl. One arm lay close to one side, the palm turned upward. The other had suffered the full weight of the man’s falling body and was bent cruelly just above the elbow.
Beside him lay a middle aged woman. She was sprawled on her back, one arm outstretched and pleading. Her handsome Persian face was pale, and painted with a mixture of agony and confusion. She was dressed in a pink terry-cloth bathrobe, now open to expose a white blood spattered slip beneath. A loosely tied hijab covered the woman’s long dark hair, which was streaked with rivulets of silver. The young Azeri conscript who had fired the fatal wounds became so inconsolable that he had to be hospitalized.
The entire block had been cordoned off, trapping a number of people within. Razor wire and flood lights went off, the perimeter secured by soldiers, police and guard dogs. It had been simultaneous, four of the six American captives died almost immediately. A fifth was clinging to life in a military hospital, unconscious and without any notable brain activity. The last, a young Army Staff Sergeant, who had been held alone in a bank vault near the airport was apparently unaffected. All of the officers who had taken part in the battle and had accompanied the Americans to Tehran, seventy soldiers as well as an entire village near the crash site and simply dropped dead, as if someone had flipped a switch. Given the circumstances, a shoot to kill order for anyone attempting to escape the quarantined area was arguably unavoidable.
The bodies were the human face to the unfolding tragedy. The quarantines all around the country had proved nightmarish to pull off. People fled in panic, trudging through sewers, disappearing into the night or slipping through cordons as they struggled to close off whole blocks amid urban sprawl. Police and soldiers and doctors were allowed to pass after viewing the bodies, and few if any precautions were taken once the order was given to move the dead. If the deaths had been caused by a pathogen that was easily transmitted from person to person, the initial response might well have spread it throughout the population already.
The mysterious circumstances surrounding the deaths drove the Iranian leadership into a near panic. Within an hour Iranian airspace was closed and the military thrown into chaos. The immediate reaction was that this was indeed a biological attack by the Americans, some long feared sneak attack of some sort. But it couldn’t be confirmed, and after several hastily conducted autopsies no one was any closer to an answer. In truth, in all but one of the seven independent post mortems, only one had correctly identified severe brain hemorrhage as the cause of death, and only because that was conducted in a hospital with CT Scanning equipment, as opposed to the others done at military bases, outlying clinics, and in one case, a woefully outdated local mortuary. What was sure was that it was well beyond any reasonable chance that all the deaths, occurring at precisely the same moment were a coincidence.
From the Islamic revolution during the late Seventies, Iran saw the United States as its greatest enemy. It began a long covert war between Iran and the West, with assassinations, sabotage and open hostilities. Almost immediately the new Iranian Islamic Republic adopted Hamas in Lebanon, as well as their patrons, the Palestinian Liberation organization under Yasser Arafat, joining a common front against Israel and the West. In response, the Americans aided Iraq against Saddam’s war against Tehran.
Cyber warfare against the West had been in the works for years, targeting US companies, satellites, power grids and the like. Sleeper cells had been in place since the first months of the Islamic revolutions, prepared to unleash waves of terror attacks against soft targets around the globe and across the United States. Some would attack shopping malls and public gatherings to terrorize the population, while others would target infrastructure: bring down a bridge, blow up a railway line and bring down a hand full of highway overpasses in any American city and it would become paralyzed for weeks or months.
The operatives had lived and worked in the US and the West for years, often decades, awaiting orders or the signal to undertake a given operation. Those orders would come through foreign news sources, local classifieds, coffee house message boards or Facebook. Some were ex-patriots and émigrés; others were sympathizers, criminals, and even some willing to make a fast buck.
Simultaneous to terror attacks Iran would scuttle several large freighters in the narrow Straits of Hormuz, cutting off sea-going traffic in and out of the Gulf, and effectively trapping two American fleets. Combined air and sea suicide assaults by the Iranians would turn the Gulf in a cauldron. Bridges and roads all along the Iraqi border would be mined and blown up. Already there was an alarming number of Iranian troop movements into the mountains, while others began dissolving among the population all around the country for the inevitable insurgency against an expected Allied invasion
Once the order was given, the government would scatter, or flee to sanctuaries. Iran and its people would suffer America’s punishment and the years of hardship to follow. That was their history, far more of the people than the government. The nation had lasted five thousand years, from the advent of farming through the Iron and Bronze Ages. They survived Alexander’s armies, the Mongol hordes, the Shah’s abuses, Ahmadinejad and the Ayatollahs. This they could surely endure.
But the order wasn’t given, at least not yet, despite the desperate pleas of the army and the apocalyptic fatalism of the ruling party. In the end, it was the Mullahs, the nation’s religious leaders that called for prudence. If it came to war, they said, the Mullahs would offer their unanimous support, but given the terrible destruction that would rain down upon the Iranian people, a moment’s pause, at the very least, was justified. There was still time to prevent a war, but the moments remaining grew scarcer and more precious each second that passed. No one could have known that best hope for stopping war were fighting for their lives on a lonely rain-swept stretch of road among the wilds of Northern Michigan seven thousand miles away.
