It was still cool and crisp when Eli Germaine stepped outside for a cigarette. The sun was just coming up as a fat chartreuse disk above the hills to the east. He stretched with a weary groan, having spent the night as McCullough poured out every detail of a fantastic story. Germaine’s head was still spinning, trying to make sense of it all.
The door opened behind him, as one of the Federal Agents joined him, looking every bit as exhausted and bewildered. The man was tall and blond, with athletic Ivy League looks. He was in a dark brown suit, a blue and white silk tie folded and tucked in the pocket of his bright white dress shirt. Germaine offered him a cigarette. The agent politely waved it away.
“Trying to quit, thanks.”
“Heard all that?”
“Do we buy it?” asked the Agent.
“Hundred percent,” Germaine replied, pushing a cigarette into his lips. He fumbled in a pocket for the lighter. The cold air helped rouse him. “At least that he believes everything he told us. Whether or not it’s true…The kid was almost relieved to get it out.”
“Question is, what do we do with this?” The Agent, born and bred in Arizona wasn’t as accustomed to the cold. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he rocked on his heels, as if that would help to warm him.
Germaine flipped the top on his silver Marine Corps lighter and brought the tapered golden flame up to the cigarette. “That I leave to you Federal guys. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“I’ll need a copy of his statement?”
“Anything you need,” Germaine replied.
“I’ll send this to Washington.”
“Time enough to stop a war?”
The Agent shrugged. His words were hollow and cold, more a product of a lack of sleep than anything. “I don’t know anyone in Iran. Do you?”
Germaine frowned. The Agent couldn’t see it, but Germaine knew only too well the horrors of war and didn’t all appreciate the Agent’s flippancy. “We may all know someone in Iran before long.”
The Agent was silent for a moment. A chill ran through him, one deeper and very different from the chill of the Michigan morning. He felt a little foolish for the comment and could almost feel Germaine’s dissatisfaction. It wasn’t like him so say something that irresponsible, but trapped in the moment, he didn’t see any good way back. The moment hung heavily for a long moment.
“Pretty impressive how you connected with McCullough,” the Agent said, humbly.
“Bond between men who have been in combat,” said Germaine, with a half smile, taking a subtle shot at the lawyerly Fed. He took a long drag on the cigarette and flipped away into the frost-touched green grass. “Somehow he got all turned around and misplaced his loyalty. I was just helping a fellow Marine and a good American find them again.”
“We’ll see.”
Germaine was less than pleased with the reply, though he knew it to be an honest one that was perhaps accurate. Still, he took all of this very personal. As he started for the door Germaine stopped and laid a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder, specifically intending to make a point.
“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “I expect that to weigh heavily on this man’s case. Are we clear?”
“And Brower?”
“We gave him every opportunity. He made his choice.”
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-seven
To the Iranians America’s imperialistic hands were fully around their throats. It was unavoidable that some would perceive that as a death grip. Those men were determined to strike a blow, however feeble, against their aggressors. Revenge is never about the truth, but always about the heart. In it they could level any accusation. America’s support for Israel blossomed into a conspiracy that was almost mythical in its size and scope and treachery. There were tales of oil, of racial and religious hatreds, historical hyperbole, of a new crusade and more. In the end, however, war, like politics and marriage, is always about revenge.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
This was truest for the power elite, the wealthy and ruling class, of course. They held no long view of anything, and particularly not of the conflict or history. All that they could see was the view to protecting their own power and privilege. There was no real belief in the “eternal” nation. That was a tattered flag they waved to arouse simple sensibilities, nationalist hearts and to stifle dissent. And where that failed, the promise of oppression and violence sufficed.
Fractures and fissures grew quickly through the government. It was quickly apparent within the military command, betraying long simmering animosities, ideological, ethnic and national tensions. These were present in all governments, but had remained far more hidden in coercive and tyrannical environment of the Iranian Republic, and the more coercive a government the more subversive its dissenters.
The corrupt were the most vicious, secretly ordering the arrest and executions of political rivals and critics where they were able, and engaged in outright murder when they were not. They were busy settling scores throughout that first day, while the defense and survival of Iran was secondary, at best. People disappeared off the street, from the halls of government or were dragged from t heir homes, sometimes to be executed in the street like a wild dog. War hadn’t been declared with America yet, but Iran was already at war with itself.
In was much the same within the ranks of the military. Henchmen who had risen to prominence through treachery and brutality ( a relative small number of men who were prominent in the Islamic revolution of the late Seventies) found themselves threatened and suspect by career military commanders, professional military men whose loyalty, secretly, lay more with the people and the country than to the regime.
In Bushehr, non-commissioned officers shot dead their political commander and had seized a barracks. Local commanders ordered to put down the rebel noncoms but when faced a complete mutiny decided instead to negotiate a deal. There were similar incidents throughout the country. Some were left to stand, at least temporarily, others were quickly and brutally put down. Despite the hopes, and in a few instances the instigation of Western agents, outright rebellion against the Tehran regime were absolutely the exception, as for every deserter and mutineer there were hundreds that volunteered to defend the country.
