P R O L O G U E
"You have big problems,
son."
Clay was tempted to deliver a sarcastic
retort but held back. Better to play it straight until he could learn more of
what Canning had in mind. "Rascal is on schedule."
The annoyance on the older man’s face was immediate. "I’m not going to play
games with you, son. You
smuggled a top-secret military device out of this building. That alone gets you
For the second time in a very
short morning, Clay decided he’d had
enough. "First of all, unless you’re planning to adopt me, don’t call me ‘son.’ Second, I took nothing out of this building." It was, of
course, a lie; Canning knew it too. But what Canning did not know, and
desperately wanted to know, was whether the device had been used to pick up
what was said in the blimp.
There was a momentary flicker
in Canning’s eyes; it was clear he had not
expected opposition. "You took Rascal out. Twice that I know of."
"Really? Who saw me do it?
You? Your security people? The FBI?"
"You really want to play
it that way?"
Clay was not sure how he wanted to play it. Were it left to him, he would not play it at all. He would transport himself back in time to that fateful decision of two Sundays ago and this time watch the damn game on TV!
CHAPTER 1
Ignoring the mass of humanity that pressed in from all sides, Clay shifted his rear on the cold, wooden seat that would be his for another hour and a half. As far as he could tell there was not one unclaimed spot in a stadium designed to hold better than sixty-five thousand people. And all of them, or so it seemed, were intent upon losing their voice by day’s end--his body was being bombarded by sonic waves.
The volume of noise meant he would have to be careful. One careless swing of Rascal’s dials and he could lose his hearing. He reduced the scope of the antenna and arranged a greater reduction of signal. The filters would take care of the rest.
Twenty-seven-year-old Clayton Robert Iverson was well aware that he should not be anywhere near this stadium. Certainly he should not be here with Rascal. He smiled as he considered the risk, calculated but not serious.
"Screw them all!" With the words came a tug at his confidence, and he stretched his eyes to take in the people around him, relaxing only after it became clear that the ambiance of noise made it unlikely that anyone would hear. He switched his focus to the "camera" sitting on his lap; another series of plays was about to begin and he wanted to be ready.
The readings proved that the unit was still locked on to the Eagles quarterback, a man with enough distinguishing characteristics to make the job of targeting him easy. He was tall and black (when ordered to do so, Rascal could consider skin tone) and thin enough that he could easily be distinguished from the other ten men in the huddle. Whatever that man said would be picked up as clearly as if Clay were sitting inside his helmet. He smiled as the expected words came through.
"Flash left, 41 long on 3"
"Shit!" (Clay could tell that this came from the quarterback’s left side, but he could only guess at who said it.)
"Hey, the man says do; we do."
"Double shit!"
"Look, bunt early. I’ll check you out."
A third voice broke in. "Ten seconds left on the clock!"
"Okay, let’s go!"
Clay’s smile broadened as he watched the players scatter to their respective positions. Never had he enjoyed a game as much as he was enjoying this one. Not only was he getting all the plays beforehand, but he was hearing the scuttlebutt as well, including some colorful expletives from the head coaches as they vented their frustrations along the sidelines. He felt like a member of an elite group, able to share intimacies few ever got to hear about. Hell, not even the owners would come to know what was being said, at least not all of it. He kept the device on to pick up what might come out of the backfield during and immediately after the play. Sometimes that proved as interesting as the calls themselves.
The "device" was the latest marvel to come out of Ezra Electronics, a developer of advanced weapon systems for the military. Clay worked in the most sensitive part of the company, the part that turns theory into reality, generally unconventional reality. Not yet senior enough to command a project of his own, he was nonetheless so well thought of that he was permitted freedoms few engineers his age get to enjoy. The testing of the device, one of the most promising products to come out of Ezra, fell mostly to him, a reward for what he contributed to its design.
Referred to as "Rascal" by those who brought it to life, it was developed at the behest of the National Security Agency who wanted to improve upon the ability of the intelligence community to penetrate the most private of conversations. The result was a refinement on the concept of thermal imaging, used to search out people in the dark. With that and with the help of a tiny but powerful computer, Rascal was able to track an individual wherever he or she might go, even if that individual could no longer be seen. The control unit, or "trigger," was small enough to fit into just about anything an eavesdropper might find convenient to carry: a paperback, a calculator, a radio, even a baseball as long as no one tried to hit it out of the park. Or, as was being proven today, it could fit inside a camera.
