Doug used the cover of the freighter to cross the harbor to the mainland. He “borrowed” a fiberglass canoe leaning at the back of the old wooden lighthouse. The girls crouched in the front of the boat until they came ashore along a driftwood strewn stretch of deserted beach. It was a short hike up from the beach through the forest to the small Sand Point ranger Station.
The station was a simple two-story white house, with a green shingled roof just beside the coast road leading south to town. It was shielded on two sides by trees. To one side it faced the bay. Doug waited until the lone officer, clad in shorts and a tee-shirt stretched with a yawn and went inside. Doug dodged across the road and crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle. There were three official vehicles parked side by side just past the door. Doug paused and heard the shower begin from one of the upstairs windows.
The last vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler, with its ubiquitous bright white color and forest green letters on the side. The door was unlocked. Doug searched the glove compartment and the visors but came up empty for the key. Under the floor mat beneath the driver’s seat Doug discovered a single key.
The jeep started easily. Doug dropped it into reverse and backed it across to where the girls were waiting, keeping a cautious eye to the house. Doug waved the girls over and they climbed inside. As Doug swung the jeep onto road he said a small prayer. There was a single road all the way to town, and then he’d have to get past a State Police outpost. If the jeep was discovered missing before then he and the girls hardly stood a chance.
“Jane, if you can hear me,” John muttered under his breath, “I need you now more than ever.”
“Dad, are we going to be in trouble?” Dana asked.
“Guys, we’re already in trouble.”
There was no point in hiding the truth. The road narrowed, bounded on one side by steeply wooded hills, and dropped sharply towards the lake on the other. He might have enjoyed once how beautiful and secluded this place was, but now it only felt like a trap.
“What if the police catch us?” Megan asked.
“If that happens,” he said, “you’ll tell the police everything” He looked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror and saw their turmoil. Megan was holding her sister’s hand, clutching it tightly in her lap. The State Police post was just ahead; a small brown building just beside the road. The freighter was already offloading a mountain of coal just across the road.
“We’ll get through this,” Doug said.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad mom isn’t here?” Megan said soberly. Dana looked up at her, her chin quivering with emotion
The words crushed him.
“No, honey.” He found her eyes in the mirror. “But I hope that she’s watching over us right now.”
The passed the post without incident, and passed quickly through town. The two-lane highway more or less followed the lakeshore. In places it climbed to heights offering sweeping views of the lake and forests. Where they came together was akin to two great armies crashing headlong in eternal battle, their meeting marked by ranks of heavy white waves crashing upon timber-strewn beaches.
Always dominating this pristine view was the great expanse of Grand Island. Doug could make out the tattered haze of smoke hovering over the southern end. He’d watch from a distance, safely hidden among the woods as the men approached the house. The man at the back kicked in the door and charged inside. A moment later, with a blinding explosion that knocked Doug backwards, the house disintegrated. There was little doubt as to the fate of the three men. They had come to kill Doug and the girls, and Doug had intended that they would die before they could harm Dana and Megan. Still, those deaths weighed on him. They tore at his heart for the families left behind, for their pain, and for the waste of it all. Wrong or right, those deaths would feel like a stain upon his soul for all time.
This was still a primitive land settled by stalwart souls who carved tentative parcels in some hard scrabble existence between the modern and pioneer worlds. These tentative places dotted the road, seemingly symbiotic with the surrounding wilderness. These folks were oddities to the outside world, and nefarious to out of town visitors unaccustomed to life in these parts. Truth was they were a mix of folks from the poor, anti-government types, loners, and aging hippies to people who just didn’t wish to be found.
Below the road, almost hidden from view among a thick bank of trees was one of those ramshackle little houses. It looked to have been patched together with tar paper and old boards. The small shack leaned slightly to one side, where it was braced hastily with a number of two by fours of varying lengths. Several of the he small windows on the one story structure were missing, replaced with heavy plastic or pieces of plywood. There was an ancient-looking outhouse out back and a clothesline. The yard was crowded with rusting tools, engine parts, and an old plastic lawn chair the front chassis of a 72 Chevy Impala. What caught Doug’s eye was the Sixty-five Ford F-100 pick up for sale in the grass beside the weedy driveway. It was hand painted a dull black and the rear bumper had been replaced with a single wood plant bolted to the frame. Doug swung the Jeep around to the opposite side of the road and got out with the girls. They hurried across the deserted highway and scrambled down the embankment to the shack.
The girls remained beside the old truck as Doug approached the shack. Nearly to door when a hobbling old man came out of the woods with a rifle and a big Canadian goose he shot for supper. Swimming in a dark Navy Pea Coat from an army surplus store, he glared suspiciously from beneath a bright orange hunter’s cap.
“Help you, Mister?” said the man, abruptly. He was leery of the strangers, nothing in particular to do with Doug and the girls, just that the old loner was naturally wary of all strangers.
“Interested in the truck,” Doug replied. “She run?”
“Looks like hell, but she’ll get you where you need to go.” He laid the dead goose over a stump, and set the rifle against the crooked house. He reached over and shook Doug’s hand, looking him straight in the eye. It was as much a test as a courtesy. “Got a three fifty-two, V-Eight under the hood, rebuilt carburetor, decent brakes, patched-up radiator. She looks like hell, but she’s solid.”
“I need a…”
“The old timer stopped him quickly. “Don’t much care what you need it for. By the looks of you and your girls, must be some sort of trouble. Want it, or don’t ya?”
“How much?”
The man studied Doug a moment, the girls no doubt weighing into whatever calculation he was making. “Whatever trouble you’re in ain’t none of my business, especially if you don’t make it any of my business.”
“Just need a truck, that’s all.”
“Four hundred. Firm.”
“Five hundred, and throw in the hat and coat.” said Doug.
“Got yourself a deal.”
Showing posts with label iran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label iran. Show all posts
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-Eight
Molly bent and looked into the Honda. It had been ransacked thoroughly enough that she doubted there would be anything of use in it any longer. The State Police boat was just unloading the bodies from the island. Each was carried off the boat in heavy black-plastic body bags, and laid along the small metal pier. The house on the island, or what remained of it, still smoldered. The gray-white smoke drifted oblique through trees and out over the bay.
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-four
“Okay, you guys,” Doug told the girls, “do you remember that night we went hiking on the other side of the island a couple years ago and that storm came up?”
“It totally poured,” said Megan. They were standing in the woods just behind the house. The roar of a motor boat sounded, coming across from the mainland. It was interrupted by the whumpf-whump-whumpf as the boat bounced heavily over growing wave tops. The wind built steadily, sending showers of gold and red leaves. Doug was running out of time. His only concern now was for the girls.
“We took shelter in that old abandoned inn?” Dana recalled.
“Out by Murray Bay,” said Doug.
“By that old cemetery in the woods, right?” Megan asked.
“Do you guys think you could find it?”
“Alone?”
“Men are coming and I have to try and stop them or you girls won’t be safe.” Doug lifted a nap sack with cash, canned food, water, matches, a big camping knife and a rolled up blanket. “If I am not there in the morning you two are to keep going to the old lighthouse. The guy who lives there will call the police. Tell them who you are, and give them this card.”
Doug pulled Molly’s card from his pocket and handed it to Megan.
“Dad, what do you mean if you…?”