Still there were signs of hope for a negotiated resolution to the crisis. Just after dawn, Washington, an Iranian Il-76 transport, landed at Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian Coast with an Air Force General, his family and two parliamentary ministers. The two nations shared a long history, and had majority Shia Muslim populations. That their relations had strained through the latter twentieth and early Twenty-first century over Ngorno-Karabakh, the Caspian Sea and relations with Israel seemed more cosmetic than fundamental. That was clear when in 2005 President Aliyav refused US a base from which they might attack Iran.
General Ali Reza Khorasani immediately demanded an audience with the American ambassador. Taking no chances that this might be a trick or ambush of some sort, or that Iran might stage a raid to capture or kill the General Khorasani was flown immediately to a Georgian base on the outskirts of Tbilisi, while his staff and family were transferred to the US base at Inzirlik Turkey with guarantees for their safety
The news was treated with all due interest in Washington and around the world. Khorasani did not speak for the Mullahs or Tehran, and the President made the mistake of second-guessing his first instinct. In a statement the White House overstated Khorasani’s influence, as they had down with Ahmed Chelabi in the lead up to the Iraq invasion, playing him as an reasonable voice that reflected the true sensible nature of the Iranian people. The Administration could not have been more wrong, as the majority of the people believed war inevitable. They knew from Iraq and Afghanistan that even the finest and best trained military in the world could be held up and exhausted in an endless guerrilla war.
Unexpectedly Iran’s patron, Russia, protested loudest over Khorasani’s defection. They charged that the United States had kidnapped the General and demanded his release. Not that they were willing to go to war over the incident, but they were not about to let the West seize yet another potential warm water access. That, in a private communiqué to the President, they made quite clear. To underscore the point, the Russians ordered two aging but still lethal Akula Class Nuclear subs to the Gulf. Russian Jets and attack helicopters violated Georgian and Azerbaijani airspace in clearly calculated threats. The crisis was quickly spiraling out of control, expanding and reaching far beyond the Gulf and the borders of Iran.
In Afghanistan the Taliban prepared a major offensive to capitalize on the situation should war erupt. Increased security measures and skyrocketing fuel costs would force a number of airlines into bankruptcy and cost thousands of jobs worldwide. Hate crimes against Arabs increased in the US, while hate crimes against Jews went up across Europe. Markets tumbled and would continue to tumble. The hardships of war would resonate around the world, and far beyond the actual frontlines.
Even if two battered and hunted souls, half way around the world, managed to uncover the truth, the chances of getting anyone to listen and stopping the war grew less likely by the minute.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-six
When Doug awoke just before dawn, in the cheap no-name motel along Route Seven, just outside Rapid River, Molly was in the shower. Doug was still dressed, still wearing his shoes, just as he had when he collapsed upon the bed sometime after two that morning. He had no recollection of Molly getting up, or even getting into bed with him. From the moment is head hit the pillow Doug was out cold. He awoke disoriented, only the soul shattering fatigue and pain burning through his body reminding Doug that all of this hadn’t been some terrible dream.
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Doug’s body ached from the night before. The soft mattress felt like a glove, his arms limp beside him, his head in the too-soft pillow and the pillowcase that smelled faintly of bleach and fabric softener. He was content not to move for as long as he dared, knowing that it would awaken a torrent of pain.
He’d managed to convince the elderly Pakistani proprietor that he and Molly were rushing to see an ailing relative and didn’t have a credit card. For an extra fifty bucks cash he rented the room under an assumed name. Set upon a hillside overlooking the northern shores of Lake Michigan the pair dragged their battered and weary bodies inside.
The room was small, filled almost completely by a single queen-sized bed, with two simple pillows and an olive-green fleece blanket. A brown and red floral comforter was folded and laid across the foot of the bed. There was an old box Panasonic television on a small bureau in the corner. The air was stale and laced with the soft damp scent of mildew, and cigarettes that seemed imbued into the thin paneled walls.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, the pale golden light falling upon the brown carpet and across his legs. He could see the mirror on the wall in the bathroom, partly covered in the collected steam from the shower, and reflecting the white cloth shower curtain.
Molly swept the curtain aside and stepped from the shower. Doug could see her smooth pale flesh, be-speckled with shimmering beads of water. She stood there a moment, pulling back her long wet hair, the motion accentuating the curve of her breast. A bluish bruise had grown from he cut to her cheek, extending back towards her dark hair. Noticing the door was open Molly moved to close it, and noticed Doug watching her from the bed. His gaze was tortured, not in a voyeuristic or leering sort of way, but as if he had stumbled into a strange and alluring land. Lost and adrift alone in the world Doug knew he might find a home and refuge in that new land, though for the moment that consideration felt like a betrayal of that lost land. She paused there, holding his eyes with hers and felt suddenly warm with breathless anticipation of him. Doug looked to the window and closed his eyes. Molly wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the corner of the bed beside him.