Beside him lay a middle aged woman. She was sprawled on her back, one arm outstretched and pleading. Her handsome Persian face was pale, and painted with a mixture of agony and confusion. She was dressed in a pink terry-cloth bathrobe, now open to expose a white blood spattered slip beneath. A loosely tied hijab covered the woman’s long dark hair, which was streaked with rivulets of silver. The young Azeri conscript who had fired the fatal wounds became so inconsolable that he had to be hospitalized.
The entire block had been cordoned off, trapping a number of people within. Razor wire and flood lights went off, the perimeter secured by soldiers, police and guard dogs. It had been simultaneous, four of the six American captives died almost immediately. A fifth was clinging to life in a military hospital, unconscious and without any notable brain activity. The last, a young Army Staff Sergeant, who had been held alone in a bank vault near the airport was apparently unaffected. All of the officers who had taken part in the battle and had accompanied the Americans to Tehran, seventy soldiers as well as an entire village near the crash site and simply dropped dead, as if someone had flipped a switch. Given the circumstances, a shoot to kill order for anyone attempting to escape the quarantined area was arguably unavoidable.
The bodies were the human face to the unfolding tragedy. The quarantines all around the country had proved nightmarish to pull off. People fled in panic, trudging through sewers, disappearing into the night or slipping through cordons as they struggled to close off whole blocks amid urban sprawl. Police and soldiers and doctors were allowed to pass after viewing the bodies, and few if any precautions were taken once the order was given to move the dead. If the deaths had been caused by a pathogen that was easily transmitted from person to person, the initial response might well have spread it throughout the population already.
The mysterious circumstances surrounding the deaths drove the Iranian leadership into a near panic. Within an hour Iranian airspace was closed and the military thrown into chaos. The immediate reaction was that this was indeed a biological attack by the Americans, some long feared sneak attack of some sort. But it couldn’t be confirmed, and after several hastily conducted autopsies no one was any closer to an answer. In truth, in all but one of the seven independent post mortems, only one had correctly identified severe brain hemorrhage as the cause of death, and only because that was conducted in a hospital with CT Scanning equipment, as opposed to the others done at military bases, outlying clinics, and in one case, a woefully outdated local mortuary. What was sure was that it was well beyond any reasonable chance that all the deaths, occurring at precisely the same moment were a coincidence.
From the Islamic revolution during the late Seventies, Iran saw the United States as its greatest enemy. It began a long covert war between Iran and the West, with assassinations, sabotage and open hostilities. Almost immediately the new Iranian Islamic Republic adopted Hamas in Lebanon, as well as their patrons, the Palestinian Liberation organization under Yasser Arafat, joining a common front against Israel and the West. In response, the Americans aided Iraq against Saddam’s war against Tehran.
Cyber warfare against the West had been in the works for years, targeting US companies, satellites, power grids and the like. Sleeper cells had been in place since the first months of the Islamic revolutions, prepared to unleash waves of terror attacks against soft targets around the globe and across the United States. Some would attack shopping malls and public gatherings to terrorize the population, while others would target infrastructure: bring down a bridge, blow up a railway line and bring down a hand full of highway overpasses in any American city and it would become paralyzed for weeks or months.
The operatives had lived and worked in the US and the West for years, often decades, awaiting orders or the signal to undertake a given operation. Those orders would come through foreign news sources, local classifieds, coffee house message boards or Facebook. Some were ex-patriots and émigrés; others were sympathizers, criminals, and even some willing to make a fast buck.
Simultaneous to terror attacks Iran would scuttle several large freighters in the narrow Straits of Hormuz, cutting off sea-going traffic in and out of the Gulf, and effectively trapping two American fleets. Combined air and sea suicide assaults by the Iranians would turn the Gulf in a cauldron. Bridges and roads all along the Iraqi border would be mined and blown up. Already there was an alarming number of Iranian troop movements into the mountains, while others began dissolving among the population all around the country for the inevitable insurgency against an expected Allied invasion
Once the order was given, the government would scatter, or flee to sanctuaries. Iran and its people would suffer America’s punishment and the years of hardship to follow. That was their history, far more of the people than the government. The nation had lasted five thousand years, from the advent of farming through the Iron and Bronze Ages. They survived Alexander’s armies, the Mongol hordes, the Shah’s abuses, Ahmadinejad and the Ayatollahs. This they could surely endure.
But the order wasn’t given, at least not yet, despite the desperate pleas of the army and the apocalyptic fatalism of the ruling party. In the end, it was the Mullahs, the nation’s religious leaders that called for prudence. If it came to war, they said, the Mullahs would offer their unanimous support, but given the terrible destruction that would rain down upon the Iranian people, a moment’s pause, at the very least, was justified. There was still time to prevent a war, but the moments remaining grew scarcer and more precious each second that passed. No one could have known that best hope for stopping war were fighting for their lives on a lonely rain-swept stretch of road among the wilds of Northern Michigan seven thousand miles away.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty-nine
After leaving Molly at the Clark Station Doug had slipped quickly down a narrow alley just off the highway, cutting his lights immediately, and coasting through the alley and out of sight without using his brakes. He watched the Suburban pass, and then headed inland, finding a deserted old logging roads through some of the deepest and darkest wilderness in the country. Bouncing and banging over deep ruts. Even with headlights they were often indiscernible from anything that could be even liberally considered a road. Deer crossed lazily in front the truck, at the limits of his headlights, eyeing the would-be interloper to their private domain curiously. In places the grass and weeds grew tall, only hinting at some sort of navigable lane through dense tunnels of overhanging trees whose branches and leaves scraped and slapped against the sides of the truck.
