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The American forces had just finished their destructive walk across Iran and were in the process of entering Iraq. The scorched earth policy had left behind very few survivors. Those who remained alive were on the brink of starvation and were more worried about feeding themselves than fighting the Americans. Rather than occupy territory, the American forces were advancing. They were rolling over any and all resistance. It was relentless and didn’t look like it would end.
Mike was seated at the conference table in the White House briefing room with a dozen other analysts from Homeland Security. They had just finished reviewing what was happening in Pakistan and Iran behind the American troops. The death and destruction that had rained down upon those countries had left the survivors believing that Allah had abandoned them. That sentiment was slowly spreading across the entire Islamic world.
As the meeting was breaking up, the President said, “Mike, could you stay for a minute?”
“Sure,” Mike answered returning to his seat. He nodded to the other analysts as they left the conference room.
Once the room had been cleared, President Archer said, “It’s time for me to start running for another term in office and I would...”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mike said interrupting the President.
“Excuse me?”
Anticipating that the discussion that would follow was not going to be much fun, Mike said, “I wouldn’t run for another term if I were you.”
“Why?” President Archer asked confused by Mike’s reaction to his news.
“You won’t be fit to run this country,” Mike answered being much more blunt than normal.
Sitting up, President Archer asked, “Why do you say that?”
“We just talked about having killed millions of people without getting sick to our stomachs. We discussed killing millions more as if we were planning what movie we were going to see this evening. Do you know what we call people like that?”
“What?”
“Monsters. We’ve become monsters,” Mike answered.
Tony was about to object that they were killing people who wanted to kill them. Seeing the expression on Mike’s face, he sat back and listened. Mike had always served as a voice of conscience. He gestured for Mike to continue.
Mike said, “Maybe what we are doing is a matter of necessity. You and I believe that we have to act to save this country. We might even be able to convince ourselves that the way we are going about it’s a matter of necessity. I can’t help but think that there must be an alternative, but I don’t know what that alternative is. I do wish we had found a better way to save this country. All that I do know is that by the time this war is over ... Well, we’re not going to be fit to lead this country into the future.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Mike nodded his head and answered, “Yes, I do. We have lost our compassion. America is a compassionate country. You do not want to leave office with the legacy that we killed the compassion of this great nation.”
Mike walked up the steps to the house with more than a little nervousness. Although the opportunity had come up once or twice, he had never met Cathy’s parents. He thought it was weird that a man his age should be so nervous about meeting the parents of his girlfriend. He hadn’t even reached the door when Cathy opened it and greeted him with a hug and a kiss.
She said, “My parents can’t wait to meet you.”
“Is that a good thing?” Mike asked.
“Yes, that’s a good thing,” Cathy answered with a laugh. She took his arm and led him into the living room. When they reached it, she gestured to the man and woman seated there and said, “This is my dad, Chuck, and my mom, Susan. Mom and Dad, this is Mike.”
Chuck rose from his seat and extended a hand. In a gravely voice, he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mike. Cathy’s told us a lot about you.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mike said shaking hands with the man.
Susan rose and hugged him. In a very friendly voice, she said, “Welcome to the family.”
“Thanks,” Mike said feeling a little awkward. With a little encouragement from Cathy, everyone took a seat with Mike and Cathy seated together on a love seat.
After a moment of awkward silence, Chuck said, “So Cathy tells us that you were a Marine.”
“That’s right. I was a First Lieutenant,” Mike answered chaffing a bit at Chuck’s use of the past tense. He glanced down at his twisted left hand.
Chuck nodded his head and said, “I did my four years in the Air Force.”
“Ah, what did you do?” Mike asked trying to keep the conversation alive.
“I drove a bus,” Chuck answered with a shrug of his shoulders. He still drove a bus along a route in Washington DC.
Mike didn’t know what to say after that declaration. Seeing that he was at a loss for words, Cathy said, “No swapping of war stories allowed.”
Susan smiled weakly searching for a topic of conversation. After an awkward silence, she said, “We sure were surprised when Cathy told us that she had a job with Homeland Security.”
“I’ll bet,” Mike said smiling over at Cathy.
He had often wondered how she had explained her sudden career change from being a waitress at an Internet Café to being a support person in Homeland Security.
“To tell the truth, I’m still not sure that I understand what happened there,” Chuck said scratching the side of his face.
“The Internet Café where she worked was a covert intelligence office. When the old CIA Headquarters was destroyed, we had to bring more of our people there and we kept her on,” Mike said.
“Oh,” Chuck said. He looked at Mike wondering why they would have a covert intelligence office.
“Yes,” Mike said feeling like this was the most miserable and awkward conversation in which he had ever participated. They were all searching for some neutral topic and were having no luck.
Desperate for a topic of conversation, Cathy said, “Mike likes to fish.”
Chuck looked up and said, “Oh, where do you go?”
“I go out to the Shenandoah River every other Saturday when the weather is good,” Mike answered feeling a little relieved to have found a topic of conversation.
“I’ve been out there,” Chuck said. He paused and said, “A couple of years ago, I caught a six pound bass there. It was a real beauty. We were on one of those little...”
