The order had already gone out to Allied forces throughout the Gulf. The order to attack Iran would come in less than seven hours, just before the President addressed the nation. The British and French protested vociferously, but had been appeased with economic concessions over the post-war Iranian State. There was no interest on the American side in occupying the country. This was punishment pure and simple. The Iranian state would be hammered with a ferocity that would have stunned Saddam in the last days of his reign. The pieces would be left for others to squabble over.
Twelve thousand Marines were moving from Kuwait and would strike over land to cut off Iran from her fuel supplies. Another five thousand would secure Gulf Islands to prevent the Iranians from using them as bases to attack the American fleet now largely trapped in the Gulf. Using the cover of an anti-Taliban built up two armored divisions would drive south out of Helmand Province in Southern Afghanistan, where they would support the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions in seizing Iran’s Ports on the Gulf of Oman.
A massive cyber attack would shutdown the country hours before the attack commenced, sowing chaos and terror. From bases in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and from three different carrier groups, the country would be steadily dismantled from the air. Secondary strikes would degrade communications, support and supply efforts by the Iranians. Cities would be isolated quickly by severing power lines, targeting roads and bridges and disrupting cell phone communications. The Islamic Republic of Iran had precious little time left, if the attack went forward. Iran would continue, as Iraq had after Saddam, but what that would be was impossible to know for sure.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty
Good friends ran a quaint little roadside motel about a dozen miles or so down the road. The “SEA COAST INN stood beneath sheltering pine, which made the place feel comfortably serene and protected from the outside world. The unassuming sign stood out front, beside the highway, in front of a simple long gray building with white trim and shutters. Doug and Jane had spent a fair number of romantic escapes locked away in the comfortable rooms within that deceptively simple building. The owners, a kindly, deeply spiritual couple named Geoff and Carol, lived in a comfortable home out back. There was a garage beside the house. The woods deepened at the back of the property, the afternoon sunlight falling in patches through the thickening trees and brush.
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-three
The President had hardly slept all night. A couple of fifteen minute naps and ample amounts of bitter black coffee had helped him keep abreast of the rapidly changing events in the Gulf. He was standing at the window of the Oval Office. His striped blue neck tie lay across the big leather chair behind his desk. He was in a white shirt, still buttoned to the top button. The sleeves were rolled up along his forearms. A fine layer of sweat spread across the back of his neck, lightly staining the collar of the shirt. His shoulders were hunched against the ample tension growing there.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
Bright morning light poured through the windows and long white curtains, warming his face. Rush hour traffic built steadily along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out beyond the crisp green lawn, just outside the wrought-iron fence, the National Press was lined up and preparing for the morning news shows.The President folded his arms tightly and sighed.
Behind him advisers, cabinet members and joint chiefs rustled notes, scoured intelligence reports, feverishly texted on Blackberries or hushed through phone calls. The President turned from the window, cleared his throat and stifled a cough.
“Ready?” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Everyone took their places in chairs arranged in a semi circle before the grand fireplace, beneath a fatherly portrait of George Washington. The room was bright and comfortable. A fresh bouquet of red and yellow flowers had already been arranged upon a small coffee table. The President and Vice President sat side by side with their backs to the fire. As he looked around the room the President noted that if the meeting in the situation the night before was severe, this was grim. Major General Keil was as tense as a caged animal, only feigning at civility, which was exactly what the President would have expected from his chief warrior. Keil wasn’t advocating invasion, at least not as vociferously as he was the night before. Neither Ambassador Spurlock nor Secretary Burger had slept at all overnight, and look exhausted. General Bernaski was tense and statuesque, his blue Air Force uniform perfect as always, one leg crossed over the other. His posture seemed strained, as if he might tip back and start snoring at any moment. George Osborne, the NSA, was calm and intense, and the only man in the room who appeared to have gotten a decent night’s sleep.
Overnight the Iranians still had not displayed their prisoners to the Press. Most were still scattered around the country. There had been limited information from official sources. Al Jazeera looped poor quality video of wreckage, broken and charred bodies, captured weapons and goat herders with a tail fin. The Pentagon had surreptitiously released to the networks the names of several of the soldiers from the lost choppers. Interviews and appeals from the anguished families hit the air on CNN International in Europe and Africa for the evening news. The war of public opinion was already well under way.
“We need to take this away from the Iranians and the Muslim World,” said the President, “and take control. And I mean really in control. We don’t want another Sarajevo 1914 getting away from us.”
“Serbian national mud,” said Osborne.
“Sorry?’ the Vice President leaned forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Keil, who had spent time in Bosnia prior to the NATO action in Ninety-five was smiling broadly.
“General Putnik,” said Keil, taking a sip of water. “My strategy is to place between my enemy and her impediments, Serbian national mud.”
“Precisely,” said Osborne.
“Refresh my memory,” said Secretary Burger. “My knowledge of Balkan history isn’t quite so keen.”
Keil deferred to Osborne with a nod. “The Serbs Knew they couldn’t take on the Austro-Hungarian Army in a conventional war. Half of Putnik’s army had quit and went back to their fields. His last option was to exploit terrain unfamiliar to his enemy: Serbian national mud.”