Such places might have evoked all sorts of dangers conjured by the conscious and sub-conscious mind. Doug might have felt lost or trapped here. He might have believed these dark woods were indeed inhabited by the spirits of ancient Ojibwa warriors and demons. But this is where he had grown up. The forests surrounded him protectively like a dear old friend. He could feel secure in the knowledge that no one could find him here, for there were uncountable trails such as this, running for thousands of miles through these forests. An army could disappear in the Hiawatha, or, in Doug’s case, it would take an army to find a single man.
These roads were completely disorienting, especially in the dark, even for Doug, who was accustomed to this place. When he came to Au Train Lake, just off the highway a brief bought of threatening panic at being lost subsided. Doug pulled across the highway into a tiny cemetery and pulled out the phone Carol and Geoff had given him. His heart breaking softly, Doug quickly dialed the ten digit number and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Sea Coast cottage,” a man’s voice answered quickly. “Geoff speaking.”
“Geoff, its Doug,” he said, afraid he might simply dissolve into tears at any moment. An owl cried lonely into the night from the tree above. “Are the girls all right?”
Geoff lowered his voice. Doug could hear the screen door open and close as Geoff went out onto the enclosed porch of the cottage.
“Doug,” he began, “don’t you worry now. Your girls are just fine. I’m cooking them up a couple of burgers. Carol ran out to Marquette and got them a few things; Pajamas, clothes, that sort of stuff.”
“Not sure I can ever…” Doug began. Geoff cut him off quickly.
“Nonsense,” he said, almost scolding. “You just clear all this up and come back to these girls safe and sound. Want to speak with them? I know they’re worried sick.”
Doug was quiet for a moment. He knew the technology, and knew these men had the capability of scanning a fair number of calls at once. Out here that didn’t leave a great many folks. As badly as he wanted to hear the girl’s voices, to tell them how much he loved them, and a thousand other things, but it was just too risky. Every second he spent on the phone exposed him and the girls to greater danger, and Doug just couldn’t risk that.
“Tell them I contacted you and that I’m okay, and will sort all this out soon.” The emotion caught in his chest. Doug paused, fighting through the moment. “And tell them…tell them I love them both more than life.”
“I will.” Said Geoff.
Doug switched off the phone and slid the battery from the back of the small plastic body. He slipped them into his pocket and shut his eyes for a moment. Sleep overtook him like a thief, as Doug, pushed well beyond simple exhaustion, was helpless to hold it back.
Such places might have evoked all sorts of dangers conjured by the conscious and sub-conscious mind. Doug might have felt lost or trapped here. He might have believed these dark woods were indeed inhabited by the spirits of ancient Ojibwa warriors and demons. But this is where he had grown up. The forests surrounded him protectively like a dear old friend. He could feel secure in the knowledge that no one could find him here, for there were uncountable trails such as this, running for thousands of miles through these forests. An army could disappear in the Hiawatha, or, in Doug’s case, it would take an army to find a single man.
These roads were completely disorienting, especially in the dark, even for Doug, who was accustomed to this place. When he came to Au Train Lake, just off the highway a brief bought of threatening panic at being lost subsided. Doug pulled across the highway into a tiny cemetery and pulled out the phone Carol and Geoff had given him. His heart breaking softly, Doug quickly dialed the ten digit number and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Sea Coast cottage,” a man’s voice answered quickly. “Geoff speaking.”
“Geoff, its Doug,” he said, afraid he might simply dissolve into tears at any moment. An owl cried lonely into the night from the tree above. “Are the girls all right?”
Geoff lowered his voice. Doug could hear the screen door open and close as Geoff went out onto the enclosed porch of the cottage.
“Doug,” he began, “don’t you worry now. Your girls are just fine. I’m cooking them up a couple of burgers. Carol ran out to Marquette and got them a few things; Pajamas, clothes, that sort of stuff.”
“Not sure I can ever…” Doug began. Geoff cut him off quickly.
“Nonsense,” he said, almost scolding. “You just clear all this up and come back to these girls safe and sound. Want to speak with them? I know they’re worried sick.”
Doug was quiet for a moment. He knew the technology, and knew these men had the capability of scanning a fair number of calls at once. Out here that didn’t leave a great many folks. As badly as he wanted to hear the girl’s voices, to tell them how much he loved them, and a thousand other things, but it was just too risky. Every second he spent on the phone exposed him and the girls to greater danger, and Doug just couldn’t risk that.