Two other pieces of equipment were necessary to complete Rascal’s function. The first was a small disk antenna, its color a soft gray and its center looking as if it had stopped a bullet. The size of an American half dollar, it was small enough to fit into a breast pocket, and when arranged with the bulge pointed outward, it permitted Rascal a field of "vision" that included everything ahead, above and below. Aiming it was no more difficult than keeping that pocket pointed in the general direction of the target.
The second piece of support equipment was a tiny receiver that fit well within the user’s ear--it required tweezers to insert and remove. It also required an exceptionally steady hand; as familiar as Clay was with the system, he had passed some ten minutes of his morning getting it installed. Not necessary to complete its function, but an important part of the system, was a receiver/recorder, this component able to do its job at a great distance. Although it needed to be tested as well, Clay had decided against activating it for today’s game. It was difficult enough smuggling the main components out of the Ezra building; taking this much larger piece along would have invited already curious eyes to take a closer look. Equally unwise would be to leave it on in the lab where an inquisitive colleague might decide to listen in. Clay smiled as he thought about what that colleague would think when he came upon an active recorder and decided to check it out. He would hear coded instructions, ungodly screams, and the most imaginative curses ever devised by man.
"Power 44 on six. And watch your feet this time."
"Up yours."
"Let’s go; break!"
A tinge of guilt wormed its way into Clay’s consciousness, this at the thought of not having told Shelly of his impromptu day off--she would raise hell about the risk he was taking in bringing Rascal along. He wondered if she would call in to Ezra to drop a kiss or a word of intimacy. Today that little game could end in disaster, not so much because of what she might think later--when they got together, he would take care of that--but because the person taking the call might find it curious that one Clay Iverson, scheduled for duty in the lab, was not where he was supposed to be. And that Rascal was not where it was supposed to be.
Such thoughts added nothing to what had been a fun afternoon. Clay re-checked the adjustments on his camera then forced himself to dwell only on what came out of the tiny receiver in his ear.
The first half was over but Clay remained in his seat, unwilling to cycle Rascal down or risk damaging it by exposing himself to the crowds now fighting for every inch of space in stadium ramps and walkways. By now the chill in the air was penetrating his jacket, and he drew in his arms and shook his upper body to ward it off. To accommodate a sagging conscience, he tried formulating a report in his mind, one that would take advantage of these hours of testing without blowing the whistle on the way he chose to go about it. There was too much success here to throw away. For the first time in a real-life situation, Rascal had focused in on a specific individual and followed that individual wherever he chose to go, steadfastly ignoring anything that got in the way. Whoever made use of this expensive toy in the future would be guaranteed a front-row seat to any conversation he elected to join.
While grappling for soul-saving prose, Clay allowed his eyes to drift upward. At first he saw only the products of his private thoughts, but in time he awakened to the fact that he was staring at a blimp slowly circling the stadium in a counter-clockwise direction--the markings on its side identified it as belonging to Goodyear. It was bouncing in and out of low-lying clouds, and the row of moving lights on its lower half, an electronic message board of sorts, was obscured more often than not by those clouds. Odd that it was still there; odd that the people inside did not call it a day and move back to wherever it was that such massive vehicles were kept. But then maybe they had no choice; maybe they were the remote camera for a national broadcast of the game.
Clay realized with a renewed burst of enthusiasm that it was within his power to find out! Pulling the "camera" from his coat pocket, he immediately went to work arranging its tiny dials. He knew it would not be as easy as targeting the Eagles quarterback, whom he could see. Whoever was inside the blimp was invisible to him, which meant he had no physical attributes to relay to Rascal; he would have to proceed on a trial-and-error basis. He plugged in five-feet-nine, one hundred and sixty pounds and between a quarter to three quarters of a mile away, then set the spread of each setting to permit as much slippage as possible--the quality would be lacking, but it was the fastest way to get a fix. Then he set the scope to take in the entire cockpit and to track the airship as it moved. He took care to avoid the blimp’s two engines. Rascal was designed to limit the influx of noise through the ear piece, but with the settings he had chosen, as encompassing as they had to be, what it did allow was far from comfortable. At last satisfied, he looked around, saw that no one was paying him more than an occasional glance, then arranged his body in such a way that the disk antenna in his breast pocket would have no trouble finding the target.
Success came unexpectedly fast, at least to the point of picking up the hint of a male voice. Pleased with himself and with the wizardry of his machine, he worked the scales upward on both size and weight. Then, since Rascal had the target "in sight," he reduced the search area--the improvement in quality was immediate and dramatic. Seconds later, after backing down first on one option then another, then finessing the tracking dial as the characteristics of the target became better known to him, Clay was satisfied that he was listening to the voice of a five-feet-ten-inch male of approximately one hundred and seventy-five pounds. This man was talking to at least one companion, and by the faint sounds reaching Rascal’s "ears," this companion was also a male.