“Forgive me,” Ambassador Spurlock, interrupted, “but isn’t that a lesson into rushing into war? If memory serves, from the Sarajevo murders to the ultimatum, to the invasion was a very short amount of time.”
The President listened to all this carefully, weighing everything that was being discussed. He would rein in the discussion if it strayed too far, but for now he found it quite instructive.
Osborne nodded. “There was a long history of tensions between Serbia and Austria, and every more between Germany and Serbia’s patron, Russia, which was making great strides to industrialize and extend their influence into the Balkans. After the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo the Germans, fearing some so-called pan-Slavism in Europe, pressed the Austrians into giving Serbia a 10 point ultimatum.”
“Interesting,” said Keil, “the Serbs agreed to nine of the ten. The final point called for Austrian officials to catch and prosecute conspirators on Serbian territory, a violation of their national sovereignty.”
“The tenth point,” said Osborne, “the Serbs were willing to put up to international arbitration.”
“But the ultimatum was unconditional,” Keil continued. Osborne nodded in agreement. “If any part of it was rejected, for any reason, the Germans and Austrians considered it a flat out rejection.”
“And Austria invaded,” said the President.
“They invaded,” said Keil.
“But the Serbs lost the war on the battlefield,” Burger observed.
“But they won it in the peace,” Osborne replied.
“We’re talking as if we had decided on war,” the Vice President interjected.
Bernaski shrugged. “We have to be unequivocal with Iran and our allies that war is an absolute option.”
The president paused a moment to sum up. “I think the key here that we don’t get trapped into an option, and that the decision of whether or not to go to war is ours alone, and their options grow more limited by the moment…”
But events have a will all their own. The instant an event is transformed from possibility to history depends as much as the unrelenting tide of humanity as by the hubris of men who believe history will succumb to their will in moments when it rises as a storm.
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.
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 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Eighteen
Molly took longer than usual to reach home in suburban Falls Church, a pretty village of family homes and bright New England churches. The town was just far enough from the city to feel like an escape. She turned from East Broad Street onto Cherry, feeling as if she had finally escaped the madness of a world embodied in grueling traffic. The street was dark and quiet, bounded on either side by plain houses, well kept yards and natly trimmed hedges.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
Half a block up, Molly swung her midnight-blue Honda Prelude down a dark and narrow side street, into the parking spot in front of her modest townhome. She turned off the engine, shut off the lights and looked apprehensively at the dark windows and white lace curtains of her townhouse. There was a time when the black shutters, rust-red door and young maple-now a fiery orange-was a sanctuary, a happier place.
It was almost a year since the divorce was final. She’d married David Blumenthal, a State department Employee Molly’d met after returning from the Mideast. Their lives were magically romantic for almost a year, until one day he came home and announced that he was being promoted and sent to Japan.
“Dave,” I can’t just pick up and move to Asia?’ She complained.
“This a huge opportunity for me,” he said without looking at her. “I already gave them my answer. Molly, I’m sorry.”
Molly suddenly felt foolish for all those little girl notions about ever-lasting love, of soul mates and growing old with someone. It was as if the air had been sucked from her body. There were no tears, only a stunned laugh, and the shock that he could walk away from their life so easily.
Molly sighed and pulled the Fallahi file from her briefcase. She was not at all in a hurry to go inside yet. As she went over yer file Molly noticed a kid standing near the corner of an apartment building across the street. He seemed entirely out of place. Instantly she began cataloguing every possible detail. He was almost lost to shadow in a loose-fitting jean jacket and dark trousers. A black wool cap was pulled down over his brow to just above his deep-set eyes. In darkness she could only tell that he was of fair complexion, slender and somewhere between seventeen and twenty. He seemed anxious, as though working up the courage for something. There was a party going on up the street. It was muffled, the silhouettes of partiers blending together against the golden light inside.
Molly went back to the file. It was thick and daunting. Something about the simple black and white photograph inside haunted her. The picture was recent, showing a handsome Persian man, with short dark hair and a full mustache brushed with silver. She knew him somehow, but struggled to recall where exactly.
Born in Shiraz, Fallahi had been educated in Tehran , abandoning his studies to fight in the war against Iraq during the mid Nineteen Eighties. There he was wounded twice and given a commendation for bravery. After the war he returned to his studies until being recruited by the Iranian Security Service, VEVAK. It was in Bosnia, covertly organizing weapons shipments and organizing foreign Islamic fighters, that Fallahi was first noticed by Western Intelligence agencies. There were names and addresses of contacts and associates throughout the country. They were mostly Iranian and Arabic in origin. There were Muslim organizations as well. One name, however, jumped out at her, enough that she gasped.
At that instant Molly saw a flash of movement behind her car. From the rear view mirror she noticed the kid slipping around the driver’s side. There was a flash of silver, a knife blade glinting from the porch light across the street.
Molly reflexively reached for the nine millimeter holstered under her arm. Just as he reached her window, lifting the knife, Molly swung around and brought the pistol to his chest.
The kid froze. Down the street the party was just letting out. They were laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening nearby. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. She imagined pulling the trigger. All that stopped her was the thought that a bullet might ricochet off the kid’s spine and hit an innocent bystander.