“Tell them I contacted you and that I’m okay, and will sort all this out soon.” The emotion caught in his chest. Doug paused, fighting through the moment. “And tell them…tell them I love them both more than life.”
“I will.” Said Geoff.
Doug switched off the phone and slid the battery from the back of the small plastic body. He slipped them into his pocket and shut his eyes for a moment. Sleep overtook him like a thief, as Doug, pushed well beyond simple exhaustion, was helpless to hold it back.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty
Good friends ran a quaint little roadside motel about a dozen miles or so down the road. The “SEA COAST INN stood beneath sheltering pine, which made the place feel comfortably serene and protected from the outside world. The unassuming sign stood out front, beside the highway, in front of a simple long gray building with white trim and shutters. Doug and Jane had spent a fair number of romantic escapes locked away in the comfortable rooms within that deceptively simple building. The owners, a kindly, deeply spiritual couple named Geoff and Carol, lived in a comfortable home out back. There was a garage beside the house. The woods deepened at the back of the property, the afternoon sunlight falling in patches through the thickening trees and brush.
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Big Blu Sky-Twenty-four
They stood beside the Bosporus, not far from Molly’s hotel. The lights from the Asia side blinked like so many stars in the building humidity, crowded upon the hillside and silhouetted against the curtain of black night. To the west a storm was growing, tendrils of bright gold and blue lightening reaching across towering thunderheads. The thunderheads built until the jet stream tore away the tops in ghost-white shrouds. The hum and chatter of the living city was silenced in gusts that drew snow-white tassels upon the black waters of the channel. Molly and Doug were leaning on a rail. She felt electric at the warmth of Doug’s arm so close to hers.
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
She was thinking that it would be nice if Doug kissed her, though she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud. He was so attractive and interesting, and so married, and Molly wondered if she could ever be the “other” woman. Still, there was a connection that was impossible to deny. Whether or not she would act on that attraction was still an open question.
He was away in thought. Molly looked up at him and noted that far away expression. It was as if he was struggling with something.
“Care to share, Doug?”
He shook the thought away.
“Thinking about Shosa and Fallahi. On some levels I can understand the Iranians positions and motivations, but then they do all this stupid shit that erases any sympathy for their position.”
“The nuclear thing?”
“Truth of it is, a few technologically advanced nations are wrong to prevent new technologies from reaching less advanced nations. Its quite impossible really. It would be akin to banning the piston engine because they might produce tanks instead of automobiles.”
“Don’t you think that the technologies that provide weapons of mass destruction to rogue or irresponsible states is different?”
"Maybe."
"So what is Fallahi's part in all this?"
“Iran’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their embassies provide a support network for international cells funneling money, messages, supplies, weapons.”
“Like the CIA.”
“You argue like a lawyer,” he smiled.
“Got my law degree at John Marshall.”
“"I'll concede that there’s a fundamental difference. The Iranian government is loaded with former Revolutionary Guard commanders; Minister of Energy, Welfare and Social Security, Housing and Urban development, Labor and Social Affairs. The Minister of Education headed the Secret Police in Tehran at one point.”
A virtual military junta,” Molly observed.
“Exactly.”
“And Fallahi?”
“Listen, I have no illusions about Fallahi.” Doug folded his arms and leaned back against the rail.
“What is that relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said.
“Not asking as a federal Agent?”
Molly smiled. “Off the record.”
He breathed deeply. “We use one another, and there is an implied respect in that.”
"But you don't completely trust him?"
“Two Years ago three men murdered an Iranian-Kurdish dissenter in Lindsborg, Sweden. Reportedly Fallahi was in Sweden at the time and closely matches the description of one of the assassins.”
“Anyway,” he stood to face her. “Enough of politics.”
In flashes on distant lightening, the city lights sparkling in her eyes, Doug was taken by her dark beauty. The wind tugged a lock of hair across her cheek, and it was all he could do not to push it away. He knew too well where that could lead, but still the temptation remained. He imagined kissing her soft lips, drawing her into his arms. It had been so long since he had felt a woman. He thought of Jane, struggling with cancer and felt so ashamed simply for the thought, but Molly was here and so beautiful.
“Want to come up for a bit?” she asked, her eyes like deep dark beckoning pools. He looked away, towards Asia. He smiled and, when he felt a bit stronger, found her eyes once more.
“Maybe its best that I just say goodnight.”