“I suppose I should get us some breakfast,” he sat up, refusing to look at her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “About last night?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was coming to find you, turn myself in.”
“My partner was a good man. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“believe I’m innocent now?”
Doug turned, finding himself close to her, enough that he felt any semblance of self-control collapse completely. His lips fell softly upon hers, drawing in the warm of her breath, and feeling awakened and aroused by it. He lingered there, feeling as though he could lose himself fully in her. Afraid, he stopped and drew away. There was confusion in her eyes. Doug’s heart went out to her. He touched her cheek.
“You are so incredible,” he said. “I just need time.”
“It’s all right.” Molly whispered, holding his palm to her cheek.
“You’re not upset?”
“Do I at least have reason to hope?”
He searched her eyes, or at least pretended to. More than that he was searching his own soul, his heart softly breaking as each moment seemed to erase a little bit more of Jane. He missed her so terribly, and could have thrown himself into Molly’s arms to rescue him from this terrible longing. He could have but that would have been cruel to Molly, and Doug just couldn’t do that, at least not yet, and not now. Life can be long for the lonesome heart, and Doug would make no predictions for the future, only that if it came to it, and the time was right, he hoped it would be Molly waiting there for him.
Doug nodded and pressed his cheek to hers, and says softly, “Yeah.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-five
The Sherriff’s station in Munising was almost hidden in the shadow of the tall autumn forests shrouding the steep hills at the back of the town. It faced the hockey rink, and a small service road leading up to the football field, which overlooked the town and bay from a small bowl among the hills. The station appeared out of date, an unassuming place of brown brick, so flat and small that one could easily miss the place unless otherwise searching specifically. Bordered by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs, this night it was bustling with activity, as never before, crowded with county sheriffs, a State Police contingent, investigators, cops and Chiefs from Munising to Marquette, and a hand full of Federal Agents from a half dozen different agencies.
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
Despite outward appearances, inside the station was outfitted with all the modern law enforcement gadgetry that could be afforded, or which the Feds and State had provided to modernize and standardize Police departments State-wide. There were the standard holding cells and interrogation rooms, secure evidence lockers, a conference center, state-of-the-art computers and adequate surveillance capabilities. Munising’s police force, small as it was, were hardly a bunch of country bumpkins.
From a crime perspective Munising was not a quiet little backwater to the world, an oasis of pure innocence and peace, nor was it as crime ridden as say Detroit of Chicago. Like any community it had seen its fair amount of the ignorance, desperation and selfishness which has eternally plagued the human soul. Murders were thankfully few and far between, and most often the consequence of soured relationships between friends and lovers, and usually spurred by liquor or drugs. Drunk driving, domestic battery and theft were the usual faire, but never had Munising seen anything the like of the last few days. The carnage of the battle on M-28 left even the most experienced cop shocked beyond words. More than that, they saw the hubris to wage war here deeply personal.
Molly’s plan had worked, at least in part. Under the guise of a routine traffic stop the State Police pulled Brower and McCullough over just outside of town. They pulled over believing it was some sort of mistake, or perhaps an over-zealous cop with a hard-on for out of towners. When four more squad cars appeared, the officers climbing out and leveling weapons at the Black suburban, both men knew they were caught. They were taken without a struggle to the sheriff’s department and placed in separate cells.
Lieutenant Eli Germaine of the Michigan State Police had been on the case since Ahmed Fallahi’s body was discovered by responding officers at Doug Springer’s house. Average height, he had shaved his head for a fundraising event a couple years back and left it that way. At forty-seven, the former Marine captain still maintained an athletic build. Eli had served in Panama, the First Gulf War and later in Somalia, as part of the peace-keeping mission there. He had faced the darkest side of mankind, bit had managed to keep a perspective on it all, in no small part due to his deep Christian faith. Deep dark green eyes gave him an honest, sympathetic quality that portrayed trust and infinite approachability.
The prisoners had been separated from one another almost from the moment of their arrest. It was a classic interrogation both men anticipated from their training. It was always in the back of every warrior’s mind that he might, through no action of his own, fall into enemy hands. These men had trained and prepared for that possibility throughout their military careers and into their work as military contractors-the new Public Relations created term for Mercenary. And make no mistake, Brower and McCullough saw themselves at a war without boundaries, in which loyalties went to the highest bidder, though somewhere in each man was something truer and purer.
Up to now Brower and McCullough’s silence frustrated the police. Germaine had been in on both interrogations, but had remained as silent as his subjects, studying each man carefully and with the precision an anthropologist might objectively dissect a different culture. But these men were professionals, still fully engaged in their mission and completely committed to their crimes. All he kept coming back to was the one specific difference between the two men. Given his own history, it was all he had to exploit.
Germaine sat at a long metal desk across from McCullough, playing at this aloof attitude, repeating again and again how he didn’t know a thing, and that he and Brower were old war buddies up for a fishing trip. The two men were alone. Germaine looked over the man’s military file for the longest time, allowing the uncomfortable silence to work on McCullough a bit. When Germaine looked up at the man, the ploy didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. McCullough repeated again that he was only on a fishing trip, to which Germaine rattled off an impressive list of weapons found in the Suburban.