“Listen to me,” he said quite seriously. “Who knows what could happen, but no matter what we have to have a back up plane, right?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Keep to the woods as much as you can. Don’t let anyone see you.” He hugged them both, and searched their frightened eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Doug watched them go, his heart leaving with them. When they were out of sight he started for the house. He could hear the boat’s powerful motor change in pitch as it slowed into Grand Island’s only public pier. Doug had fifteen or twenty minutes at best to get ready. He prayed it was enough time. At the back door he glanced at the woods one last time and prayed to see his girls again. Failing that, he prayed for their safety.
“It totally poured,” said Megan. They were standing in the woods just behind the house. The roar of a motor boat sounded, coming across from the mainland. It was interrupted by the whumpf-whump-whumpf as the boat bounced heavily over growing wave tops. The wind built steadily, sending showers of gold and red leaves. Doug was running out of time. His only concern now was for the girls.
“We took shelter in that old abandoned inn?” Dana recalled.
“Out by Murray Bay,” said Doug.
“By that old cemetery in the woods, right?” Megan asked.
“Do you guys think you could find it?”
“Alone?”
“Men are coming and I have to try and stop them or you girls won’t be safe.” Doug lifted a nap sack with cash, canned food, water, matches, a big camping knife and a rolled up blanket. “If I am not there in the morning you two are to keep going to the old lighthouse. The guy who lives there will call the police. Tell them who you are, and give them this card.”
Doug pulled Molly’s card from his pocket and handed it to Megan.
“Dad, what do you mean if you…?”
“Listen to me,” he said quite seriously. “Who knows what could happen, but no matter what we have to have a back up plane, right?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Keep to the woods as much as you can. Don’t let anyone see you.” He hugged them both, and searched their frightened eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Doug watched them go, his heart leaving with them. When they were out of sight he started for the house. He could hear the boat’s powerful motor change in pitch as it slowed into Grand Island’s only public pier. Doug had fifteen or twenty minutes at best to get ready. He prayed it was enough time. At the back door he glanced at the woods one last time and prayed to see his girls again. Failing that, he prayed for their safety.
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-three
The President had hardly slept all night. A couple of fifteen minute naps and ample amounts of bitter black coffee had helped him keep abreast of the rapidly changing events in the Gulf. He was standing at the window of the Oval Office. His striped blue neck tie lay across the big leather chair behind his desk. He was in a white shirt, still buttoned to the top button. The sleeves were rolled up along his forearms. A fine layer of sweat spread across the back of his neck, lightly staining the collar of the shirt. His shoulders were hunched against the ample tension growing there.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Chapter Two-Twenty-seven
“Dad! Dad!” It was Megan’s voice.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
She was calling to him, but it seemed a thousand miles away. Her voice was hollow and distant, as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep well and covered in water. As he came around Doug would have wished to remain submerged in the dark and emptiness, as suddenly the pain fell upon him like an avalanche. A nasty gash had been opened at his temple. The side of his head was sticky with drying blood that stained the floor beneath him. He would have wished for the brandy induced headache rather than the abusiveness of this new injury.
.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Megan’s face. Her hand was on his cheek. Dana was standing over Megan. There was a look of utter terror in their eyes, such as he had never seen before. It helped to bring him around a bit more.
“What, I…”he began, his mind unwilling to form complete thoughts just yet.
“Dad, we called the police.”
“Police?” he repeated the word as if it was a strange language.
Doug started to lift his right hand, but it felt heavy at first. It took a moment, as he turned to one side, to realize there was something heavy there. Doug groaned and rubbed his eyes again, this time finding the pistol in his hand. He looked sharply at the girls, and then turned to the body sprawled upon the sofa.
“Oh my god,” he moaned.
“Dad,” Megan knelt beside him, “he must have attacked you with a gun and you…” she looked back at her sister, who seemed in shock.
“There was a man…” he said confused, looking at the gun and then at Fallahi again.
“What man?”
“You didn’t…?”
“I came down and found you on the floor.”
“And the gun?”
“It was in your hand,” said Dana. Tears began streaming across her cheeks. She wiped them away and hugged herself. Now and again she would glance nervously towards the door.
Doug dropped the weapon and pushed it away, as if it was poison. His mind, such as it was, raced at a dizzying pace, enough that he feared tumbling back into unconsciousness. He looked wildly about the room, then back to Megan.
“You called the police?” he said, alarmed.
“They’re on their way. I’m sorry, it…”
“How long?’
“I don’t know, a minute or two before you came around.” she replied.
Doug searched the air, figuring things. The thoughts came as slow as cold honey. The house was some distance from Marquette under the best of conditions. It was a bit better than a twenty minute ride to town, maybe twenty-five on such a dark and blustery night. But for the occasional State cop cruising by on patrol, it was rare to see the police in these parts.
“Dad, what is going to happen?” Dana teetered at the edge of falling apart.
Doug stood, steadying himself on Megan’s shoulder. His knees threatened to give out completely. He needed a moment. He needed to take stock and figure out exactly what was happening. He noted the gun and Fallahi. Doug was still covered in his blood and body parts. Visions of those final few moments before Fallahi was killed rampaged through his brain like panicked horses; the door, grabbing Fallahi’s arm, stumbling, and Megan at the stairs. He knew instantly. The realization struck him fully in the chest.
“Oh god!” he gasped.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Girls, grab some clothes, coats and blankets, and hurry. We have to go now!”
Dana began to cry, immobilized by the moment. It infected Megan, who was fighting to hold back her emotion. “Tell us what is going on?”
He knelt and held the girls before him. Something in his expression, perhaps a reflection of the gravity of all this brought Dana around. She choked back tears, still he could feel her trembling terribly.
“I’ll explain everything once we get in the car, but right now I need you to grab clothes, blankets, boots, your coats and hats. Don’t bring anything electronic. No computers, MP3s, and absolutely no cell phones.”
“Dad,” said Dana, forcing a deep breath. “Did you kill that man?”
“No, honey,” he said simply. Now go and we’ll all talk in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“For tonight, Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy’s cottage on the island.”
He stood and watched them hurry up the stairs. Doug looked back at Fallahi’s body and the gun on the floor. Five minutes. Five minutes was all he had to prepare, but what to take? What would he and the girls need to survive until all of this could be straightened out? Five minutes, that was all he had. Five very short minutes.
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.”
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-three
“Don’t let this tool for the American government fill your head with propaganda and lies!” The man smiled cordially, as if it was simply a joke, though not entirely. His accent was clearly Middle Eastern, though he could have passed easily at a glance for a Caucasian on any small town street in America. His hand fell warmly upon Doug’s shoulder. Doug looked him up and down and couldn’t contain his reaction.
“Ah, I see the Iranian delegation to Shosa industries has arrived as inconspicuous as ever.”
“Laugh, my friend,” the Iranian shot back, motioning to Doug’s Soviet get-up, “America will soon join the other failed relics of the Twentieth Century on the junk heap.”
“Molly, may I introduce my favorite Iranian spy, Ahmed Fallahi. Molly is with the federal Government.” Doug offered a thoroughly sarcastic grin and winked. “You two should talk!”
Fallahi was clearly surprised at the introduction, but didn’t miss a beat. “And all along I thought you were just a nice innocent Turkish girl.”
“Turkish by heritage. American by birth,” she replied, as he offered her his hand with a polite bow. “And I am indeed very nice and very innocent.”
Fallahi gave a cocktail party laugh. “You should really keep better company, my dear. Your friend here loves to invent stories for his readers, and for you, it seems. It is far too boring for him that I am simply with the diplomatic service.” He smirked in Doug’s direction. “Not his fault really. The product of America’s shameful education system, I’m afraid.”