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Eighteen
Molly took longer than usual to reach home in suburban Falls Church, a pretty village of family homes and bright New England churches. The town was just far enough from the city to feel like an escape. She turned from East Broad Street onto Cherry, feeling as if she had finally escaped the madness of a world embodied in grueling traffic. The street was dark and quiet, bounded on either side by plain houses, well kept yards and natly trimmed hedges.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
The Big Blue Sky: Seventeen
Traffic was heavy along Arlington Boulevard out of Washington. It was already dark. To the west, as if black ink had been spilled across the turquoise sunset, a storm was building. It was warm for an autumn day, but the scent of rain carried hints of a cold front behind the storm clouds. Molly’s gaze followed the ceaseless line of crimson taillights and felt father away from home than she had all day.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixteen
Molly was anxious as she waited to see Director Hallman. She had hoped to have the preliminary lab results from Bernstein’s autopsy, but they had been held up without explanation. Without the results the case she was building for a deeper investigation into the Congressman’s death was based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and a few momentous leaps of faith. That Molly could see that a trail led somewhere definitely was based more on faith than fact. Still,Bbsed upon the evidence she had seen, Bernstein’s death was likely connected to the other two deaths Asgari had shown her. As flimsy as the evidence was, Molly felt sure she could still make enough of an argument to pursue a case, and at least stall for enough time to flush out a few leads until the lab results came in.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifteen
The Iranians have already protested,” said Ambassador Spurlock. “They are calling this a blatant and illegal infringement upon their national sovereignty.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
“Not particularly strong,” observed the President, “given the gravity of the situation.”
“I think everyone is giving themselves ample maneuvering room. Just like we saw when Israel seized the Turkish ship attempting to run their blockade of Gaza. This one will be fought as hard in the World Press as on the ground.”
“This was a search and rescue mission,” said secretary Burger. “We were responding to a distress signal from a downed pilot.”
“So we thought,” said Keil.”
Burger nodded, “So we thought.”
Veil wasn’t satisfied. “Looks like our guys were ambushed.”
The President went around to the monitor. “Doesn’t sound like something the Iranians would pull. Maybe I’m wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt. If I am we will hit them just as hard.”
“Rogue elements?” Veil continued. Not that he was itching for a fight, necessarily, but he took the plight of those poor soldiers deeply personal.
“A coup?” offered the Air Force. Burger shook his head.
“Tehran is quiet.” He said. “Their military is on high alert nationwide and they’re mobilizing civil defense units, but so far this seems pretty localized."
“I think our number one concern right now is shoring up allies,” Osborne offered. “And being mindful of retaliation in the form of sleeper cells at home and around the world. I don’t think we can expect the Iranians to fight fair.”
“Would you?’ asked the President.
“Absolutely not.”
The president considered all of this. He rubbed at the tension building at his brow and wished for more time. He wished for facts and broader perspectives, knowing full well God and history would judge him completely for his decision. And the weight of that decision was beyond comprehension. Not the least of which was the drama and tragedy of the survivors fighting for their lives that very moment. Were they worth the cost of war, of tens or hundreds of thousands of lives? The battle was waning. They would be overrun and out of ammunition well before any rescue force could reach them.
“Give the order, sir,” Keil was almost pleading. The Air Force nodded in agreement, “and we’ll punch a hole to our boys and set fire to southern Iran.”
Despite their resolve to fight he knew these men well enough they carried the discipline and respect to carry whatever decision was made forward, and he and already decided.
“Worth a war to you, General Keil?” he asked.
“That’s for politicians to ponder, sir,” he replied. “I am a soldier.”
The President nodded, drawing in a breath. “Put our forces on alert, but with crystal clear rules of engagement. No one fires a shot unless attacked by a clear and verifiable target. I don’t want to incite the Iranians, but I don’t want to be their bitch either. Zero defects, ladies and gentlemen.”
“And the survivors?’ asked Burger.
“I’ll talk with the Canadian Prime minister. We’ll need his people in Tehran as intermediaries to negotiate a release.” He motioned to an aide. “Have the State department see what kind of backing we can expect from China. Let’s talk with SOCOM in one hour. We need to put Iran back on its heels a bit, and get us off the defensive before the Press gets hold of this story. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s have us be the ones who write the narrative here.”
The Big Blue Sky: Fourteen
It was perhaps a misleading word to describe the White House Situation Room as just that. It was a complex. On the ground floor of the sprawling West Wing, a busy operations center funneled information from around the planet, analyzing and prioritizing events twenty-four hours a day; a nerve center processing the unfolding history of the world.
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twelve
The Pave Lows took off separately. They dropped low, nearly to sea level, and swung north, using the ships for cover. Ten minutes later they rendezvoused north of the group before turning southeast, running hard and fast for the coast. West of Hendurabi Island, a featureless patch of sand, the Pave Lows corrected course once more, charging strait for the coast.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Eleven
The moment grew and deepened, with the specter of war and disaster looming at the edge of every decision. But nothing about this made any sense. No one could explain the distress beacon. Flybys confirmed an infra red strobe, the kind activated by downed flyers The latest satellite images only deepened the mystery, unable to see clearly through blowing dust. There was no wreckage, which wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility in such rugged terrain, which could quite easily swallow up and erase a single aircraft. The Iranians put out patrols along the coast and Highway Ninety-six to the east of the parachute and “body.” Strangest thing was that all aircraft had been accounted for in the area. Aside from the E2C Hawkeye and a pair of F-18 Hornets there wasn’t a damn thing in the sky. Even the Iranians, perhaps afraid of spooking the Americans into a fight, kept their aircraft on the ground.