“What were you gonna do, Kid?” she said low and even. “Gonna rape me, or…”
“God, no lady,” he replied. “Just needed some money, I swear. So that is a real gun?”
She almost laughed. ”What do you think?”
“Shit,” he groaned quietly.
“I’m a federal agent. Show me some identification.”
The kid pulled a driver’s license from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, handed it over. Molly glanced at it, keeping the pistol on the kid the whole time.
“Arresting me?”
Molly thought a minute. “I’ve had a very long day. I’ll keep this. Go home and wonder if this is a second chance or the end of the road. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He handed over the knife. Molly held it up, chuckling that it was nothing more than a dull butter knife. She took a cleansing breath and watched through the mirror as the kid hurried around the corner and disappeared.
Molly drew back her long hair and opened the file again. It only look her a moment before she finally remembered where she knew the name from. It seemed a lifetime ago, recalling a torrent of bittersweet memories.
The Big Blue Sky: Seventeen
Traffic was heavy along Arlington Boulevard out of Washington. It was already dark. To the west, as if black ink had been spilled across the turquoise sunset, a storm was building. It was warm for an autumn day, but the scent of rain carried hints of a cold front behind the storm clouds. Molly’s gaze followed the ceaseless line of crimson taillights and felt father away from home than she had all day.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Sixteen
Molly was anxious as she waited to see Director Hallman. She had hoped to have the preliminary lab results from Bernstein’s autopsy, but they had been held up without explanation. Without the results the case she was building for a deeper investigation into the Congressman’s death was based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and a few momentous leaps of faith. That Molly could see that a trail led somewhere definitely was based more on faith than fact. Still,Bbsed upon the evidence she had seen, Bernstein’s death was likely connected to the other two deaths Asgari had shown her. As flimsy as the evidence was, Molly felt sure she could still make enough of an argument to pursue a case, and at least stall for enough time to flush out a few leads until the lab results came in.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
The Director burst through the door, as if the hall had exhaled and spit him into the office. Tall, with a linebacker’s shoulders, thinning blond hair and thin frameless eyeglass, he’d just come from a meeting with Homeland Security regarding the growing crisis in the Persian Gulf. The nation’s security network was taking the prospect of Iranian sleeper cells and saboteurs very seriously. The view was that they could be activated at any time, and given Iran’s own view of its chances, to wage war against the United States, NATO and perhaps Israel all at once.
Unconventional war would likely be their best opportunity to inflict any sort of meaningful suffering upon their enemies. A number of Iranian nationals and diplomats had already disappeared or had alluded their usual surveillance.
Urgency and concern was plainly visible on the Director’s face. He stopped on a dime and looked down at Molly, who was now thinking better of their meeting. Hallman pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a bit, as if deciding her fate. He curled his index finger and beckoned her into his office.
Inside his comfortable office Molly pushed the door closed. Daylight poured into the office that had an appearance of a law office, with an impressive number of polished and pristine law volumes. Director Hallman slipped off his dark blue suit coat and sat quickly at the large oak desk. Over the director’s shoulder Molly could just see the stone white Washingtom Monument climbing through autumn colored trees into a pristine blue sky.
“Agent,” he began, tapping out something on his computer keyboard. His attention only partially on her. “I can give you three minutes. You’ll have to make your case quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hallman checked his Rolex. “Hate to rush you, but the shit is hitting the fan.”
Molly took a breath and opened the file in her hand. She gave a brief background on Congressman Bernstein and drew all the connections she could find between the other two deaths. At the center, though there was no real evidence to support it, was the victims mutual interest in discrediting and defunding FIRST THRUST INC, which was being purchased by the international arms dealer, Umberto Shosa. She alluded to the lab results and the autopsies, and slid a comparison of the alleged causes of death for each man.
“Strokes?” Hallman pushed the paper back across the desk to her.
“Well…”
“Agent,” his tone was almost scolding, “this is Washington, where strokes and heart attacks are the biggest cause of death among government types. All of these men were middle aged and, statistically speaking, prime candidates for strokes.”
“Indeed, sir,” she pointed to each of the images, “ but this damage is hardly consistent with a simple…”
“It’s a stretch. “ Hallman leaned back in his tall brown leather chair.
“I understand, sir, but…”
“Let me stop you right there. If you haven’t heard the news from Iran you will soon enough.”
Molly shook her head, and felt so terribly frustrated.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Homeland Security Secretary. We’ve lost contact with a number of Iranian nationals we’ve been watching. I’ve got an Iranian diplomat who might be in charge of activating sleeper cells if we wind up going to war. I don’t think he quite meets the profile, but he is still unaccounted for. My sense is he’ll use the crisis to defect, and we’ll find him working as a cab driver in Duluth in six months. I need you to find this guy. His name is Ahmed Fallahi. I’ve sent you the file already.”
The name was familiar to her somehow, though for the moment, Molly could not place exactly where she knew it from.
“Why me, sir?”
Hallman came around the side of the desk and sat on the edge. “Because I can count on you to do the job right and help make the world a normal place again. You’re a smart agent who makes intelligent choices. That is exactly what is called for here.”