“you guys had enough firepower to start a war,” said Germaine. McCullough remained silent. “First Marine division, Iraq, huh?”
There was no reply. McCullough folded his arms and turned his face to the ceiling.
“Times I think I’m still digging sand out,” said Germaine, with a melancholic smirk. “Sand fleas were the worst.”
“You were there?” said McCullough, quietly.
“First Gulf war. Guess you guys were the sequel, huh?”
McCullough chuckled. Germaine undid the sleeve on his uniform shirt. There on his forearm was a blue and green Marine Corps globe and anchor.
“Marines?” McCullough said, somewhat surprised.
“Semper Fi, right?” said Germaine. “How many tours?”
“Two.”
“Contracting better?”
“Different.”
“Aside from the money?” Germaine smiled.
McCullough laughed. “I work with pros, guys I know got my six, and no UCMJ!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Looser rules of engagement, without having to worry if I’ll end up in some bullshit court’s martial for popping a civilian here and there.”
Germaine nodded. “I can see where that would have some advantages.”
“McCullough scoffed. “Won’t be me going home in a body bag.”
Germaine laughed, shaking his head, drawing a frown from the prisoner.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking,” Germaine began, “if we had this much firepower back in Ninety-one we’d have gone all the way to Baghdad. Damn sure could have used this on the run across Kuwait Airport.”
“Heard about that fight,” McCullough commented, notably impressed.
“Look at this.” Germaine unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pulling it aside to reveal the white suture scars in the center of his chest.
“Got hit?”
“Piece of shrapnel from and RPG round. Vest stopped it, but it shattered my sternum.” Germaine closed his shirt and leaned closer to McCullough. “I’ll level with you, son. One Marine to another. We all make choices. Some are clear, and some ain’t so clear. In war they pound the same shit into you over and over: Mission, mission, mission-Team, team, team. Its mission, team, god and country, but you’re given a mission and you fight for your team. You pray to God and swear an oath to the country.”
Germaine sat back and drew a deep breath. McCullough was silent, but clearly torn by all this.
Germaine went on. “With your record I’d say you’ve got a chance here, son, and as a fellow brother in arms I am bound to see you get every chance coming to you, but you have to make the right choice here.”
McCullough took a deep breath and folded his arms tightly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He pondered the tattoo on Germaine’s forearm. Pursing his lips, McCullough swept a hand across his head and nodded solemnly as he met Germaine’s eyes.
“Can I get a soda?”
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-four
CHAPTER THREE
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
“Once Iran gets the bomb, they’re gonna use it…”
From the Michael Savage Program, August 19, 2010
Events were moving more quickly now, gaining their own momentum, like a stone tumbling towards a cliff’s edge. The dangers of fate and history are many, those sometimes still waters in which mankind could wallow in his arrogance and drown in ignorance. In that arrogance man could pretend he was the captain of his fate, but true fate has countless captains, each vying and scratching for their own prominence and significance. In the end, the specter of war is the destroyer of the illusion those captains pretend from their selfish fate.
Indeed, war is a storm, conjured by incompetence and foolishness. Those burning winds are whipped, and fat with the embers of cultures and communities betrayed by the propaganda of their leaders. And the Press, sometimes the tool, sometimes the victim fans the flames of that growing storm. Networks competed viciously and newspapers lost readers to the laziness of the internet, a laziness disguised as democracy. From the crumbling ruins of the so-called “old” media, rose the “new” media of the Twenty-first Century, interested more in personality and advocacy for corporations or political parties. It was a realm in which facts were less important than hyperbole and the lawyerly character of an argument.
As the world edged closer to war, in Congress and Senate, and on talk radio the direction and tone of the discourse changed notably. Newscasts, blogs and articles filtered in replacement words. Overnight Iran became “the enemy,” just as they had in the days before NATO’s actions to stop the butchery of the Serbs. To the average citizen, perhaps not taking enough interest, the words seemed to appear over night, like some team sport. There was talk of targets and tactics, and analysis of the military capabilities on both sides. Old animosities were recounted so often that almost anyone on the street could rattle off a litany of Iran’s transgressions; real, exaggerated and fabricated. Selling war is surprisingly easy because it engages the natural aloneness each soul struggles with and comes to individually.
It was no different in Tehran, perhaps more so, as small nations always feel their lot more tenuous, especially in the looming shadow of a larger nation. Preparations for war began apace, amid a continual deluge of images of allied bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq at the start of those conflicts. Mixed with images of mutilated civilian casualties, it was impossible to retain any reasoned perspective to events. Demonstrators filled the streets in cities throughout the Muslim world, with particular hysterics in Tehran and Shiraz and Mashhad. Regular alerts, and forced conscriptions to construct token defenses (anti-tank trenches were pointless in the face of cruise missiles and smart bombs) fed the strangling siege mentality gripping Iran. People taped windows, moved valuables to weekend houses in the mountains and stocked up on food and water. Everywhere there were fears and accusations of spies.