"Gotcha, suckers!" The unintended comment drew a doubtful look from the man on his right, and Clay hastened a smile and a wave of his hand to shake it off. Then he made sure his expression did not reveal his thoughts as he pressed the "lock-on" button that sent Rascal firmly on its mission.
What he heard had nothing to do with the broadcast of a football game.
The men inside the blimp were discussing what had yet to be "tested"--their word. Intrigued by the similarity to his own efforts, Clay’s interest heightened. As time passed, and the words continued to pour through, his concern heightened as well. Whatever these men were "testing," the crowd below them was to play an active part. Clay could not hear the second man clearly, but he was able to pick up an occasional word. Two particularly bothersome ones were "beam" and "targets."
"Okay, but we might learn more if we re-do the side we hit earlier. We’d have control and contrast all in one."
The reply suggested the idea was not a good one. Something about "tainted reaction."
"Understood. I’ll go from the twenty to the fifty, second deck, northwest side."
Clay tried to figure out where that was, finally deciding it was across the field and slightly to the right of where he sat. What was to happen there? More importantly, what had already happened to the group "hit" earlier. He held his breath, hoping to pick up the reply.
"........cameras on.....capture speed...change.....minutes from...."
There was nothing else other than the clatter of men adjusting equipment.
It sounded like something in which he himself might be involved; the terminology and the procedure were similar and thus easily recognized. The people in that blimp were scientists or engineers; they had to be. Their syntax was complex, their diction precise, and their voices soft and lacking in emotion. But what were they after? What were they about to do that would cause a "change" in unsuspecting--and certainly non-consenting--human beings?
"Our choice of sample is a good one, Charles. They’re loud, easily excited, perhaps a hair away from rioting."
"....or brunette?"
"You tell me. Just look at them!"
Clay could hear only a scattering of what was a lengthy reply, but it was enough to verify his guess as to where they were aiming their "beam." He ran his eyes over the area hoping to pick up some clue to what was going on. People were milling about, mostly in an effort to regain their seats for the second half, but they acted not unlike the people on his side of the field. In an instant of panic he looked to his right. Could he have misunderstood; could they have said northeast rather than northwest? That would put him on the fringe of the "test" group. Hell, he might even be part of it! But here as well, nothing stood out as unusual. After some two minutes of silence, the voices returned.
"Apply minimum power; no more than that given to the foxtrot chimps. We want knowledge not an incident."
"...adequate..."
"Granted, but we can adjust the beam as we go. For now my greater concern is to keep from being obvious."
Obvious? What was he was supposed to see? If it were not to be "obvious," would he see it at all? He mentally kicked himself for not taking the time to broaden Rascal’s scope to take in the background. Had he spent two or three additional minutes searching out others inside that blimp, he could now be receiving both sides of the conversation, just as he’d received everything said in the huddle. But there was no question of modifying settings now. To do so would risk cutting off the little he was getting, and he needed to know what those men were up to, needed to hear that this was nothing more sinister than a new advertising ploy.
A shake of his head proved how little he believed this. If this were advertising, a "control group," would make no sense. A message "beamed" from that blimp could not be precisely aimed; it would get everybody who happened to be looking up. And then there was their reference to loud, easily excitable, near-rioters.
Captured by private
thoughts, Clay failed to notice the Eagles kickoff that officially began the
second half of the game. A loud burst from the crowd at a
He heard an occasional clicking but nothing from the plotters themselves, nothing that would tell him how close those men were to unleashing their "beam." He tried to concentrate on what he could see of the faces on the other side of the field--whatever was going to happen, it would happen there.
"That fumble would have been good."
"...opportunity" (Clay was sure the first word had to be "missed.")
"I think the moment has arrived, Charles." [silence] "I hope the level we’ve chosen is not excessive."
"...with it."
"Yes, I know, we’ve been all through this; we need at least one at this level. But once I push that button, a select few of us could have some explaining to do. I still contend there is a better way."
"...know...secure..."
"Let us hope so, for both of our sakes. [sigh] Very well, I’m ready if you are."
"Cameras.....?"
"Up and running. On both sides."
Clay felt a buildup of adrenaline; the mysterious "it" was about to happen. Suddenly he was not sure where to aim his eyes, the message deck on the blimp or the people on the other side of the field, people who were, even now, on their feet and throwing clenched fists into the damp air. He decided to stick with the latter.