It was hard to be too disappointed at that. At some point the FBI and law enforcement was less a crusade than a job. She was an employee of the government and not a knight of the realm. She nodded and left. She wouldn’t abandon the case completely. If something changed, if there was something she could find that clearly pointed to a crime then she would argue for it again. Until then she would track down Ahmed Fallahi, not realizing the powerful implications it would have on her life and for the world.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fourteen
It was perhaps a misleading word to describe the White House Situation Room as just that. It was a complex. On the ground floor of the sprawling West Wing, a busy operations center funneled information from around the planet, analyzing and prioritizing events twenty-four hours a day; a nerve center processing the unfolding history of the world.
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.
He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.
The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.
Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.
Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.
The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.
“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”
There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.
The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.
“How old is this?” asked the President.
“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.
The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”
“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”
The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.
“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”
“How big a force are we facing right now?”
“Mister Osborne?”
The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.
“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”
“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”
“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.
“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”
Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”
“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”
“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.
“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”
The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.
“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”
“Any other options?” said the President.
“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.
“Good ones?”
“That’s a different question.”
The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.
"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.
“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”
“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”
The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”
“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”
“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”
The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Thirteen
Doug was sitting at the dining room table. The room was dark but for the ambient eggshell light off the porch sep. The light was softened by the rain that ran in rivulets upon the window. Through the open window a chill wind embraced Doug. The wind carried the thumping surf just beyond the tall pine and birch at the back of the yard. One arm was hooked over the back of the chair. In the other hand Doug swirled a snifter of amber Armagnac.
It was his third glass that evening, and the warm bite of the spirit perfectly reflected the autumn chill, as if they were lovers swept into a moment of attraction. Together they proved the appropriate juxtaposition to the numbness wrought by the week and the day. From the other room, almost lost to the wind and trees and surf, came a languishing Nick cave melody. It was one of Jane’s favorites. The word fell like fat raindrops, running away with the blessedly remorseful piano melody:
And no more shall we part
It will no longer be necessary
And no more will I say, dear heart
I am alone and she has left me
And no more shall we part
The contracts are drawn up, the ring is locked upon the finger
And never again will my letters start
Sadly, or in the depths of winter
And no more shall we part
All the hatchets have been buried…
He was thinking. He was thinking that one spouse would one day outlive the other was implied in marriage. It is the burden few dare entertain in youth, but grows steadily with the sunset of lives. A good loving man prays he will be the one left to fend alone, while quietly dreading the ultimate weight of that loss. Doug sighed at the thought, and sighed mournfully. He closed his eyes tight against threatening tears and downed the last of the Armagnac.
There was a sound from the family room behind him. Gentle hands fell upon his shoulders. Doug’s heart fluttered with emotion. For just a moment he expected to find Jane standing there, ready to console him. He looked up and in the half light that fragmentary illusion seemed complete. It was enough that he nearly burst into tears of joy.
“Startle you, Dad?” Megan asked softly, as if her voice was a quality of the wind and distant surf. Doug didn’t answer right away. He studied the empty glass in his hand for a moment.
“No, honey, just thinking.”
Megan went around to the window and pulled it closed, shivering at the cold. She was still in the dress she’d worn for the funeral. Megan slid into her usual chair at the long dining room table and sat.
“Want to be alone?” she asked, sweeping a hand across the smooth polished wood, as though exploring it. Her hand paused in front of her mother’s chair, as if expecting Jane’s hand to reach out. Doug weighed Megan’s words. It wasn’t an easy question.
“You okay?” he changed the subject.
“Worried about Dana,” she replied softly, tears threatening.
“Is she…”
“She’s up in your and…in your room.”
“I’m worried about you guys,” he said.
Megan’s brow faltered. For all her strength she was just holding things together. “I’m okay.”
“So proud of you through all of this, sweetheart.”
Megan chewed her lip, sporting that same refusal to be ruled by emotion that Jane used to criticize Doug over. She looked to the window. Doug watched a thought materialize in her eyes and waited in anticipation. Even still, he wasn’t entirely prepared for it.
“Will you ever get married again?”
The thought had not even occurred to Doug. Even after Jane was told she was terminal he had never once considered a time after. He never once imagined that he would one day have to take stock of his new life. What would it mean to the girls? Was it a way of selfishly assuaging his own loneliness and need? Did it break the vow he’d made to her the day of their wedding? Was ‘till death do us part’ only a mortal contract absolving and releasing the survivor upon the other’s death? These were not questions he could form a proper view of just yet, even as they assaulted him at every turn.
It was his third glass that evening, and the warm bite of the spirit perfectly reflected the autumn chill, as if they were lovers swept into a moment of attraction. Together they proved the appropriate juxtaposition to the numbness wrought by the week and the day. From the other room, almost lost to the wind and trees and surf, came a languishing Nick cave melody. It was one of Jane’s favorites. The word fell like fat raindrops, running away with the blessedly remorseful piano melody:
And no more shall we part
It will no longer be necessary
And no more will I say, dear heart
I am alone and she has left me
And no more shall we part
The contracts are drawn up, the ring is locked upon the finger
And never again will my letters start
Sadly, or in the depths of winter
And no more shall we part
All the hatchets have been buried…
He was thinking. He was thinking that one spouse would one day outlive the other was implied in marriage. It is the burden few dare entertain in youth, but grows steadily with the sunset of lives. A good loving man prays he will be the one left to fend alone, while quietly dreading the ultimate weight of that loss. Doug sighed at the thought, and sighed mournfully. He closed his eyes tight against threatening tears and downed the last of the Armagnac.