Countries do not find themselves at war. There isn’t peace one day and violence the next. Nations evolve into war, as much from within as without. It grows to become the norm, supplanting the everyday until peace, such as it was feels like naïve innocence, like a rape victim might look back upon her childhood with certain bitterness, as if she might have foretold her fate somehow. That evolution is lost to the final spark that sets that kindling alight into a great conflagration. The reasons for war become that moment, without any regard to all that came before.
The deaths in Iran became that catalyst. It preceded a string of events, more a character of fear and growing tension that seemed to underscore to the world that Iran had in fact declared war upon the West. In Raunheim Germany a young Persian student drove through a crowded café, killing six. In Skokie Illinois, a Muslim man shot dead a Jewish shop keeper, while two middle eastern men were arrested in New Jersey over an alleged plot to bomb a shopping mall. They were all signs to the West of Islam’s malicious intentions. Many Iranians could well understand the frustration that could cause some to snap and lose their minds.
Tensions in the Gulf caused oil prices to skyrocket worldwide. Markets tumbled, imperiling fortunes of those who could directly influence government and media. Airlines stocks collapsed, bludgeoned by spiking fuel costs, while the stocks defense firms blossomed overnight. War, and all that came with it, became the intention of the world, and was evolving to a point in which no one would be able to prevent it from happening.
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-three
Molly slipped in and out of consciousness as Doug headed south through the forest, racing to put as much distance between them and the lakeshore as possible. The truck had taken a pretty fair beating. The grill had held, mostly, and the bumper was bent up and back, enough that he’d needed to bend it back with a tire iron to turn the wheel. One of the headlights had shattered. Only one remained, the light feeble in the forest. Wind shrieked through the bullet holes in the windshield, eclipsing some NPR program on the radio.
Molly was against him, her face against his chest. He had an arm around her shoulders, holding her close against the banging and bouncing of the uneven ground of the dirt logging road. The cut in her cheek had stopped bleeding some time ago. Her breathing was steady and even, almost as if she was asleep. He felt confident she hadn’t been badly hurt.
Doug took hope in having her there, like he was no longer in this fight alone. The comrades of the men he had killed would come looking for him. He had no doubt about that, but for now time and distance were his greatest adversaries. Molly moaned and stirred beneath his arm.
He thought about that night beside the Bosporus, and how he was so tempted to taste her lips, knowing full well he would not have been able to stop there. It would have been nothing to go up to her room, but he could never be unfaithful to Jane, and simply the temptation ravaged his conscience and soul to the day he sat holding Jane’s hand as she took her final breaths. He was tearing himself apart for even considering infidelity for a moment. It drove a halting and painful moan when her hand tightened briefly in his and then went limp. And now she was here beside him, her nearness only calling to mind all those old feelings and eternal guilt.
The decision to head south was as much a pragmatic choice as a deliberate one. They would have to head south to Chicago. For Doug, it was the surest way back to his girls, and that was all that mattered right now. Molly pushed away, falling slowly back against the door. Her eyes opened grudgingly to him, seeming at first as if she didn’t recognize him, or was sizing him up somehow.
Doug drew the truck to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The cold and silence of the night surrounded them. Molly sat up, wincing as she brushed her cheek while pulling back a lock of hair. He turned to her. There was confusion in the dark pools of her eyes.
“We were driving to, to…” Molly struggled to piece together her shattered thoughts. “All of the sudden…”
“Its okay,” he told her, his voice low and even. “You had…I’m sorry about your partner.”
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was fluid and broken. “He was a good man, Doug. He didn’t deserve to die…”
“We are going after the people who did this,” he told her. “I’m tired of running and hiding.”
“Doug, they mean to start a war. Shosa and these mercenaries, they’re behind this, I’m sure.” Molly swallowed hard, her throat burning from thirst. She needed water, and a moment to sort out some things. Doug could help her with the former, and reach past her. He pulled open the glove box and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. He barely got the cap off when she took the bottle and gulped down two long swallows.
“Whoa,” he drew the bottle from her lips.
Molly nodded appreciatively. “I was investigating the death of Senator Bernstein. The official cause of death is acute brain hemorrhage. But there was more. The hemorrhage, it was as if the vessels had been burned away, hot enough to blister the flesh and leave a black residue.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
Two others died in an identical fashion, a US Attorney and a pentagon Colonel, both with their sights on…”
“FIRSTTHRUST INC!” Doug exclaimed.
“And Umberto Shosa.”
“Change the world as fundamentally as the discovery of fire.”
“Sorry?”
“Something Fallahi said right before he was killed,” said Doug. He turned to the wheel and started the truck. The engine came to life with a roar. With the motor the radio came to life, just as the news came on. Molly reached over and turned up the volume. The female announcer’s voice was even and emotionless:
“Iranian officials are accusing the US of waging a biological sneak attack for the deaths of all but one of the American captives, as well as scores of others in that country. IRNA, the Islamic republic News Agency reported that scores of people had died mysterious and sudden deaths, including that of an entire village near the sight where Iranian forces brought down two American helicopters on a rescue mission. White House and Pentagon officials did not immediately comment on the rapidly moving events in the Gulf, or regarding Iran’s accusations, but did say the President will give a rare Eight a.m. address to the nation tomorrow about the rising tensions between Iran and the United States. This is NPR.”