It turned out to be the right choice.
As Clay’s eyes moved among them, desperate to spot something that could be called "change," a group of about two hundred people abruptly lost interest in the game. They appeared confused, as if unsure what they had risen to their feet to do, this even as those around them reacted with unrestrained enthusiasm to a spectacular catch just inside the goal line. Equally as enthusiastic only seconds before, they now stood like schoolchildren waiting to be told what to do next, their heads turned not to the action on the field but to one another, and their eyes mirroring not pleasure but a sense of awkwardness and embarrassment. Where this enigma began was easy enough to see; where it ended as well. There was a large circle, about forty feet in diameter; Clay could pick out a center where the reaction was heaviest, and a periphery where the effect was there but less pronounced.
"Cutting...five..."
"Check. Five seconds. I’ll keep the camera going for another fifteen minutes. I believe that should do it."
Clay counted silently to himself while his unblinking eyes strained to avoid missing even a fraction of what was to come. He had to be sure that there was a connection between the conversation in that blimp and the odd behavior on the other side of the stadium.
On schedule, the entire group, every single one of them as far as he could tell, began a collective return to normalcy. At first they tossed covert glances at each other, as if each was unaware that any but himself had had a momentary lapse of concentration. Then a certain sheepishness fell over them, the result of which was a unified resolve to redirect their eyes to the action on the field. What they thought after that was not as apparent as soon they were shouting and waving as passionately as everyone else.
Clay lifted his eyes to the massive airship that had so quickly turned around a perfect day. What in the hell had those people done? And what was he going to do about it?
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com and booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
PROLOGUE
"There! Over there! Just above the tree line. To the right of the tallest peak!"
"I see it. The poor thing dashes from point to point with no sense of purpose."
"Frightened, no doubt. The forest it sees now makes no sense. Once familiar, it has become alien. But ‘poor thing’ or not, we must act quickly to defend ourselves."
"We are adequately protected."
"You are; I am not; I convert more slowly than you, remember?"
"Sartor, the creature is but two meters long and one meter high. It is hardly a monster."
"What it is capable of doing to us and to our world is beyond monstrous. Set to sterilize."
"’Sterilize.’ Such an innocent term when posed by those on the giving end."
"Set to sterilize!"
"You misunderstand, Sartor. I am not refusing the order, I am merely philosophizing. We are about to terminate an innocent being whose only fault was to stumble uninvited into our home."
"Such is the nature of life and circumstance. Were we to do nothing, the error would be ours."
"And it is not ours now? Was it not we who left the transporter on too long?"
"Point conceded. And it is we who must ensure that no Earth creature enter uninvited again."
1
"Give me a break,
"I am. ‘Pain-in-the-ass,’ is only a fraction of what I’m thinking!"
Mark Carter could see
no trace of humor in his friend’s words,
which spoke of how deeply agitated the man was.
"Yeah, well what I don’t understand is why you have to try at all. From where I sit, you’ve got everything going your way. So what’s the problem?"
There was no mirth
attached to the chuckle Mark gave in response. In truth, he did not know why he
felt as he did, listless, out of touch, even depressed at times. He stared at
his accuser with eyes that drifted between apathy and indifference, even as he
knew it was not the look
He and Sandy had been
partners for more than seven years, and in all this time they had not had a
serious confrontation. Certainly not one so ...personal. Mark’s expression gravitated toward self pity as he
watched
On most days
It saddened Mark to
think of what he was doing to his friend, but he could come up with no good
answer to
Then why do I have so much trouble getting up in the morning?
"Is it Kathy? Are
you two having problems?"
"Thanks, ‘Friend!’" Mark tried for a smile, even as he felt a vague sting at the "aging" comment Since turning thirty a little over a year ago, he had developed a sensitivity to such barbs, the awareness of which only added to his discomfort.
"You’re welcome! Is that it? Is it Kathy?"
Mark’s sigh was louder than it needed to be. "She fits in there somewhere, Sandy." He shrugged before adding, "You know Kathy. She loves her independence."
"So? You don’t?"
Mark shrugged again. "I did. I’m not sure any more. I might want to get serious."
"‘Might’ want to get serious?"
"Well, I don’t know, maybe I do."
"‘Maybe?’"
"Hey, cut me some
slack, will you, Buddy! All right, I do want to get serious!" The words
were a shade too loud, and
"All right, we’ve decided Kathy is a part of this. Are you two...?"