There was a sound from the family room behind him. Gentle hands fell upon his shoulders. Doug’s heart fluttered with emotion. For just a moment he expected to find Jane standing there, ready to console him. He looked up and in the half light that fragmentary illusion seemed complete. It was enough that he nearly burst into tears of joy.
“Startle you, Dad?” Megan asked softly, as if her voice was a quality of the wind and distant surf. Doug didn’t answer right away. He studied the empty glass in his hand for a moment.
“No, honey, just thinking.”
Megan went around to the window and pulled it closed, shivering at the cold. She was still in the dress she’d worn for the funeral. Megan slid into her usual chair at the long dining room table and sat.
“Want to be alone?” she asked, sweeping a hand across the smooth polished wood, as though exploring it. Her hand paused in front of her mother’s chair, as if expecting Jane’s hand to reach out. Doug weighed Megan’s words. It wasn’t an easy question.
“You okay?” he changed the subject.
“Worried about Dana,” she replied softly, tears threatening.
“Is she…”
“She’s up in your and…in your room.”
“I’m worried about you guys,” he said.
Megan’s brow faltered. For all her strength she was just holding things together. “I’m okay.”
“So proud of you through all of this, sweetheart.”
Megan chewed her lip, sporting that same refusal to be ruled by emotion that Jane used to criticize Doug over. She looked to the window. Doug watched a thought materialize in her eyes and waited in anticipation. Even still, he wasn’t entirely prepared for it.
“Will you ever get married again?”
The thought had not even occurred to Doug. Even after Jane was told she was terminal he had never once considered a time after. He never once imagined that he would one day have to take stock of his new life. What would it mean to the girls? Was it a way of selfishly assuaging his own loneliness and need? Did it break the vow he’d made to her the day of their wedding? Was ‘till death do us part’ only a mortal contract absolving and releasing the survivor upon the other’s death? These were not questions he could form a proper view of just yet, even as they assaulted him at every turn.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Twelve
The Pave Lows took off separately. They dropped low, nearly to sea level, and swung north, using the ships for cover. Ten minutes later they rendezvoused north of the group before turning southeast, running hard and fast for the coast. West of Hendurabi Island, a featureless patch of sand, the Pave Lows corrected course once more, charging strait for the coast.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
Everyone aboard felt the sudden lurch as the Pave Lows crested the ridge. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the AK tracers and the ghost-white trails of RPGs rushed up from the valley. Even John McCallister, a man familiar with the fever and confusion of war, was stunned by the Iranian response.
There wasn’t time for thought, let alone reaction. McCallister would torture himself about not calling immediately for a fast retreat, but there simply wasn’t time. Almost instantly two rockets hammered the lead chopper, like a prize fighter taking a roundhouse punch. Swinging sideways, it turned over in mid air before breaking up. The pieces tumbled independent of one another throwing wreckage and bodies across the desert floor. McCallister’s response now was immediate and unequivocal.
“Abort!” he shouted to the other remaining Pave Low, breaking radio silence as a fat olive RPG round sliced a smoky trail right through the open bay doors, missing several men by mere inches. It seemed to underscore the Iranians knew exactly where the American intruders were. The narrow miss brought astonished and horrified looks from his well seasoned team.
Beside him, the door gunner opened up with a .50 caliber, slamming rounds at unseen targets below. Bullets chopped at the fuselage as the ship began a hard turn. The co-pilot howled in pain as a round smashed upwards through his foot, shattering bone before emerging from his thigh.
“Abort now!” McCallister cried once more, a moment too late.
He watched helpless as a rocket ripped away the tail rotor of the third ship. The Pave Low spun wildly in a rapid death spiral to the desert floor. In a final desperate act to save the men in back, the pilot brought the ship down nose first crushing he and the co-pilot instantly.
McCallister screamed in anger as the survivors spilled out onto the ground. He ordered the pilot to turn back despite the withering storm of fire coming up from the desert. But the pilot was already well into the turn, bent on avenging the deaths of men that were dearer to him than family.
They came in low, ignoring the fire directed almost exclusively against them now. The survivors on the ground, were already taking up defensive positions around the wreckage. Two hundred yards north a line of Iranian regulars advanced on the downed chopper. The remaining Pave Low chewed through the line with stunning accuracy. The clanging of the Fifty Caliber was punctuated by the earth shattering bang of rockets blasting the Iranian line.
But it only seemed to focus the resolve of the Iranians to bring down the remaining helicopter. It was suicide to remain in the fight, and would serve nothing to save the survivors below.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice cracked with emotion of the intercom. In the background the co=pilot screamed in agony. “”I’m breaking off!”
McCallister knew it was pointless to remain any longer as they passed over the survivors now trading shots as the Iranian cordon tightened steadily around them. Despite the murderous fire McCallister leaned precariously from the bay desperate for one final glimpse of his beleaguered men. As the ship climbed the ridge, rushing for the open sea, McCallister wished a bullet had found its mark to spare him the shame and anguish he now suffered. Abandoning his men, which is precisely how he took it, was a fate crueler than any death.