Final approval for the operation came from the highest levels of the Pentagon. In Washington the President was informed as he returned from a cross-country speaking trip. Aside from constraints upon rules of engagement and potential escalation, he was satisfied with the military’s experience and prudence. In the end the final decision would depend upon three things; honor,a promise that no American soldier was ever left behind and Lt. Colonel McCallister, the man who would ultimately lead the mission.
Danzig found him on the flight deck. Before him three massive MH-53 Pave Low helicopters were silhouetted against the night sky. Magnificent and terrifying all at once, they were the most sophisticated and lethal helicopters in the world. At half a city block long and almost three stories in height it seemed comical that they had proved themselves in countless stealth and rescue missions. And when stealth failed as an option the Paves could open up on an adversary with 7.62mm mini-guns, a fifty caliber and an assortment missiles. It wasn’t an option McCallister intended to test on this mission. His teams had been fully briefed, and the crews well-prepared to charge across the sea at lightning speed and drop down to the desert before the Iranians knew what was happening. They’d be out and racing back for the safety of the CG inside forty minutes. Nice and easy. At least that was the plan.
Danzig stood next to him. Both men were quiet for a moment. McCallister was chewing on the end of an unlit Cuban cigar, a bit of a pre-mission ritual he believed brought good luck. They were looking off to the east, towards Iran.
“Give the word, Mac, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
McCallister breathed deeply, taking the cool salty air into his lungs.
“My team is ready, Sam.” The words sounded hollow almost from the moment they left him.
“Feels like our hands are a bit tied here,” said Danzig. “We’ll have a couple birds in the air, and more standing-by should you need them, but you will be alone for a while. Don’t fuck around out there.”
“I’d feel a bit better with some air support close by too.”
“Washington is telling me no dice. No one wants to start a war here.”
A sailor ran up with the latest intelligence of the target area. Even Danzig’s perfect poker face failed him as he looked over the report. He took a long breath and handed it over to McCallister.
“Looks like the Iranians are awake.”
McCallister looked over the report carefully. A column of enemy vehicles was on the move from the north. Another unit approached from the south along the coast. Add to that 2 Chinese Houdong class missile boats had been spotted north of Lavan Island moving south towards Chiruyeh.
McCallister nodded thoughtfully and gave Danzig’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is what we do.”
“Get home, Mac.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
His teams were already aboard the choppers. One by one they moved out onto the flight line as those General Electric twin turbo-shaft engines came to life. They cut a formidable image, so then why did McCallister have a nagging impression of the mission? Something made him anxious. He looked across the dark gulf waters. The business of war, he thought, was a craps game-eventually everyone's number came up. He couldn’t recall feeling this way about a mission before, and wondered if it wasn’t a sixth sense that had served him well all these years, or he was getting old and losing his nerve? They answers to those questions would have to wait.
Final approval for the operation came from the highest levels of the Pentagon. In Washington the President was informed as he returned from a cross-country speaking trip. Aside from constraints upon rules of engagement and potential escalation, he was satisfied with the military’s experience and prudence. In the end the final decision would depend upon three things; honor,a promise that no American soldier was ever left behind and Lt. Colonel McCallister, the man who would ultimately lead the mission.
Danzig found him on the flight deck. Before him three massive MH-53 Pave Low helicopters were silhouetted against the night sky. Magnificent and terrifying all at once, they were the most sophisticated and lethal helicopters in the world. At half a city block long and almost three stories in height it seemed comical that they had proved themselves in countless stealth and rescue missions. And when stealth failed as an option the Paves could open up on an adversary with 7.62mm mini-guns, a fifty caliber and an assortment missiles. It wasn’t an option McCallister intended to test on this mission. His teams had been fully briefed, and the crews well-prepared to charge across the sea at lightning speed and drop down to the desert before the Iranians knew what was happening. They’d be out and racing back for the safety of the CG inside forty minutes. Nice and easy. At least that was the plan.
Danzig stood next to him. Both men were quiet for a moment. McCallister was chewing on the end of an unlit Cuban cigar, a bit of a pre-mission ritual he believed brought good luck. They were looking off to the east, towards Iran.
“Give the word, Mac, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
McCallister breathed deeply, taking the cool salty air into his lungs.
“My team is ready, Sam.” The words sounded hollow almost from the moment they left him.
“Feels like our hands are a bit tied here,” said Danzig. “We’ll have a couple birds in the air, and more standing-by should you need them, but you will be alone for a while. Don’t fuck around out there.”
“I’d feel a bit better with some air support close by too.”
“Washington is telling me no dice. No one wants to start a war here.”
A sailor ran up with the latest intelligence of the target area. Even Danzig’s perfect poker face failed him as he looked over the report. He took a long breath and handed it over to McCallister.
“Looks like the Iranians are awake.”
McCallister looked over the report carefully. A column of enemy vehicles was on the move from the north. Another unit approached from the south along the coast. Add to that 2 Chinese Houdong class missile boats had been spotted north of Lavan Island moving south towards Chiruyeh.
McCallister nodded thoughtfully and gave Danzig’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is what we do.”