“Interesting that a diplomat would be at a party for an arms dealer,” Doug shot back. “Buying or selling these days?”
“There you see,” Fallahi said to Molly. “The American Press, always for drama over substance.”
“I happen to think Doug is an amazing writer,” Molly defended, sipping her drink.
“Oh, I fully agree,” he replied. “Like your Stephen King or Sydney Sheldon; pure fiction!”
“You’re terrible!” said Molly, touching Doug’s arm reassuringly. She let it linger there, only drawing away when it seemed to make him uncomfortable.
Fallahi relented a bit. “You are right. Actually my good friend here is well respected in my country for his depth and fairness, despite the handicap of his nationality.”
“In that regard,” Doug capitalized fully upon the moment, “care to respond to reports that Iran is aiding the Iraqi insurgency?”
Fallahi frowned at the question, and weighed his answer carefully. “All I can say is what I read in the Western papers, and perhaps some rumors, but I think you will also find American soldiers illegally acting within our territory. Your President has invaded countries to either side of us.”
“So reports of armor piercing Improvised Explosives, reportedly made in Iran, and Iranian operatives in Iraq you would consider retaliation or self defense?”
Doug knew he was bating Fallahi, and was please to provoke the tension building in his brow. Molly could see it as well, and recognized the signs of a person who is trapped. She’d see it in interrogations a hundred times. Fallahi pursed his lips, then forced a smile.
“My country has been exceedingly restrained for these illegal incursions, but every tolerance has its limits.”
“And the operatives working with the insurgency?”
“I am only a diplomat, my friend, but we can also have a significant interest on what happens with our neighbors.”
“Clearly Iraq and Afghanistan were problems that needed to be addressed, and after September Eleventh, well...” said Molly.
“”We in Iran were as shocked and disgusted by the attacks as you, Miss Karaman, and we are no friends to the Taliban or Al Qaeda. It is well known that Mister bin Laden is an enemy of the Iranian State. But imagine if China invaded Mexico with an army of occupation. How would America feel for that, uh?”
Molly nearly took the bait. It would have been nothing to unleash a litany of Iranian violations against the International community, as well as numerous other accusations regurgitated by the Press daily. She might have argued from a point of American exceptionalism, that the United States, by fate or providence had become a force for good in the world. Who was Fallahi to Molly really? Her blood warmed steadily towards a boil, until she noticed the smirk on Doug’s face.
“Oh, you two are terrible!”
Fallahi laughed and excused himself. Doug and Molly watched as he made his way to Shosa, who greeted him as if he and Fallahi were old and dear friends.
“Ah, I see the Iranian delegation to Shosa industries has arrived as inconspicuous as ever.”
“Laugh, my friend,” the Iranian shot back, motioning to Doug’s Soviet get-up, “America will soon join the other failed relics of the Twentieth Century on the junk heap.”
“Molly, may I introduce my favorite Iranian spy, Ahmed Fallahi. Molly is with the federal Government.” Doug offered a thoroughly sarcastic grin and winked. “You two should talk!”
Fallahi was clearly surprised at the introduction, but didn’t miss a beat. “And all along I thought you were just a nice innocent Turkish girl.”
“Turkish by heritage. American by birth,” she replied, as he offered her his hand with a polite bow. “And I am indeed very nice and very innocent.”
Fallahi gave a cocktail party laugh. “You should really keep better company, my dear. Your friend here loves to invent stories for his readers, and for you, it seems. It is far too boring for him that I am simply with the diplomatic service.” He smirked in Doug’s direction. “Not his fault really. The product of America’s shameful education system, I’m afraid.”
“Interesting that a diplomat would be at a party for an arms dealer,” Doug shot back. “Buying or selling these days?”
“There you see,” Fallahi said to Molly. “The American Press, always for drama over substance.”
“I happen to think Doug is an amazing writer,” Molly defended, sipping her drink.
“Oh, I fully agree,” he replied. “Like your Stephen King or Sydney Sheldon; pure fiction!”
“You’re terrible!” said Molly, touching Doug’s arm reassuringly. She let it linger there, only drawing away when it seemed to make him uncomfortable.
Fallahi relented a bit. “You are right. Actually my good friend here is well respected in my country for his depth and fairness, despite the handicap of his nationality.”
“In that regard,” Doug capitalized fully upon the moment, “care to respond to reports that Iran is aiding the Iraqi insurgency?”
Fallahi frowned at the question, and weighed his answer carefully. “All I can say is what I read in the Western papers, and perhaps some rumors, but I think you will also find American soldiers illegally acting within our territory. Your President has invaded countries to either side of us.”
“So reports of armor piercing Improvised Explosives, reportedly made in Iran, and Iranian operatives in Iraq you would consider retaliation or self defense?”
Doug knew he was bating Fallahi, and was please to provoke the tension building in his brow. Molly could see it as well, and recognized the signs of a person who is trapped. She’d see it in interrogations a hundred times. Fallahi pursed his lips, then forced a smile.
“My country has been exceedingly restrained for these illegal incursions, but every tolerance has its limits.”
“And the operatives working with the insurgency?”
“I am only a diplomat, my friend, but we can also have a significant interest on what happens with our neighbors.”
“Clearly Iraq and Afghanistan were problems that needed to be addressed, and after September Eleventh, well...” said Molly.
“”We in Iran were as shocked and disgusted by the attacks as you, Miss Karaman, and we are no friends to the Taliban or Al Qaeda. It is well known that Mister bin Laden is an enemy of the Iranian State. But imagine if China invaded Mexico with an army of occupation. How would America feel for that, uh?”
Molly nearly took the bait. It would have been nothing to unleash a litany of Iranian violations against the International community, as well as numerous other accusations regurgitated by the Press daily. She might have argued from a point of American exceptionalism, that the United States, by fate or providence had become a force for good in the world. Who was Fallahi to Molly really? Her blood warmed steadily towards a boil, until she noticed the smirk on Doug’s face.
“Oh, you two are terrible!”
Fallahi laughed and excused himself. Doug and Molly watched as he made his way to Shosa, who greeted him as if he and Fallahi were old and dear friends.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-two
It was opulence of the sort Molly had never experienced. Set against the city lights on the far shore, the tall and sleek Marmara hotel shone like some modern palace. She paused, climbing from the little red Mercedes taxi, her expression reflecting that awesome first impression.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
She was dressed like an early Eighties Punk rocker, in a faded British flag tee-shirt, frilly lace skirt, striped leggings and thrash boots. Her air was purple and neon-green molded and formed with copious amounts of styling gel by an "artist" at By Retro. Molly felt light and young, finding it impossible to contain a smile. Doug climbed out behind her. He was dressed in the same Soviet sailor’s outfit he’d ogled earlier. Molly couldn’t help but laugh as they followed a parade of party goers wearing all manner of absurd costumes.
“Little ironic, don’t you think?’ she remarked. Doormen in long black coats with polished gold buttons held the door, nodding politely.
“What’s that?’
“Didn’t you say we were here to see the future?”
“Indeed.”
“Looking like a couple of refugees from the Eighties.”
It was like a dream inside. Stunning and colorfully embroidered whirling Dervish outfits were framed about the large and elegantly decorated lobby. Sturdy white-marble columns were cooled by moss green oriental carpets and maroon furniture, all beneath a monstrous chandelier.
Twenty stories above Istanbul’s streets the elevator doors opened to a party room so magnificent, so surreal that Molly gasped in amazement, placing a hand over her madly beating heart. Doug, beside her, smiled with delight at her reaction.