Cathy sat back in her chair knowing that her father could talk about fishing for hours. Seeing that Mike was keeping up his end of the conversation, she relaxed and watched the two most important men in her life bond.
Her mother winked and said, “Cathy, why don’t we put dinner together while the men are talking fishing?”
The military had finally configured itself to handle its intelligence needs as it pertained to carrying forth the war effort. The Department of Homeland Security was cast back in its real role of gathering intelligence within the halls of foreign governments and other organizations that represented a threat to national security. For Mike’s teams that meant they had little to do since the whole Asian area was dead in terms of activity.
Rather than sit idle, Mike’s teams were requested to monitor the situations inside Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Jordan. With a complete absence of human intelligence inside those countries, they were left with poring through intercepted emails, telephone calls, newspapers, and websites trying to piece together what was happening inside of those countries. It was obvious that the morale of the Arab world was taking a beating, but the call upon the faithful to resist was still strong.
Staring at the situation status board at the front of the room, Mike shook his head. To no one in particular, he said, “We’re missing something in all of this mess. There is some group that has to behind it all.”
Charlie looked up from his computer and asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Gut feeling,” Mike answered. He turned to Shirley and asked, “Can you pull up the names of all of the major leaders, past and present, of the various terrorist organizations and states?”
“Sure,” she answered.
Attention in the room slowly turned to watch Mike. Everyone knew the when he turned his attention to some problem that it stopped being a problem.
Looking over the list, Mike said, “Let’s take Osama bin Laden as a prototypical leader of a terrorist organization and...”
Charlie shook his head and said, “I think you’re going in the wrong direction.”
“Why?” Mike asked.
“You’re trying to establish what the leaders have in common by looking at individuals. The fact is that they are each unique and got to where they are in different ways. Let’s look at it from a different perspective. What characteristics of a person are required within that culture to attract and direct followers?” Charlie said.
“Like what?” Mike asked.
Charlie answered, “Well, look at all of the leaders of those organizations. They were all successful in other endeavors before they took a leadership position in a terrorist organization. Osama bin Laden owned a construction company and was worth three hundred million or so.”
“You know, I never understood why someone worth that much money would go off to fight in very primitive conditions,” Mike said.
“Good question,” Jerry answered. He said, “Maybe he was bored with playing at rich playboy.”
“Bored?” Mike asked.
The discussion degraded into wild speculation without leading to anything productive. Rather than hold them back, Mike let people vent their private pet theories as to what created a terrorist leader. Very little work actually got done that day, but Mike knew that there were some days like that. Still, he listened to their comments with care hoping that somewhere in the wild speculation was a chance that someone would mention something that would trigger an idea.
Mike stepped out of the grocery store carrying a half gallon of milk in a plastic bag. He paused when the hair on the back of his neck rose. Trusting his gut, he dived behind a concrete post. A shot rang out and a chunk of brick from the wall next to where Mike had been standing flew through the air. Sitting down with his back to the column, Mike took a deep breath knowing that the worst thing he could do was to panic.
Turning to look back at the door he had just passed through, he found a woman staring at him. Without even thinking about it, Mike’s gun appeared in his hand. In a tight voice, Mike said, “Get back in the store and call the police.”
The woman didn’t need to be told twice. She fled into the store leaving her shopping cart filled with bagged groceries behind. Her quick action had the unintended consequence that Mike’s way into the store was blocked by the shopping cart. Swearing to himself, Mike took stock of his situation. If he was lucky, the sniper had left. He didn’t feel particularly lucky.
He glanced down at his left hand and considered using it to distract the sniper. He snorted and then said, “Not today.”
Taking in his surroundings, Mike saw that he had very little in the way of cover. There was another cement column, but it was close to twenty feet away. The automatic door was ten feet away and would require a little time to open. He didn’t think that he would have a chance of making it through the door without getting shot.
Deciding that it was necessary to find out if his attacker was still waiting for him, he shrugged out of his sports coat and then covered the half gallon jug of milk with it. Making sure that his hand was protected behind the cement column, he held the jug out. A bullet took out half of the plastic jug. All of a sudden, Mike was sitting in a half gallon of milk.
Swearing, he said, “That wasn’t too smart. I’m going to smell like rotten milk by the time I get home.”
There was a sudden burst of gunfire and then Mike heard someone shout, “How do you like that, Arab motherfucker?”
There was a moment of silence. Mike called out, “Is he dead?”
“You bet your sweet ass he’s dead,” a man’s voice called back.
“He’s burning in hell by now,” another man’s voice said.
Mike held out the jug that was still covered with his jacket and when nothing happened, he stepped out from behind the post. Two men were standing over a body, but their attention was on Mike as he approached. He was still carrying the half gallon jug covered with his coat in his bad hand but the bottom had been blown off by the shot fired at it. His pants and shoes were soaked with milk. Despite his rather odd appearance, they never took their eyes off of his gun. Both men were still holding their guns.
One of them said, “Drop your gun.”
“I’ve got a permit for it,” Mike said.
He dropped the ruined milk jug while holding on to the jacket. After a little fumbling, he reached in the pocket of his milk soaked jacket with his bad hand. After fishing around for his ID in his pocket, he held up his ID once he had found it. He knew that he was too far away for them to read it, but they seemed satisfied.
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