There was more fire from the coast as the Pave Low streaked out over the sea. Two F-18s buzzed the coast, going to after burners. The resulting sonic booms exploded windows for miles, ruptured water pipes and shattered ear drums. The coastal fire ceased. As for the men stranded on the desert floor, short of all out war, there was nothing anyone could do for them.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Eleven
The moment grew and deepened, with the specter of war and disaster looming at the edge of every decision. But nothing about this made any sense. No one could explain the distress beacon. Flybys confirmed an infra red strobe, the kind activated by downed flyers The latest satellite images only deepened the mystery, unable to see clearly through blowing dust. There was no wreckage, which wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility in such rugged terrain, which could quite easily swallow up and erase a single aircraft. The Iranians put out patrols along the coast and Highway Ninety-six to the east of the parachute and “body.” Strangest thing was that all aircraft had been accounted for in the area. Aside from the E2C Hawkeye and a pair of F-18 Hornets there wasn’t a damn thing in the sky. Even the Iranians, perhaps afraid of spooking the Americans into a fight, kept their aircraft on the ground.
Final approval for the operation came from the highest levels of the Pentagon. In Washington the President was informed as he returned from a cross-country speaking trip. Aside from constraints upon rules of engagement and potential escalation, he was satisfied with the military’s experience and prudence. In the end the final decision would depend upon three things; honor,a promise that no American soldier was ever left behind and Lt. Colonel McCallister, the man who would ultimately lead the mission.
Danzig found him on the flight deck. Before him three massive MH-53 Pave Low helicopters were silhouetted against the night sky. Magnificent and terrifying all at once, they were the most sophisticated and lethal helicopters in the world. At half a city block long and almost three stories in height it seemed comical that they had proved themselves in countless stealth and rescue missions. And when stealth failed as an option the Paves could open up on an adversary with 7.62mm mini-guns, a fifty caliber and an assortment missiles. It wasn’t an option McCallister intended to test on this mission. His teams had been fully briefed, and the crews well-prepared to charge across the sea at lightning speed and drop down to the desert before the Iranians knew what was happening. They’d be out and racing back for the safety of the CG inside forty minutes. Nice and easy. At least that was the plan.
Danzig stood next to him. Both men were quiet for a moment. McCallister was chewing on the end of an unlit Cuban cigar, a bit of a pre-mission ritual he believed brought good luck. They were looking off to the east, towards Iran.
“Give the word, Mac, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
McCallister breathed deeply, taking the cool salty air into his lungs.
“My team is ready, Sam.” The words sounded hollow almost from the moment they left him.
“Feels like our hands are a bit tied here,” said Danzig. “We’ll have a couple birds in the air, and more standing-by should you need them, but you will be alone for a while. Don’t fuck around out there.”
“I’d feel a bit better with some air support close by too.”
“Washington is telling me no dice. No one wants to start a war here.”
A sailor ran up with the latest intelligence of the target area. Even Danzig’s perfect poker face failed him as he looked over the report. He took a long breath and handed it over to McCallister.
“Looks like the Iranians are awake.”
McCallister looked over the report carefully. A column of enemy vehicles was on the move from the north. Another unit approached from the south along the coast. Add to that 2 Chinese Houdong class missile boats had been spotted north of Lavan Island moving south towards Chiruyeh.
McCallister nodded thoughtfully and gave Danzig’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is what we do.”
“Get home, Mac.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
His teams were already aboard the choppers. One by one they moved out onto the flight line as those General Electric twin turbo-shaft engines came to life. They cut a formidable image, so then why did McCallister have a nagging impression of the mission? Something made him anxious. He looked across the dark gulf waters. The business of war, he thought, was a craps game-eventually everyone's number came up. He couldn’t recall feeling this way about a mission before, and wondered if it wasn’t a sixth sense that had served him well all these years, or he was getting old and losing his nerve? They answers to those questions would have to wait.
Final approval for the operation came from the highest levels of the Pentagon. In Washington the President was informed as he returned from a cross-country speaking trip. Aside from constraints upon rules of engagement and potential escalation, he was satisfied with the military’s experience and prudence. In the end the final decision would depend upon three things; honor,a promise that no American soldier was ever left behind and Lt. Colonel McCallister, the man who would ultimately lead the mission.
Danzig found him on the flight deck. Before him three massive MH-53 Pave Low helicopters were silhouetted against the night sky. Magnificent and terrifying all at once, they were the most sophisticated and lethal helicopters in the world. At half a city block long and almost three stories in height it seemed comical that they had proved themselves in countless stealth and rescue missions. And when stealth failed as an option the Paves could open up on an adversary with 7.62mm mini-guns, a fifty caliber and an assortment missiles. It wasn’t an option McCallister intended to test on this mission. His teams had been fully briefed, and the crews well-prepared to charge across the sea at lightning speed and drop down to the desert before the Iranians knew what was happening. They’d be out and racing back for the safety of the CG inside forty minutes. Nice and easy. At least that was the plan.