“This is amazing,” was all she could think to say.
The servers were all dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s little hobo, in bowler hats, tuxedo jackets, baggy trousers and tramp shoes. Little black mustaches were smudged beneath their noses. Balancing trays crowded with champagne-filled flute glasses on finger tips, they move deftly among the crowd. Molly laughed at the wild and absurd scene before her. Darth Vader had an arm around a harem girl, while two clowns argued finance with Austin Powers and a samurai warrior. At the bar a zombie flirted with a nun. There were cowboys, Indians, Princes, princesses (female and male) hippies, a captain Kirk, a short and pudgy Mister Spock and half a dozen Klingons. Mixed among them were numerous others wearing ornate carnival masks. They wore formal dress and seemed content to keep their identity a mystery.
There was a sign at the entrance. Molly studied it curiously a moment. The words written across the beautiful print of a Fifteenth century Bosnian Bridge, built during the Ottoman, era read:
KICK OFF AND COSTUME BALL
Sponsored by
SHOSA INDUSTRIES:
SECURITY AND DEFENSE CONTRACTORS
“WE’RE THE GUYS RIDING IN WITH THE BIG WHITE HATS…”
Umberto Shosa, Director and Chief Executive Officer
“So who is Umberto S-osa?” Molly asked.
“Sh-osa,” he politely corrected her, pointing to an accent mark above the “s.” He drew her attention to a small man in a perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo making rounds through the crowd. An assistant, two stunning Turkish starlets and a massive Croatian bodyguard surrounded the man. “He’s a rising star in the International arms trade.”
“Legal or illegal?”
“The Hague wanted him for the massacre of a Serbian village during the Civil War. By the time the warrants came down he’d already amassed a fortune dealing arms in Africa. A few well placed bribes, a good PR campaign, a UN official here a couple parliamentary ministers there…13 years ago he was looting villages, now he’s worth an estimated three and a half billion.”
“A lot of money in war.”
“All cash business, if you can separate conscience from the bloody crop your product yields. Do that and you can have all this guilt free.”
A waiter passed. She was a small fair-skinned teenager. Her long blond hair was stuffed almost comically into the bowler hat, and held firm by a matrix of hairpins. The square little mustache under her nose was partially smeared. Doug watched her moving through the crowd and was reminded of his eldest daughter, Megan. He waved to her, scooped away two glasses of pale bubbling champagne and replaced them with a ten Euro note.
“Thank you,” she said in thickly accented English, before disappearing through the crowd before Doug could reply.
He handed her a glass. They touched the rims together. As they did she looked up into his eyes, finding that they so beautifully reflected the lights of the party.
“What are we toasting to?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from his.
“To peace,” he replied, looking away for fear of being swept away by her physical beauty.
Molly looked over at Shosa. “I’ve worked mob cases convicting hit men with better ethics and morality.”
Doug took a long sip of champagne, and suddenly felt guilty for it, knowing that this was all paid for in blood and misery and violence. “If you are wealthy enough and connected enough, there are virtually no laws against waging and supporting warfare around the globe.”
“So what is this party all about?” asked Molly.
“Pure theater,” he said. “But if you were to check passports in this room, I bet you’d find someone representing a side in almost every conflict worldwide, and probably a few characters representing more than one side.”
A man approached, smiling awkwardly, and dressed like an Ottoman sultan, in a gold jacket, proud red turban, white flared trousers that came to the knee and the caricature slippers turned up at the toe. There was something Molly didn't distrust about the man, not in a criminal way, but in a sort of arrogance and cynicism about humanity men deep within the intelligence apparatus of each government holdn It was the consequence of working in the murky depths between the black and white letters of law, and the illusions of apparent morality.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-one
“Where are we going?” asked molly. Doug threw down ten Euros for the Tea and followed Molly out onto the sidewalk.
“We are going to a cocktail party tonight.”
Molly laughed. “I don’t have anything to wear for a cocktail party,” she complained. “And my hair, and, Doug it is impossible…”
“Trust me,” Doug waved down a taxi. “I’ve got it all covered.”
They took the taxi across the Bosporus, leaving the thrusting spires of the Hagia Sophia, old Istanbul and the tree crowded bluffs of Topkapi behind. The Galata Bridge spilled into the haphazard streets of Beyologu, where history and modern commerce met in a sort of semi-controlled chaos. The streets grew as canyons. The brushed Oriental buildings lining those canyons were a patchwork of light and shadow, criss-crossed by flowing banners and bright red Turkish flags swimming in the funneled breeze of Istiklal Caddessi. Deep-set windows threw iridescent light across the deepening shadow of the street. There was meat grilling somewhere, an errant whiff of sweet perfume and the salty taste of the sea. A tram rattled by, parting afternoon shoppers at the fashionable boutiques and cafes lining the boulevard.
Doug led her down an alleyway just off the boulevard, where the sunlight only teased the upper floors of buildings, but left the hidden shops there submerged in the concrete chill and shadow. A short walk along the alleyway, tall golden Oriental letters adorned broad mirrored windows reading:
BY RETRO
“What is this place?”
Doug gave a beaming smile, hardly able to contain his excitement. “A fantasy.”
Inside the air was thick with pungent cigarette smoke, drifting and nebulous among an orgy of colors and shapes and textures. It reminded Molly of the long forgotten, and somewhat neglected attic of an Off Broadway pack rat. Indeed, the air was musty and cool, reminding Molly of an aunt’s root cellar. There were shoes, costumes and cascading fixtures burgeoning with handbags. Shimmering beneath an ancient crystal chandelier were cabinets of vintage sunglasses and eyeglasses, like some hidden treasure trove.
“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, opening her arms and sweeping them through the clothes hung to either side of the crowded isle.
There was just so much packed into the place that at once is seemed claustrophobic and endless; a place Molly could have died to be lost in. She turned to Doug, her eyes as wide and excited as a child’s on Christmas morning.
“How do you know about this place?” she asked. Vintage treasures covered the walls clear to the vaulted ceiling, running the gamut from the elegant to the absurd.
“I come to Istanbul to get away from the tragedy du-jour of the Middle east. Sometimes I come for background.”
“How so?’ Molly swept her hand across racks of garments, cataloguing a dozen different garments and textures with her fingertips.
“This is a metropolis at the center of any number of hotspots, currently and historically. There are Bosnians here, Chechens, Kurds, Iraqis, Palestinians.”
Upon a countertop she cupped her hands and lifted jumbled multi-colored and multi-jeweled necklaces, as if they were water tumbling from the fixture.
“God, this place is amazing!” she said. “So where are we going tonight?’
Doug paused, his attention drawn to a simple fabric mannequin adorned in an old Soviet Naval uniform, complete with white cap and the iconic striped shirt. He smiled and looked up at Molly.
“The future,” he said. “A glimpse of the future.”
“We are going to a cocktail party tonight.”
Molly laughed. “I don’t have anything to wear for a cocktail party,” she complained. “And my hair, and, Doug it is impossible…”
“Trust me,” Doug waved down a taxi. “I’ve got it all covered.”
They took the taxi across the Bosporus, leaving the thrusting spires of the Hagia Sophia, old Istanbul and the tree crowded bluffs of Topkapi behind. The Galata Bridge spilled into the haphazard streets of Beyologu, where history and modern commerce met in a sort of semi-controlled chaos. The streets grew as canyons. The brushed Oriental buildings lining those canyons were a patchwork of light and shadow, criss-crossed by flowing banners and bright red Turkish flags swimming in the funneled breeze of Istiklal Caddessi. Deep-set windows threw iridescent light across the deepening shadow of the street. There was meat grilling somewhere, an errant whiff of sweet perfume and the salty taste of the sea. A tram rattled by, parting afternoon shoppers at the fashionable boutiques and cafes lining the boulevard.