“Get home, Mac.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
His teams were already aboard the choppers. One by one they moved out onto the flight line as those General Electric twin turbo-shaft engines came to life. They cut a formidable image, so then why did McCallister have a nagging impression of the mission? Something made him anxious. He looked across the dark gulf waters. The business of war, he thought, was a craps game-eventually everyone's number came up. He couldn’t recall feeling this way about a mission before, and wondered if it wasn’t a sixth sense that had served him well all these years, or he was getting old and losing his nerve? They answers to those questions would have to wait.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Six
“There’s a connection, Caspar?”
Asgari was clearly in turmoil. In his long and varied career at Bethesda he had never come across anything so explosive. The dimension ran the gamut from the political to the legal, and into darker place beyond the law. It sent a shiver down his spine, and caused him to think odd and unnatural thoughts, not the least of which was who to trust and who posed a threat. Even with Molly that danger gave him pause, calling briefly into question the motives of a dear friend.
“I think they are related somehow,” he finally said.
She looked up sharply, searching his eyes and finding a growing terror there. It was enough to shake her world, like someone feeling the world tremble beneath their feet for the very first time.
“Do you know what you are saying?”
Caspar shook his head and took a deep breath. “I think this is very dangerous information to have, Molly.”
“I think we should make this official.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
She looked again at the X-rays, as if there was a chance Asgari could have been mistaken. He was far too thorough, and even she could see the evidence plainly. But who? And why?
“Have you told anyone about this?” she asked.
“Seriously?” he scoffed.
Molly thought again, turning to look again at Bernstein’s body. She looked one last time at the Xrays and then to the Doctor.
“And nothing about what you’ve found in the notes or your report?” she asked.
“Only preliminaries, and that it appeared to be an aneurism.”
“Can we leave it as inconclusive a bit longer.”
Caspar’s lip quivered slightly, an indication of terror, but also a growing impotent rage. “A part of me would leave this be for good and forget any of this.”
“Let me get some perspective.” Molly touched his cheek and managed smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope,” he said, unconvinced. “I think this is only just beginning.”
Asgari was clearly in turmoil. In his long and varied career at Bethesda he had never come across anything so explosive. The dimension ran the gamut from the political to the legal, and into darker place beyond the law. It sent a shiver down his spine, and caused him to think odd and unnatural thoughts, not the least of which was who to trust and who posed a threat. Even with Molly that danger gave him pause, calling briefly into question the motives of a dear friend.
“I think they are related somehow,” he finally said.
She looked up sharply, searching his eyes and finding a growing terror there. It was enough to shake her world, like someone feeling the world tremble beneath their feet for the very first time.
“Do you know what you are saying?”
Caspar shook his head and took a deep breath. “I think this is very dangerous information to have, Molly.”
“I think we should make this official.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
She looked again at the X-rays, as if there was a chance Asgari could have been mistaken. He was far too thorough, and even she could see the evidence plainly. But who? And why?
“Have you told anyone about this?” she asked.
“Seriously?” he scoffed.
Molly thought again, turning to look again at Bernstein’s body. She looked one last time at the Xrays and then to the Doctor.
“And nothing about what you’ve found in the notes or your report?” she asked.
“Only preliminaries, and that it appeared to be an aneurism.”
“Can we leave it as inconclusive a bit longer.”
Caspar’s lip quivered slightly, an indication of terror, but also a growing impotent rage. “A part of me would leave this be for good and forget any of this.”
“Let me get some perspective.” Molly touched his cheek and managed smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope,” he said, unconvinced. “I think this is only just beginning.”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-seven
A billion and a half miles away, as the crow flies, a small dull gray ship sank through the dense methane clouds of Saturn’s moon Titan. It sank undetected through that thick twilight haze, settling in a small valley. Like a chameleon the ship shifted color to match perfectly the umber and brown landscape. It even mimicked the pale yellow and white patches of Methane snow.
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Fourth book in the challenge
Three down and two to go! Down to the wire now and I am definitely feeling the pressure.
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-six
Jazz dressed and went down to Skull boy’s pod. The door was open, and he could see the kid at the glass, mesmerized by the strange creatures of Europa’s hidden ocean. He paused before going in and checked his credit pod. Full payment. Skull boy’s mother had deposited the full amount into his account before the end. The old bird must have known, he thought. He almost felt bad for all the stuff he said to her. He almost felt bad. Well, that was that, he thought, switching off the credit pod. There was just one last detail to attend to.
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-five
Kate fell back against the pillow and tussled sheets with a satisfied groan. Her arms and legs were still tangled in Jasper’s. For a moment they both wallowed in their post-coital bliss. Jazz was spent, but these few hours of uninhibited passion with Katy managed to sweep away the abuse of the last several days.
Their naked bodies were bathed in the blue green light of Europa’s subterranean ocean. They lay together in the softly lit pod as strange and beautiful creatures swam by. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat of their lovemaking. Her musky perfume enveloped him, and for the first time in a long while Jazz almost felt like he was home, whatever that meant.