Danzig stood next to him. Both men were quiet for a moment. McCallister was chewing on the end of an unlit Cuban cigar, a bit of a pre-mission ritual he believed brought good luck. They were looking off to the east, towards Iran.
“Give the word, Mac, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
McCallister breathed deeply, taking the cool salty air into his lungs.
“My team is ready, Sam.” The words sounded hollow almost from the moment they left him.
“Feels like our hands are a bit tied here,” said Danzig. “We’ll have a couple birds in the air, and more standing-by should you need them, but you will be alone for a while. Don’t fuck around out there.”
“I’d feel a bit better with some air support close by too.”
“Washington is telling me no dice. No one wants to start a war here.”
A sailor ran up with the latest intelligence of the target area. Even Danzig’s perfect poker face failed him as he looked over the report. He took a long breath and handed it over to McCallister.
“Looks like the Iranians are awake.”
McCallister looked over the report carefully. A column of enemy vehicles was on the move from the north. Another unit approached from the south along the coast. Add to that 2 Chinese Houdong class missile boats had been spotted north of Lavan Island moving south towards Chiruyeh.
McCallister nodded thoughtfully and gave Danzig’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is what we do.”
“Get home, Mac.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
His teams were already aboard the choppers. One by one they moved out onto the flight line as those General Electric twin turbo-shaft engines came to life. They cut a formidable image, so then why did McCallister have a nagging impression of the mission? Something made him anxious. He looked across the dark gulf waters. The business of war, he thought, was a craps game-eventually everyone's number came up. He couldn’t recall feeling this way about a mission before, and wondered if it wasn’t a sixth sense that had served him well all these years, or he was getting old and losing his nerve? They answers to those questions would have to wait.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Big Blue Sky: TEN
John “Mac” McCallister was a small but solid man, with the broad shoulders and physique of a competive swimmer rather than a soldier with thirty-four years in the Special Forces. His face was carved as much by a lifetime at war as by the perspective that ultimately peace was the goal, and that the purpose of men like John McCallister was to become obsolete in the world. A round pair of reading spectacles, which he found himself relying upon more and more, gave him a studious appearance. The father of four girls, McCallister had been married to the same fiery and tirelessly faithful Israeli woman he fallen in love with while on tour in Lebanon back in Eighty-four. A study in contrasts, McCallister had a ready smile, endless patience, disarming gentleness and a penchant for excruciating detail. At a glance one might easily mistake him for a Little League Coach or Driver’s Ed teacher than man who had fought and killed men in battle.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
He was dressed in his desert cammies and windbreaker as he stepped through the hatch into the CATCC. Chief Green offered a quick salute that McCallister returned naturally.
“What do ya got, Chief?” He asked.
“Well, sir,” Green began, “One of the ACs picked up a distress signal on the ground inside Iran. We’ve done everything we can to confirm that possibility. As you can see the satellite is inconclusive. There is no wreckage and we have no known missing aircraft; ours or allied. Chief Murphy in the CDC is compiling a threat assessment for that region of the country.”
“Thorough, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
McCallister went through the reports as carefully as he could. If indeed a pilot was down, and perhaps hurt, time was certainly of the essence. The Iranian response so far was virtually non-existent, which seemed to exclude a shoot down. The CDC assessment confirmed that several patrols were in the area. Their casual, even stoic radio traffic offered a picture that they had no clue what they were looking for. That would change with the coming daylight. For the moment, if in fact a flyer was down, McCallister and his team had a window of opportunity, one that he wasn’t about to squander.
“Great work, Chief,” he said.
“Just thinking how I would feel if I was down there,” said Green.
“Good man,” McCallister replied.
The captain and Admiral were awakened. With the commander of the air wing all four men began the grim discussions around which history would change forever. Each of them knew exactly how unforgiving history could be. Foremost was the possibility that it was all a trick by the Iranians, but the pathetic level of their response so far made that unlikely. As blustery and obnoxious as the Iranian military could be, flexing their muscles and acting as intimidating as they could get away with, their military leaders had no interest in provoking a war with an American Carrier Group. For McCallister that left only one option, which he argued fully for.
“My team can get in and out of their in forty minutes,” he told the group. “As long as I know you boys got my back.”
“Threat assessment?” asked Admiral Samuel Danzig. He was a shrewd and calculating man. As an Ensign he had started his career in Vietnam, shoving helicopters overboard to make room for others in the desperate withdrawal from Saigon in Seventy-five. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his square jaw. He would order that friendlies show ultimate restraint, even if fired upon by the Iranians. If the situation became untenable then he wasn’t willing to trade a series of escalating shots with the enemy. If his forces returned fire Danzig expected it to be concerted and strong enough to persuade the enemy they risked annihilation.
The CDC had set up the assessment as a Power point presentation.
McCallister reached across to the mouse on the table and clicked on the computer icon. A map of Iran popped up on the flat screen monitor at the end of the room Major military airfields and installations popped up all around the country. The Iranian navy was concentrated at Bandar Abbass to the south where Chinese-made missile boats, sporting ship-killer missiles, were docked. All along the coast the Iranians had deployed speed boats capable of slipping inside the carrier Group's defenses to ram ships head on. The coastline and islands bristled with anti-ship and anti-aircraft batteries. Further inland, medium and long range Shahab missiles and short range Fateh missiles could inflict terrible damage. The target area was bracketed by significant Iranian airbases at the coastal city of Bushehr to the north and Bandar Abbass to the south.