Doug led her down an alleyway just off the boulevard, where the sunlight only teased the upper floors of buildings, but left the hidden shops there submerged in the concrete chill and shadow. A short walk along the alleyway, tall golden Oriental letters adorned broad mirrored windows reading:
BY RETRO
“What is this place?”
Doug gave a beaming smile, hardly able to contain his excitement. “A fantasy.”
Inside the air was thick with pungent cigarette smoke, drifting and nebulous among an orgy of colors and shapes and textures. It reminded Molly of the long forgotten, and somewhat neglected attic of an Off Broadway pack rat. Indeed, the air was musty and cool, reminding Molly of an aunt’s root cellar. There were shoes, costumes and cascading fixtures burgeoning with handbags. Shimmering beneath an ancient crystal chandelier were cabinets of vintage sunglasses and eyeglasses, like some hidden treasure trove.
“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, opening her arms and sweeping them through the clothes hung to either side of the crowded isle.
There was just so much packed into the place that at once is seemed claustrophobic and endless; a place Molly could have died to be lost in. She turned to Doug, her eyes as wide and excited as a child’s on Christmas morning.
“How do you know about this place?” she asked. Vintage treasures covered the walls clear to the vaulted ceiling, running the gamut from the elegant to the absurd.
“I come to Istanbul to get away from the tragedy du-jour of the Middle east. Sometimes I come for background.”
“How so?’ Molly swept her hand across racks of garments, cataloguing a dozen different garments and textures with her fingertips.
“This is a metropolis at the center of any number of hotspots, currently and historically. There are Bosnians here, Chechens, Kurds, Iraqis, Palestinians.”
Upon a countertop she cupped her hands and lifted jumbled multi-colored and multi-jeweled necklaces, as if they were water tumbling from the fixture.
“God, this place is amazing!” she said. “So where are we going tonight?’
Doug paused, his attention drawn to a simple fabric mannequin adorned in an old Soviet Naval uniform, complete with white cap and the iconic striped shirt. He smiled and looked up at Molly.
“The future,” he said. “A glimpse of the future.”
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twenty
Istanbul, Turkey. June, 2006. Molly shook away the memory of that terrible place, the cold and sadness lingering in her a moment. The images and raw emotions had never completely left her. They never left the nation, instead remained boiling below the national skin, like an abused child's eternal angst, awaiting a spark to set it off. Molly turned her thoughts to better things.
It was one of the few real pleasures of travelling abroad, Molly thought, sitting in the bright and comfortable hotel dining room. European breakfasts were luscious affairs of eggs, fruit, cereals, hearty rolls, yogurts, juicy European sausages, cheeses and fruits. She could have gorged herself at the buffet. It was a temptation to gorge upon everything, but Molly kept to a modest sampling of brie, a fiery Soppressata, spicy red pepper Ajvar-a sort of Balkan and Mediterranean spread , figs and sour slices of Elma, or apple.
The dining room was pristinely kept and cheery, with blond paneled walls and a view to the shaded street beyond. As guests came and went the white clothed tables were briskly cleaned by a staff that was as efficient as any elite military unit. The place was chaotic with Japanese students on a class trip. An Armenian business man gulped down food, anxiously pouring over a report while checking his watch frequently. An elderly German couple looked over a tourist map at another table.
Molly lifted a tiny cup of potent Turkish coffee to her lips, almost shuddering at a bitterness no amount of sugar could abate. Beside her were two Newspapers' the International herald Tribune and The Times. She turned over The Times. Near the bottom of the page was the first part of an article titled: DISPATCH FROM ISTANBUL: BAGHDAD UNDER THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, by Doug Springer. It began as a study between the desperation and dilapidation of Baghdad and the sunny cafes and bustling boutiques of Istanbul. The piece progressed through rare historical perspectives, observations about Christianity, Islam, oil, empire, Communism and Capitalism.
Molly rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Doug had given her in New York. She felt a bit silly for keeping it all this time. The card had outlived most every other business, a picture of David card and several department store credit cards. She drew the cell phone from her pocket and nervously weighed dialing Doug’s number. Her heart pounded crazily as she dialed and lifted the phone to her ear. Molly dialed quickly. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Springer?”
“Hi, um, Doug, my name is Molly, Molly Karaman with…”
“Ground Zero,” he said. “The FBI agent.”
“You remember!” she replied. “Impressive.”
“How did you, where are you calling…”
“It’s a bit crazy, but I’m in Istanbul on a case and I saw that you were here and thought, well…”
“How about lunch?” he said quickly. “Shall we say one-thirty-ish?”
A few hours later Molly was sitting at a sunny sidewalk café, looking along a busy postcard street towards TheE golden Medeival walls of Topkapi Palace. A warm salty breeze off the sea tugged the hair from her shoulders. That warm was tempered nicely by the shade of sturdy maroon umbrellas above the tables of the sidewalk cafe. Puffy white clouds spotted an otherwise pristine cerulean sky. It was all so perfect, as if the day refused to be forgotten.
Molly grew more nervous as the hour approached, as if she was a school girl on a date. She wondered was he still married, her mind drifting away in some silly romantic memory. Molly was still lost in the moment, a smile coming lightly to her that she failed to notice Doug as he strode lazily up the street until he was standing before her.
He was dressed in an embroidered white shirt as loose as the breeze off the sea. His slacks were khaki and neatly pressed. In sandals her hardly looked the part of a war correspondent. His hair was cut almost severely short, now brushed with a distinguishing hint of silver. As he drew the inexpensive glasses from his nose Doug’s eyes maintained a cautious view of the street. He smiled warmly as she rose to meet him.
“Doug?” she struggled to reconcile his memory after so many years.
“Agent Karaman,” Doug shook her hand cordially.
“Call me Molly.”
“Okay, Molly,” his eyes moved along the busy avenue again, as though it held a thousand and one dangers. “What do you say we grab a table inside?”
Though she loved the view Molly conceded readily and was already gathering her purse and things from the table. “Sure.”
They found a corner table inside the tiny storefront café. It was intimate and comfortable, the midday sun falling oblique through intricate white-lace curtains. In the center of the table two fat red carnations diverged from one another from narrow blue tulip vase. There was a counter along the back wall where lean waiters in clean beige shirts and black slacks readied drinks and various coffees. The air was filled with the scent of warm fresh bread and meats grilling in the tiny kitchen out back. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a hand full of small tables.
“Hope this is all right,” said John, politely out Molly’s seat. “Makes me nervous being on a busy street unless I can watch everything.” He smiled painfully. “Too many years covering the Middle East.”
“I’ve read some of you articles about the war.”
Doug started to speak. He paused, leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was definitely an attraction. Physical beauty aside, Doug found himself drawn to her. It was worth a mild flirtation, Doug thought, as long as he was careful to keep it just that.
“When you called it took me a second...”
A waiter arrived, interrupting him. Molly swept a lock of hair behind one ear and took the opportunity to look over a small green drink card, helping her to conceal a smile. They each ordered a tea. Molly waited for the waiter to leave.
“You know, I found your card and I remembered what you said that day at Ground Zero.”
“Good memory,” he replied. “Better than mine.”