Kate had managed to retrieve some of the unclaimed credits to her account. With a little help from Jazz she had purchased a new ship. The question was now where would she go. There was just too much to think about. For the moment it was enough to simply enjoy being close to Jazz.
“Well,” she stretched, “the earth was destroyed and millions of souls lost, but I got a new ship and got laid, so that’s something.”
“What about you and me?” Jazz said, groggily.
Katy scoffed. She wasn’t at all sure what she would do now, but she was certain of one thing. “You and me? We’d kill each other.”
“Why the hell would you say something so stupid?”
“Because you fail to comprehend the obvious, brain donor!”
“Witch!”
“Dickless!”
“Sow!” Jazz groaned. He had gone too far with that one. He wanted to take it back, but it was far too late. She grabbed his hairy nipple and twisted it hard. Jazz yelped with pain and smacked her hand away. He rolled out of bed and retreated to the other side of the pod. Kate glared at him.
“That;s for being such a shit!” she snarled.
Jazz laughed. He laughed so damn hard that his sides ached.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “We’d kill each other.”
She scooted from the bed and went to him. He gently touched her flushed face. Kate’s lips were soft and moist against his. She sighed with pleasure as he held her tight. There was a forlorn look on his face. He just looked so sad and lost. Kate’s heart went out to him.
“Don’t be a pussie,” she said.
He nodded and looked away at some dumb lumbering sea creature against the pod. Its sucker was trying to devour the pod before moving on.
“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.
“Told you, Jazz, you’re the best lay I ever had.”
That was the last thing he said to her. She turned and wrapped a sheet around her naked body. Jazz only nodded as she left the pod. He went to the bed. The memory of their passion was written in the swirled and crumpled sheets. There was still the depression in the pillow where her head had been. He breathed deeply, taking as much of her that still remained in the room before it was filtered away.
“Yeah, the best.”
Their naked bodies were bathed in the blue green light of Europa’s subterranean ocean. They lay together in the softly lit pod as strange and beautiful creatures swam by. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat of their lovemaking. Her musky perfume enveloped him, and for the first time in a long while Jazz almost felt like he was home, whatever that meant.
Kate had managed to retrieve some of the unclaimed credits to her account. With a little help from Jazz she had purchased a new ship. The question was now where would she go. There was just too much to think about. For the moment it was enough to simply enjoy being close to Jazz.
“Well,” she stretched, “the earth was destroyed and millions of souls lost, but I got a new ship and got laid, so that’s something.”
“What about you and me?” Jazz said, groggily.
Katy scoffed. She wasn’t at all sure what she would do now, but she was certain of one thing. “You and me? We’d kill each other.”
“Why the hell would you say something so stupid?”
“Because you fail to comprehend the obvious, brain donor!”
“Witch!”
“Dickless!”
“Sow!” Jazz groaned. He had gone too far with that one. He wanted to take it back, but it was far too late. She grabbed his hairy nipple and twisted it hard. Jazz yelped with pain and smacked her hand away. He rolled out of bed and retreated to the other side of the pod. Kate glared at him.
“That;s for being such a shit!” she snarled.
Jazz laughed. He laughed so damn hard that his sides ached.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “We’d kill each other.”
She scooted from the bed and went to him. He gently touched her flushed face. Kate’s lips were soft and moist against his. She sighed with pleasure as he held her tight. There was a forlorn look on his face. He just looked so sad and lost. Kate’s heart went out to him.
“Don’t be a pussie,” she said.
He nodded and looked away at some dumb lumbering sea creature against the pod. Its sucker was trying to devour the pod before moving on.
“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.
“Told you, Jazz, you’re the best lay I ever had.”
That was the last thing he said to her. She turned and wrapped a sheet around her naked body. Jazz only nodded as she left the pod. He went to the bed. The memory of their passion was written in the swirled and crumpled sheets. There was still the depression in the pillow where her head had been. He breathed deeply, taking as much of her that still remained in the room before it was filtered away.
“Yeah, the best.”
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-three
From the outer gas planets the end of the earth was a plaintive flash that momentarily rivaled the sun’s glare before fading from view. At mars the Earth’s demise threw a brief shadow across the rust red noon day landscape. The planet had disappeared in the relative blink of an eye. It had given rise to a species that had overrun, for better or worse, the solar system, and, god willing, would venture to the stars and galaxies and screw them up too. In the end its passing would matter little to only the most romantic souls, but its passing would not be noticed beyond the orbit of Jupiter. All of human history, the first humans to crawl from an African Gorge, Plato, Rome, The Great Wall,, Napoleon and Yakov Smirnoff erased for all time, but for the memories of ancestors reaching out across the universe.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Angry Jasper: Fifty-two
The pressure was unbearable now. Skull boy collapsed screaming, his cries lost to the grinding pressure and the violent shuddering of the planetoid and the strain of the engines. Kate was crawling, fighting with every ounce of strength to pull herself into the locker. Behind her, Jazz managed to shove the boy into locker. It sealed instantly as he slammed the door shut. fighting for air, and feeling as though his body might turn itself inside out, Jazz saw the door close and seal behind Kate as well.
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
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