“Nano-weapons,” said Doug heavily. “That’s what killed Bernstein and the others. They’re testing the weapons against live targets in Iran.”
“God help us,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the truck back into the road. “If there ‘s a God, he’ll damn the human race for this abomination for sure.”
“What are we going to do?” Molly asked. “We have to tell somebody.”
“You aided and abetted a felon,” said Doug. “Our only hope is to create enough of a ruckus that it makes everyone pay attention>”
“How do you propose to do that?”
He looked over at her, finding her so beautiful by the soft green light of the dash. “Figure that out on the way to Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“They’ll expect us to run away, but we are gonna take the fight right to their doorstep.”
Molly was against him, her face against his chest. He had an arm around her shoulders, holding her close against the banging and bouncing of the uneven ground of the dirt logging road. The cut in her cheek had stopped bleeding some time ago. Her breathing was steady and even, almost as if she was asleep. He felt confident she hadn’t been badly hurt.
Doug took hope in having her there, like he was no longer in this fight alone. The comrades of the men he had killed would come looking for him. He had no doubt about that, but for now time and distance were his greatest adversaries. Molly moaned and stirred beneath his arm.
He thought about that night beside the Bosporus, and how he was so tempted to taste her lips, knowing full well he would not have been able to stop there. It would have been nothing to go up to her room, but he could never be unfaithful to Jane, and simply the temptation ravaged his conscience and soul to the day he sat holding Jane’s hand as she took her final breaths. He was tearing himself apart for even considering infidelity for a moment. It drove a halting and painful moan when her hand tightened briefly in his and then went limp. And now she was here beside him, her nearness only calling to mind all those old feelings and eternal guilt.
The decision to head south was as much a pragmatic choice as a deliberate one. They would have to head south to Chicago. For Doug, it was the surest way back to his girls, and that was all that mattered right now. Molly pushed away, falling slowly back against the door. Her eyes opened grudgingly to him, seeming at first as if she didn’t recognize him, or was sizing him up somehow.
Doug drew the truck to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The cold and silence of the night surrounded them. Molly sat up, wincing as she brushed her cheek while pulling back a lock of hair. He turned to her. There was confusion in the dark pools of her eyes.
“We were driving to, to…” Molly struggled to piece together her shattered thoughts. “All of the sudden…”
“Its okay,” he told her, his voice low and even. “You had…I’m sorry about your partner.”
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was fluid and broken. “He was a good man, Doug. He didn’t deserve to die…”
“We are going after the people who did this,” he told her. “I’m tired of running and hiding.”
“Doug, they mean to start a war. Shosa and these mercenaries, they’re behind this, I’m sure.” Molly swallowed hard, her throat burning from thirst. She needed water, and a moment to sort out some things. Doug could help her with the former, and reach past her. He pulled open the glove box and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. He barely got the cap off when she took the bottle and gulped down two long swallows.
“Whoa,” he drew the bottle from her lips.
Molly nodded appreciatively. “I was investigating the death of Senator Bernstein. The official cause of death is acute brain hemorrhage. But there was more. The hemorrhage, it was as if the vessels had been burned away, hot enough to blister the flesh and leave a black residue.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
Two others died in an identical fashion, a US Attorney and a pentagon Colonel, both with their sights on…”
“FIRSTTHRUST INC!” Doug exclaimed.
“And Umberto Shosa.”
“Change the world as fundamentally as the discovery of fire.”
“Sorry?”
“Something Fallahi said right before he was killed,” said Doug. He turned to the wheel and started the truck. The engine came to life with a roar. With the motor the radio came to life, just as the news came on. Molly reached over and turned up the volume. The female announcer’s voice was even and emotionless:
“Iranian officials are accusing the US of waging a biological sneak attack for the deaths of all but one of the American captives, as well as scores of others in that country. IRNA, the Islamic republic News Agency reported that scores of people had died mysterious and sudden deaths, including that of an entire village near the sight where Iranian forces brought down two American helicopters on a rescue mission. White House and Pentagon officials did not immediately comment on the rapidly moving events in the Gulf, or regarding Iran’s accusations, but did say the President will give a rare Eight a.m. address to the nation tomorrow about the rising tensions between Iran and the United States. This is NPR.”
“Nano-weapons,” said Doug heavily. “That’s what killed Bernstein and the others. They’re testing the weapons against live targets in Iran.”
“God help us,” said Molly.
Doug pulled the truck back into the road. “If there ‘s a God, he’ll damn the human race for this abomination for sure.”
“What are we going to do?” Molly asked. “We have to tell somebody.”
“You aided and abetted a felon,” said Doug. “Our only hope is to create enough of a ruckus that it makes everyone pay attention>”
“How do you propose to do that?”