“The enemy could put a significant threat force into the air quickly from both locations,” said McCallister. “No surprise they are on a constant state of high state of readiness. To the south Bandar Abbass has two runways, Lamerd to the west with a single runway, and on Kish Island. I think even if they saw us coming I could get in and out before they could deploy.”
“Any word on military activity on their side?” asked the admiral. “If they are moving heavily I think this is a done deal.”
“Reports of a few patrols,” the CDC Commander cleared her throat. “Seems to be local cops and a few local Artesh, regular army, units.”
“Mac, said Danzig, “you’d better be damn sure. Those boys are on a hair trigger. You’ll be all alone for the better part of thirty minutes once you cross into their airspace.”
“The only other option is to abandon that flyer.”
“If there is in fact a flyer,” offered the Captain, a tall gray-haired Texan. “I’m still not convinced, and I’m not sure we are in the best position if this goes south and we end up in a shooting war.”
The fact of the matter was, the Gulf was a small place, and a carrier Group was like a bear conspicuous in a child’s pool. Given predictions of the Iranian order of battle, if it came to a fight they would have one chance to make the Americans pay. No doubt they’d scuttle tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, trapping the Group and then pummel the fleet with everything in their arsenal.
“Well,” McCallister put up the grainy image of what appeared to be a body curled beneath a bush, “we either go in and see for ourselves or wait for Ahmadinejad to parade him on al-Jezeera.”
The meeting was quick but thorough. Regardless of the decision to go or not to go, McCallister’s team was already gearing up, checking ammo and equipment, while the flight crews went over routes and scrutinized in greater detail any specific possible threats they might encounter along the way. Prayers for peace are better rendered through preparations for war.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Nine
Chief Petty Officer Green’s mind spun through a stunning volume of scenarios. In this room, this close to the hostile Iranian coast there was no room for error, and certainly no room for blind reaction. The United States was not at war, at least not a shooting war, with Iran. It might come to that, Green knew, but he wasn’t going carry on his soul a mistake or misjudgment that started it either. Not that he had ever shied from a fight. He’d had his share growing up in the Projects, but he had never once thrown the first punch. Beside him, the AC saw the tension in Green’s face.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
“Okay, chief?”
He patted her shoulder and forced a smile.
“Listen up, everyone.” He began, drawing the room’s attention for a moment. There were no illusions. The gravity of this moment did not have to “sink in.” He knew from the moment he looked down at that radar screen. “I want everyone to pay close attention to the details here. There will be questions later if the shit hits the fan. Follow your training.”
Chief Murphy returned from the CDC with two grainy images from the satellite. Even from sixty miles up the satellites normally produced clear images. Murphy had hoped for better as they came off the printer, but a dust storm had kicked up over the target area giving everything a grainy, washed sort of appearance. Chief Green held them to a light and made a good-natured grimace to his friend.
“Eat your lunch on these?” he quipped.
“Winds picked up quite a bit of sand, but look here and here,” Murphy pointed to dark shapes scattered along the bottom of a shallow arroyo. An Air Force-issue parachute stretched across and over one bank. There were marks, as if someone had been dragged or had crawled deeper into the gulf. Beneath a scrub bush something dark was curled tightly. Roughly the size of a man, it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Is that a body?”
“We picked up an explosion in the hills just above this sight.”
“Plane?”
“I don’t know on this one, Darrell. So far the Iranians have been relatively quiet. Little dust up near Chiruyeh on the coast, likely smugglers squaring off with the local gendarme.”
“Chief,” one of the ACs interrupted. “The Hawkeye picked up the strobe.”
Green looked sharply to Murphy. Both of them had the same thought. Murphy nodded and breathed deeply.
“I’ll start putting together a list of all the enemy assets in the area.”
Green nodded and reached for the phone. He cleared his throat and paused for just a moment before dialing the number. He stood straight. Every eye in the room was on him at that moment. This was his team. Five good souls that Chief Green knew he could rely on completely. It gave him the courage he needed to face this moment, and in the trying hours and days to come. The phone rang twice on the other end. The voice there was gravelly and unsteady with interrupted deep sleep. But the character of it spoke of a man who knew immediately there was trouble.
“Hello?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McCallister, Chief Green in the CATCC. Sir, we have a situation here that requires your presence.”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” said Green
“Yes, of course,” McCallister replied, “I’ll be right up.”
As Green hung up the phone he could feel the pace of things speed up. The weight of the world was suddenly on the young Chief’s shoulders. It was a daunting feeling that teetered on the overwhelming, but he did as generations of soldiers had done before him, many faced with far more difficult times. It was his training that rallied him. Even more it was the expectant faces of the five young ACs under his command. He was satisfied, as least as much as he could be. There was little more he could do to verify whether an American airman was curled up beneath a bush in an Iranian creek bed, but he was determined to do whatever was necessary should that prove true. McCallister would need information. Together with Chief Murphy in the CDC across the passageway, they would build a solid base from which all this would flow.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
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