“Know what it was.” Molly paused when the waiter returned with their drinks. “In my profession everything becomes black and white. It is rare that I hear someone speak about all this with color and depth and something more, more…human.”
Doug chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Now I wish I remembered exactly what I said. It must have been amazing!”
Her smile deepened. “I see it in your writing from the war. It is so…” she stopped herself from gushing. “Well, I really enjoy your work.”
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Molly noted that Doug wasn’t wearing a wedding ring any longer. There was no tan line, no telltale indentation on his finger. Molly felt a warm electric rush of excitement.
“Your family must worry terribly.” The question was a test meant to satisfy her curiosity.
“I don’t tell them everything,” he began. “A week after the invasion Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Your wife?” she replied hiding her disappointed.
“Its in remission now, but I think she and the girls have enough to worry about.”
“It must be difficult.”
“I hope she forgives me for that.” He let out a long slow breath, seeming to deflate a little. “Looking forward to a time when I won’t have to run around war zones, and I can catch up on all the time lost.”
“They don’t get the behind the scenes stuff?’ she smiled.
“Six months ago I was grabbed off a street in Mosel by members of the local mafia hoping to sell me off to the highest bidder. Could have been Al Qa’eda that paid the ransom.” He touched the side of his hand to his neck and gave a fatalistic grin. “In which case I’d be about this much shorter.”
“They could have killed you.”
“But I wasn’t. A Marine patrol happened upon me. I got lucky.”
“You never told them?”
“Never told anyone, until now.”
“Wouldn’t it have made a great story for your readers?”
“I wrote it,” he said, “but then one day I visited a neighborhood where insurgents had rounded up all the men in the neighborhood and beheaded them. A policeman said it was the same all over the city. Made my little adventure seem very insignificant.”
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Makes me a bit less of a target.” The weight of his words languished between them a moment. Doug touched her arm gently. “Enough of all that. So what brings you to Turkey?”
She took a sip of her piping hot tea. “An extradition case. My mother was Turkish, and I always wanted to come here, so I volunteered.”
“Istanbul is an amazing city.”
She thought a moment, fascinated as he poured a bit of sugar into his tea then dragged a spoon slowly through it. “I hope this isn’t out of place, asking a married man to have dinner tonight, but I really don’t know anyone else here.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he said. Doug stood and helped Molly to stand. “Come with me!”
It was one of the few real pleasures of travelling abroad, Molly thought, sitting in the bright and comfortable hotel dining room. European breakfasts were luscious affairs of eggs, fruit, cereals, hearty rolls, yogurts, juicy European sausages, cheeses and fruits. She could have gorged herself at the buffet. It was a temptation to gorge upon everything, but Molly kept to a modest sampling of brie, a fiery Soppressata, spicy red pepper Ajvar-a sort of Balkan and Mediterranean spread , figs and sour slices of Elma, or apple.
The dining room was pristinely kept and cheery, with blond paneled walls and a view to the shaded street beyond. As guests came and went the white clothed tables were briskly cleaned by a staff that was as efficient as any elite military unit. The place was chaotic with Japanese students on a class trip. An Armenian business man gulped down food, anxiously pouring over a report while checking his watch frequently. An elderly German couple looked over a tourist map at another table.
Molly lifted a tiny cup of potent Turkish coffee to her lips, almost shuddering at a bitterness no amount of sugar could abate. Beside her were two Newspapers' the International herald Tribune and The Times. She turned over The Times. Near the bottom of the page was the first part of an article titled: DISPATCH FROM ISTANBUL: BAGHDAD UNDER THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, by Doug Springer. It began as a study between the desperation and dilapidation of Baghdad and the sunny cafes and bustling boutiques of Istanbul. The piece progressed through rare historical perspectives, observations about Christianity, Islam, oil, empire, Communism and Capitalism.
Molly rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Doug had given her in New York. She felt a bit silly for keeping it all this time. The card had outlived most every other business, a picture of David card and several department store credit cards. She drew the cell phone from her pocket and nervously weighed dialing Doug’s number. Her heart pounded crazily as she dialed and lifted the phone to her ear. Molly dialed quickly. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Springer?”
“Hi, um, Doug, my name is Molly, Molly Karaman with…”
“Ground Zero,” he said. “The FBI agent.”
“You remember!” she replied. “Impressive.”
“How did you, where are you calling…”
“It’s a bit crazy, but I’m in Istanbul on a case and I saw that you were here and thought, well…”
“How about lunch?” he said quickly. “Shall we say one-thirty-ish?”
A few hours later Molly was sitting at a sunny sidewalk café, looking along a busy postcard street towards TheE golden Medeival walls of Topkapi Palace. A warm salty breeze off the sea tugged the hair from her shoulders. That warm was tempered nicely by the shade of sturdy maroon umbrellas above the tables of the sidewalk cafe. Puffy white clouds spotted an otherwise pristine cerulean sky. It was all so perfect, as if the day refused to be forgotten.
Molly grew more nervous as the hour approached, as if she was a school girl on a date. She wondered was he still married, her mind drifting away in some silly romantic memory. Molly was still lost in the moment, a smile coming lightly to her that she failed to notice Doug as he strode lazily up the street until he was standing before her.
He was dressed in an embroidered white shirt as loose as the breeze off the sea. His slacks were khaki and neatly pressed. In sandals her hardly looked the part of a war correspondent. His hair was cut almost severely short, now brushed with a distinguishing hint of silver. As he drew the inexpensive glasses from his nose Doug’s eyes maintained a cautious view of the street. He smiled warmly as she rose to meet him.
“Doug?” she struggled to reconcile his memory after so many years.
“Agent Karaman,” Doug shook her hand cordially.
“Call me Molly.”
“Okay, Molly,” his eyes moved along the busy avenue again, as though it held a thousand and one dangers. “What do you say we grab a table inside?”
Though she loved the view Molly conceded readily and was already gathering her purse and things from the table. “Sure.”
They found a corner table inside the tiny storefront café. It was intimate and comfortable, the midday sun falling oblique through intricate white-lace curtains. In the center of the table two fat red carnations diverged from one another from narrow blue tulip vase. There was a counter along the back wall where lean waiters in clean beige shirts and black slacks readied drinks and various coffees. The air was filled with the scent of warm fresh bread and meats grilling in the tiny kitchen out back. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a hand full of small tables.
“Hope this is all right,” said John, politely out Molly’s seat. “Makes me nervous being on a busy street unless I can watch everything.” He smiled painfully. “Too many years covering the Middle East.”
“I’ve read some of you articles about the war.”
Doug started to speak. He paused, leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was definitely an attraction. Physical beauty aside, Doug found himself drawn to her. It was worth a mild flirtation, Doug thought, as long as he was careful to keep it just that.
“When you called it took me a second...”
A waiter arrived, interrupting him. Molly swept a lock of hair behind one ear and took the opportunity to look over a small green drink card, helping her to conceal a smile. They each ordered a tea. Molly waited for the waiter to leave.
“You know, I found your card and I remembered what you said that day at Ground Zero.”
“Good memory,” he replied. “Better than mine.”
“Know what it was.” Molly paused when the waiter returned with their drinks. “In my profession everything becomes black and white. It is rare that I hear someone speak about all this with color and depth and something more, more…human.”
Doug chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Now I wish I remembered exactly what I said. It must have been amazing!”
Her smile deepened. “I see it in your writing from the war. It is so…” she stopped herself from gushing. “Well, I really enjoy your work.”