He looked over at her, finding her so beautiful by the soft green light of the dash. “Figure that out on the way to Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“They’ll expect us to run away, but we are gonna take the fight right to their doorstep.”
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-two
Doug yawned and shook the lingering sleep fogging his thoughts and weighing upon every movement. The window of the old Ford truck was down, the cold wind and errant drops of icy rain helping to revive him. Doug cried out and pulled at the wheel, doing everything he could to speed that process, and battle the confusing cascade of broken thoughts of Molly, the girls, Jane and more.
He rounded a wide bend, descending a long hill. There was something in the road ahead, but it was far away, and impossible to tell for sure. At first it appeared to be a terrible accident. The smaller of the two vehicles had taken a terrible broadside and had skidded off onto the shoulder. Parts of the vehicle lay scattered across the road: plastic and metal parts. The right front tire was missing, the rear tire flat on its side beneath the rear panel. The passenger side had clearly taken the full force of the impact, and was crush from the front fender clear to the rear bumper, all of it driven nearly to the center of what remained of the vehicle. Doug muttered a small prayer for anyone inside, until he saw someone climb from the larger vehicle, cocked at an angle, and partly on the steep slope at the side of the road, with an automatic weapon in his hands.
He hadn’t recognized the big black Suburban at first, but now knew instantly what had happened. The driver remained inside, apparently dazed from the impact, and leaning over the steering wheel. It was the man seated behind the driver with the weapon, now standing dead center in the road, leveling the gun at Doug and the on-rushing Ford, waving it back.
Doug jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator without thinking. Even as the gunman raised the weapon to his shoulder and prepared to fire, Doug could see the expression flee the man’s face, resigned fully to the realization he was about to die. Doug ducked precisely the instant bullets skipped off the hood and slapped through the windshield, burying themselves in the vinyl seat above him.
He was only vaguely aware of the initial impact, a sickly wet thump as the Ford and gunman met suddenly. The impact carried the man violently backwards, his chest already crushed, his vital organs rupturing in a spray of bright red blood from his mouth and nose. It was eclipsed by the abrupt calamity of the Ford hammering the Suburban sideways, severing the dying gunman’s legs, and mortally wounding the grizzled veteran within.
The Suburban slid sideways and tipped, tumbling down the steep embankment, where it came to a rest against a tree on one side. The tires spun impotently in air, the engine revving momentarily, as if in a final dying gasp. The riotous sound, the scrape and crash of the impact fled, echoing among the trees and night, replaced quickly by absolute silence; the aftermath of a terrific battle.
Doug sat up, looking out from the bullet riddled windshield of the old Ford to the smoking heap of the suburban, half amazed to be unhurt let alone alive. He climbed out and picked up the automatic weapon lying in the road beside the bisected gunman’s still quivering body. From the Suburban a single figure climbed from the driver’s shattered window. Doug, without a shred of emotion or remorse (both would come later) slid the bolt back to chamber a round and fired once. The figure grunted and tumbled backwards from view. Doug tossed the weapon aside and turned towards the shattered remains of the Jetta.
Molly fought for consciousness. Time came as fragmented as the bits of glass in her lap. Shards peppered her hands and face, trickling silky-warm blood. She had only the vaguest impression of what had happened, and little more of the press of a body against her. Pain, such as it was, hadn’t come yet, but still remained hidden behind a shroud of shock and bewilderment. A feeble whimper escaped her blood speckled lips.
There was someone above her, and though she sensed an urgency in some distantly familiar voice, it was still far too much far too soon to process properly. All at once, with that voice the world and an ocean of boiling hot pain came flooding in upon her.
“Come on,” Doug Springer cried. “We have to get out of here.”
Doug strained to open her door, which had jammed during the impact. The sickly sweet bite of leaking gasoline filled the air, strong enou8gh that Doug fought a growing panic, as he pressed a foot to the car for leverage and gave one last mighty heave. The door snapped open, groaning loudly on its hinges, the edge grinding into the gravel at the side of the road. Molly slid sideways from the vehicle, falling into Doug’s arms as he pulled her free and laid her gently on the grassy shoulder.
“My partner,” she moaned, tensing as Doug pulled a bit of glass imbedded in her cheek. Dark red blood gushed immediately.
“Don’t move,” said Doug. He looked back along the road, past the carnage and over the deserted highway. It wouldn’t be long before someone came along, but he was afraid to move Molly before he was certain she wasn’t seriously injured. He looked over carefully, touching her limbs, pressing gently on her stomach and lower ribs, relieved that she didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but for some cuts and bruises.
Moon,” she said blankly. Her eyes stared into the whispering rain and swiftly moving storm clouds and knew. “Is he?”
“I’m sorry, Molly.”
She looked up into his eyes. He slowly drew his hand from her forehead. The blood flowing from the wound in her cheek had slowed. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and pressed it there. She tried to sit up, falling back with a groan. He helped her, holding her shoulders. Molly fell back against his chest, felt suddenly safe there.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so, but we’d better hurry,” she said, “before I pass out.”