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Molly noted that Doug wasn’t wearing a wedding ring any longer. There was no tan line, no telltale indentation on his finger. Molly felt a warm electric rush of excitement.
“Your family must worry terribly.” The question was a test meant to satisfy her curiosity.
“I don’t tell them everything,” he began. “A week after the invasion Jane was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Your wife?” she replied hiding her disappointed.
“Its in remission now, but I think she and the girls have enough to worry about.”
“It must be difficult.”
“I hope she forgives me for that.” He let out a long slow breath, seeming to deflate a little. “Looking forward to a time when I won’t have to run around war zones, and I can catch up on all the time lost.”
“They don’t get the behind the scenes stuff?’ she smiled.
“Six months ago I was grabbed off a street in Mosel by members of the local mafia hoping to sell me off to the highest bidder. Could have been Al Qa’eda that paid the ransom.” He touched the side of his hand to his neck and gave a fatalistic grin. “In which case I’d be about this much shorter.”
“They could have killed you.”
“But I wasn’t. A Marine patrol happened upon me. I got lucky.”
“You never told them?”
“Never told anyone, until now.”
“Wouldn’t it have made a great story for your readers?”
“I wrote it,” he said, “but then one day I visited a neighborhood where insurgents had rounded up all the men in the neighborhood and beheaded them. A policeman said it was the same all over the city. Made my little adventure seem very insignificant.”
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Makes me a bit less of a target.” The weight of his words languished between them a moment. Doug touched her arm gently. “Enough of all that. So what brings you to Turkey?”
She took a sip of her piping hot tea. “An extradition case. My mother was Turkish, and I always wanted to come here, so I volunteered.”
“Istanbul is an amazing city.”
She thought a moment, fascinated as he poured a bit of sugar into his tea then dragged a spoon slowly through it. “I hope this isn’t out of place, asking a married man to have dinner tonight, but I really don’t know anyone else here.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he said. Doug stood and helped Molly to stand. “Come with me!”
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.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Big Blue Sky-Title
The Big Blue Sky
A Novel
By
W.C. Turck
Exclusively
At
Blogspot
CHAPTER ONE
Western delegates protest Ahmadinejad speech to UN(AP)
Western Delegates walked out of the United Nations General Assembly chamber on Monday hours before Clinton's speech as Ahmadinejad began his address at the opening of a nuclear review conference,.
Representatives from the United States, Great Britain, France, Hungary, the Netherlands and New Zealand were among the countries that walked out as Ahmadinejad took to the podium. Israel was notably absent from the summit as it began a review of the Non Proliferation Treaty at the UN headquarters in New York.
Ahmadinejad blamed in his address the failure for global nuclear disarmament on the "policies and practices of certain states, as well as the inefficacy of the NPT and the imbalance that it curtails."
"Some” he went on to say, ”including the Zionist regime, have been equipped with nuclear arms, despite international measures to promote disarmament,"
"The Zionist regime too consistently threatens Middle Eastern countries with its nuclear arsenal," adding that the NPT signatories consider "any threat to use nuclear weapons or attack against peaceful nuclear facilities as a breach of international peace and security."
Both the United States and Israel have suggested the use of military force against Iranian nuclear facilities, which they allege are part of a covert nuclear weapons program. Iran denies pursuing nuclear weapons, insisting its nuclear ambitions are for peaceful electricity. The US says that by not being forthcoming about its nuclear ambitions Iran is becoming further isolated in the world community…
One
The sky was overcast and as dull as antique pewter. The occasional rain had fallen heaviest during the graveside service, pattering upon umbrellas. The rain lingered and glistened upon neighboring stones and awakened the autumn scent of wet grass, fallen leaves and pine.The day felt as deep and dark as the surrounding forest running almost unbroken along the Lake Superior shore west to Minnesota and east to Canada. That endless forest, spotted by hidden lakes, deeply troughed logging roads and cold rushing creeks was a blessing to the hearty souls of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a burden to the unaccustomed and punishing to those who failed to grant her ultimate respect. In the rain it felt like a lament, as if the land and sky and lake had joined in the grief of that tiny little cemetery in Marquette.
Doug Springer was last to leave the grave, pausing a moment to say one final goodbye to his wife of almost eighteen years. His daughters were ahead of him, nearly to the appropriately black Lincoln Town car provided by the funeral home. The funeral director, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited at the open door, offering the girls a sincere and sympathetic smile. Doug, tall enough in his own right, with neatly trimmed dark hair and stormy brown eyes was thinking about nothing more than getting out of the dark brown suit and into something less constrictive and funerary. He wanted to be alone with his grief and his thoughts. In this suit he felt like it was some sort of costume to the conventions of death.
And he worried about the girls even more. Megan and Dana had taken their mother’s death very differently. Megan, at sixteen, was the spitting image of her mother. Like Jane, she was athletic and slender, with shoulder length auburn hair and rich emerald eyes. She dreamed of following her father into journalism, and seemed to take all this with a deeper perspective by being there for her younger sister. Like her father she accepted the sense that nothing in life is fair. Dana, two years younger, with short dark hair and moody brown eyes, wore her grief as though she was victim of some eternal injustice. For her this was proof of some Karmic punishment for her father’s absence traipsing around the world all those years. She chafed at the feeling she was being punished for her father’s sins as well.
Between Doug and the girls, Arnie Hamlin stared off thought the trees, lost in thought. A cigarette burned slowly away in his fingers In a long black raincoat he was a silhouette against the sea of gravestones. Arnie, who had been editor of The Times of New York for going on thirteen years now, seemed fully out of place here, like he should be hailing a cab in Manhattan than in a lakeside cemetery in little Marquette, Michigan. Doug stopped when he reached Arnie, who came up and hook and arm in Doug’s. Together they walked slowly up to the waiting car.
“Take as much time as you need,” said Arnie, patting Doug’s forearm gently. “The paper will keep. But you’re a talent, Doug, and there’ll always be a place for you at The Times.”
Doug stopped. He drew a long breath and looked up into Arnie’s eyes. “I’m done.”
“Tough time, my friend. No pressure whatsoever.”
“Arnie, I appreciate that. I’m finished with dangerous overseas assignments. I’m done with being away for months at a time. When we invaded Iraq I didn’t see home for thirteen months. I’ve missed so much. I missed time with Jane, and I’ll never get that back. I want to see my daughters grow up. I want to make as much of those lost years as I can.”
Arnie nodded. “I won’t press the issue.”
“Thanks for that,” said Doug. “And thanks for coming all the way up here for the funeral. It really meant a great deal.”
They began to walk again. The girls were already in the car. Their public tears were over. Now they were just numb. Like Doug, tears would come in private.
“You were the best, Doug.” Arnie began again. “Both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan. You’re the only Western reporter the Iranians will talk to with any measure of respect. Hell, Doug, you’ve managed to go places and get stories in the Mideast most Western reporters would sell their mothers to get. You have a very rare talent.”
“Not much of a talent,” he replied. “I just try to be a good guest everywhere I go.”
Hamlin smiled wistfully, recalling the impossible days during the Iraqi Invasion. The flood of information, from wild and uncountable sources overwhelmed even the most seasoned and well-staffed newsrooms. It flowed in torrents, the true, the false, lies, confusion, an avalanche of images, endless streams of video, much of it without context was stunning. The paper hung on at enormous expense to its team journalists in the field. First among them Doug Springer was at the forefront of the invasion, calling in dispatches while rounds popped and shells burst all around. Fever was the only word that adequately described those wild and insane days. God, thought Arnie Hamlin, those were the days!
“Think I’ll work on that novel I’ve been tinkering with the last couple years.”
“A novel, huh?”
“safer that way,” Doug said. These days if you tell the truth and call it non-fiction people will sue ya.”
They stopped beside the car and shook hands. Arnie held Doug’s with both hands. “All right if I keep in contact?”
Doug nodded. “Hope so.”
He watched as Arnie walked slowly up the hill and through the gravestones. Doug let out a long deep breath. There was just too much to sort, and it was just too soon to try. He still had not taken the time to grieve, and knew the days and months ahead would be excruciatingly difficult for the girls Ana Doug wondered over the rest of his life. He wondered whether he could ever love again, or if he should. He watched Arnie walk away and wondered if he wasn’t watching the world walk away as well. Nor could he know that history and fate, and the hubris of men who believed they were stewards of either would soon find him again. For now there were the girls and his sorrow, which seemed like an impossible chasm to cross.
A Novel
By
W.C. Turck
Exclusively
At
Blogspot
CHAPTER ONE
Western delegates protest Ahmadinejad speech to UN(AP)
Western Delegates walked out of the United Nations General Assembly chamber on Monday hours before Clinton's speech as Ahmadinejad began his address at the opening of a nuclear review conference,.
Representatives from the United States, Great Britain, France, Hungary, the Netherlands and New Zealand were among the countries that walked out as Ahmadinejad took to the podium. Israel was notably absent from the summit as it began a review of the Non Proliferation Treaty at the UN headquarters in New York.
Ahmadinejad blamed in his address the failure for global nuclear disarmament on the "policies and practices of certain states, as well as the inefficacy of the NPT and the imbalance that it curtails."
"Some” he went on to say, ”including the Zionist regime, have been equipped with nuclear arms, despite international measures to promote disarmament,"
"The Zionist regime too consistently threatens Middle Eastern countries with its nuclear arsenal," adding that the NPT signatories consider "any threat to use nuclear weapons or attack against peaceful nuclear facilities as a breach of international peace and security."
Both the United States and Israel have suggested the use of military force against Iranian nuclear facilities, which they allege are part of a covert nuclear weapons program. Iran denies pursuing nuclear weapons, insisting its nuclear ambitions are for peaceful electricity. The US says that by not being forthcoming about its nuclear ambitions Iran is becoming further isolated in the world community…
One
The sky was overcast and as dull as antique pewter. The occasional rain had fallen heaviest during the graveside service, pattering upon umbrellas. The rain lingered and glistened upon neighboring stones and awakened the autumn scent of wet grass, fallen leaves and pine.The day felt as deep and dark as the surrounding forest running almost unbroken along the Lake Superior shore west to Minnesota and east to Canada. That endless forest, spotted by hidden lakes, deeply troughed logging roads and cold rushing creeks was a blessing to the hearty souls of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a burden to the unaccustomed and punishing to those who failed to grant her ultimate respect. In the rain it felt like a lament, as if the land and sky and lake had joined in the grief of that tiny little cemetery in Marquette.
Doug Springer was last to leave the grave, pausing a moment to say one final goodbye to his wife of almost eighteen years. His daughters were ahead of him, nearly to the appropriately black Lincoln Town car provided by the funeral home. The funeral director, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited at the open door, offering the girls a sincere and sympathetic smile. Doug, tall enough in his own right, with neatly trimmed dark hair and stormy brown eyes was thinking about nothing more than getting out of the dark brown suit and into something less constrictive and funerary. He wanted to be alone with his grief and his thoughts. In this suit he felt like it was some sort of costume to the conventions of death.
And he worried about the girls even more. Megan and Dana had taken their mother’s death very differently. Megan, at sixteen, was the spitting image of her mother. Like Jane, she was athletic and slender, with shoulder length auburn hair and rich emerald eyes. She dreamed of following her father into journalism, and seemed to take all this with a deeper perspective by being there for her younger sister. Like her father she accepted the sense that nothing in life is fair. Dana, two years younger, with short dark hair and moody brown eyes, wore her grief as though she was victim of some eternal injustice. For her this was proof of some Karmic punishment for her father’s absence traipsing around the world all those years. She chafed at the feeling she was being punished for her father’s sins as well.
Between Doug and the girls, Arnie Hamlin stared off thought the trees, lost in thought. A cigarette burned slowly away in his fingers In a long black raincoat he was a silhouette against the sea of gravestones. Arnie, who had been editor of The Times of New York for going on thirteen years now, seemed fully out of place here, like he should be hailing a cab in Manhattan than in a lakeside cemetery in little Marquette, Michigan. Doug stopped when he reached Arnie, who came up and hook and arm in Doug’s. Together they walked slowly up to the waiting car.
“Take as much time as you need,” said Arnie, patting Doug’s forearm gently. “The paper will keep. But you’re a talent, Doug, and there’ll always be a place for you at The Times.”
Doug stopped. He drew a long breath and looked up into Arnie’s eyes. “I’m done.”
“Tough time, my friend. No pressure whatsoever.”
“Arnie, I appreciate that. I’m finished with dangerous overseas assignments. I’m done with being away for months at a time. When we invaded Iraq I didn’t see home for thirteen months. I’ve missed so much. I missed time with Jane, and I’ll never get that back. I want to see my daughters grow up. I want to make as much of those lost years as I can.”
Arnie nodded. “I won’t press the issue.”
“Thanks for that,” said Doug. “And thanks for coming all the way up here for the funeral. It really meant a great deal.”
They began to walk again. The girls were already in the car. Their public tears were over. Now they were just numb. Like Doug, tears would come in private.
“You were the best, Doug.” Arnie began again. “Both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan. You’re the only Western reporter the Iranians will talk to with any measure of respect. Hell, Doug, you’ve managed to go places and get stories in the Mideast most Western reporters would sell their mothers to get. You have a very rare talent.”
“Not much of a talent,” he replied. “I just try to be a good guest everywhere I go.”
Hamlin smiled wistfully, recalling the impossible days during the Iraqi Invasion. The flood of information, from wild and uncountable sources overwhelmed even the most seasoned and well-staffed newsrooms. It flowed in torrents, the true, the false, lies, confusion, an avalanche of images, endless streams of video, much of it without context was stunning. The paper hung on at enormous expense to its team journalists in the field. First among them Doug Springer was at the forefront of the invasion, calling in dispatches while rounds popped and shells burst all around. Fever was the only word that adequately described those wild and insane days. God, thought Arnie Hamlin, those were the days!
“Think I’ll work on that novel I’ve been tinkering with the last couple years.”
“A novel, huh?”
“safer that way,” Doug said. These days if you tell the truth and call it non-fiction people will sue ya.”
They stopped beside the car and shook hands. Arnie held Doug’s with both hands. “All right if I keep in contact?”
Doug nodded. “Hope so.”
He watched as Arnie walked slowly up the hill and through the gravestones. Doug let out a long deep breath. There was just too much to sort, and it was just too soon to try. He still had not taken the time to grieve, and knew the days and months ahead would be excruciatingly difficult for the girls Ana Doug wondered over the rest of his life. He wondered whether he could ever love again, or if he should. He watched Arnie walk away and wondered if he wasn’t watching the world walk away as well. Nor could he know that history and fate, and the hubris of men who believed they were stewards of either would soon find him again. For now there were the girls and his sorrow, which seemed like an impossible chasm to cross.
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!
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