Molly wished to stand, but her legs were having none of it, and Doug caught her once more. He lifted her into his arms, stepping over part of the gunman. Molly looked at him as if he was a savior or some sort of guardian angel. A moment later she passed out cold.
He rounded a wide bend, descending a long hill. There was something in the road ahead, but it was far away, and impossible to tell for sure. At first it appeared to be a terrible accident. The smaller of the two vehicles had taken a terrible broadside and had skidded off onto the shoulder. Parts of the vehicle lay scattered across the road: plastic and metal parts. The right front tire was missing, the rear tire flat on its side beneath the rear panel. The passenger side had clearly taken the full force of the impact, and was crush from the front fender clear to the rear bumper, all of it driven nearly to the center of what remained of the vehicle. Doug muttered a small prayer for anyone inside, until he saw someone climb from the larger vehicle, cocked at an angle, and partly on the steep slope at the side of the road, with an automatic weapon in his hands.
He hadn’t recognized the big black Suburban at first, but now knew instantly what had happened. The driver remained inside, apparently dazed from the impact, and leaning over the steering wheel. It was the man seated behind the driver with the weapon, now standing dead center in the road, leveling the gun at Doug and the on-rushing Ford, waving it back.
Doug jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator without thinking. Even as the gunman raised the weapon to his shoulder and prepared to fire, Doug could see the expression flee the man’s face, resigned fully to the realization he was about to die. Doug ducked precisely the instant bullets skipped off the hood and slapped through the windshield, burying themselves in the vinyl seat above him.
He was only vaguely aware of the initial impact, a sickly wet thump as the Ford and gunman met suddenly. The impact carried the man violently backwards, his chest already crushed, his vital organs rupturing in a spray of bright red blood from his mouth and nose. It was eclipsed by the abrupt calamity of the Ford hammering the Suburban sideways, severing the dying gunman’s legs, and mortally wounding the grizzled veteran within.
The Suburban slid sideways and tipped, tumbling down the steep embankment, where it came to a rest against a tree on one side. The tires spun impotently in air, the engine revving momentarily, as if in a final dying gasp. The riotous sound, the scrape and crash of the impact fled, echoing among the trees and night, replaced quickly by absolute silence; the aftermath of a terrific battle.
Doug sat up, looking out from the bullet riddled windshield of the old Ford to the smoking heap of the suburban, half amazed to be unhurt let alone alive. He climbed out and picked up the automatic weapon lying in the road beside the bisected gunman’s still quivering body. From the Suburban a single figure climbed from the driver’s shattered window. Doug, without a shred of emotion or remorse (both would come later) slid the bolt back to chamber a round and fired once. The figure grunted and tumbled backwards from view. Doug tossed the weapon aside and turned towards the shattered remains of the Jetta.
Molly fought for consciousness. Time came as fragmented as the bits of glass in her lap. Shards peppered her hands and face, trickling silky-warm blood. She had only the vaguest impression of what had happened, and little more of the press of a body against her. Pain, such as it was, hadn’t come yet, but still remained hidden behind a shroud of shock and bewilderment. A feeble whimper escaped her blood speckled lips.
There was someone above her, and though she sensed an urgency in some distantly familiar voice, it was still far too much far too soon to process properly. All at once, with that voice the world and an ocean of boiling hot pain came flooding in upon her.
“Come on,” Doug Springer cried. “We have to get out of here.”
Doug strained to open her door, which had jammed during the impact. The sickly sweet bite of leaking gasoline filled the air, strong enou8gh that Doug fought a growing panic, as he pressed a foot to the car for leverage and gave one last mighty heave. The door snapped open, groaning loudly on its hinges, the edge grinding into the gravel at the side of the road. Molly slid sideways from the vehicle, falling into Doug’s arms as he pulled her free and laid her gently on the grassy shoulder.
“My partner,” she moaned, tensing as Doug pulled a bit of glass imbedded in her cheek. Dark red blood gushed immediately.
“Don’t move,” said Doug. He looked back along the road, past the carnage and over the deserted highway. It wouldn’t be long before someone came along, but he was afraid to move Molly before he was certain she wasn’t seriously injured. He looked over carefully, touching her limbs, pressing gently on her stomach and lower ribs, relieved that she didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but for some cuts and bruises.
Moon,” she said blankly. Her eyes stared into the whispering rain and swiftly moving storm clouds and knew. “Is he?”
“I’m sorry, Molly.”
She looked up into his eyes. He slowly drew his hand from her forehead. The blood flowing from the wound in her cheek had slowed. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and pressed it there. She tried to sit up, falling back with a groan. He helped her, holding her shoulders. Molly fell back against his chest, felt suddenly safe there.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so, but we’d better hurry,” she said, “before I pass out.”
Molly wished to stand, but her legs were having none of it, and Doug caught her once more. He lifted her into his arms, stepping over part of the gunman. Molly looked at him as if he was a savior or some sort of guardian angel. A moment later she passed out cold.
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