The disgust on Mark’s face as he interrupted brought a slight flush of
anger to
"Well then, what?"
"Dammit, that’s just it, I don’t know!"
Mark had begun pacing the small, windowless room in which he and his frustrated partner had retreated to talk it out in privacy. Confined by Sandy’s chair on one side and shelves that rose from floor to ceiling on the other, Mark’s hands had no place to go, and in anger he jammed them into his pockets, the move and the reason for it not lost on Sandy.
When next Mark spoke, misery oozed from every word. "I’m restless; I’m itchy; I have sudden bouts of depression."
"Hell, we all feel that; it’s called aging."
"I’m serious, Sandy. What’s going on inside me is in no way amusing."
"Easy to say, but not so easy to do." Mark halted his pacing but held his eyes to the floor. "God, I feel like such an asshole talking like this."
"Let’s just say that’s a given. But even an asshole can have its day in the sun."
Mark was forced to
chuckle at
Not knowing what Mark
was leading up to,
"I do. The answer is yes, you do dump on her."
Mark lifted his eyes to the still-seated figure, wondering what he and Kathy had discussed in regard to himself. Seeing only further damage in pressing the issue, he focused instead on trying to relieve the tension in the back of his neck.
Kathy Montari was more of the problem than he cared to admit. He had never expected to be so captured by a woman, so in need of possessing her, so afraid of waking up one day and finding her gone. Kathy was easy to be with and impossible to be without.
She was fascinating in a number of ways, some of which he had trouble defining. Her eyes were an enigma. Large and brushed with a hint of hazel, they flashed a private message beneath long, curving lashes, and even without always knowing what that message was, it was enough to make conversation unnecessary. She seldom wore makeup, protesting that it made her "a slave to commercial opinion."
Kathy had a natural beauty, and this extended to a petite body that offered unending promise regardless of what she wore. Her hair, which looked like something out of an Orphan Annie comic strip, and which he was not even sure he liked when they first met, was now so much a part of her that it was difficult to imagine her any other way.
How easily they had
come to flow in and out of each other’s
lives in the year since they’d met. They still lived apart, but as he had just confessed to
Mark shook his head. Kathy was not ready. Maybe she never would be. "I wonder if I really know the woman," he said, the suddenness of his remark surprising Sandy who had seen promise in the slight smile that had momentarily interrupted Mark’s frown. "I think she likes what we have going as much as I do, but..." He shrugged and fell silent.
About to reply,
"Maybe I really should duck out of sight for a
while." It was said with a hint of self pity that only deepened as
"You know, that’s not a bad idea. Go away some place; relax; work all this shit out of your system." He pushed on, pointedly ignoring the look on Mark’s face: "Take Kathy and dash off to the tropics or something. Or better yet, you stay here and I’ll dash off to the tropics with Kathy."
Mark’s frown became a reluctant smile. "Have you forgotten your wife? Again?"
"I’ll take her next time. For now, I have a duty to perform for a buddy."
Having gained the
desired momentum,
Mark smiled but, as before, without enthusiasm. "Thank you, Doctor Mellon."
"No problem. Just take two women and call me in the morning. Or better yet, call me after you find the two women."
No part of the smile was visible as Mark stepped out of the suite of offices into the nearly empty hallway then pulled the door closed behind him. An unreasonable fear had begun to flood his gut, a fear that he was in the process of turning his world upside down, that running off to play hermit would change his life forever. The feeling did not lessen as he descended the stairs of Mellon and Carter and pushed his way out into the lonely afternoon.
2
"This is ridiculous! They’re all about German shepherds of the same size and color. And if you believe these stories, they’re all capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. I can’t write crap like that; I’d never be taken seriously again!"
With a telephone pressed between one ear and her shoulder, Kathy Montari gestured with contempt at the assortment of news articles laid out on her desk, a present from her editor. She had lost more than an hour trying to decide what to make of them, then another staring out one of the two windows offered by her tiny apartment.
At the other end of the line, a snicker preceded her editor’s reply. "Well, maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t, but if that’s what’s happening out there then that’s what you’ve got to report. Besides, if you search further you’ll get the real story." He paused before adding, "You’ve got to admit, though, it makes good reading. A little way-out, but what the hell."
"Good reading?
This is closer to tabloid than literature." But the protestations fooled
no one and Kathy hesitated only a second or two before delivering the expected
pitch. "The two of us are going to smell funny if this turns out to be
nonsense. You guys have to spring for a trip to
Kathy’s smile was self-congratulatory as she put down the phone then leaned back in her chair. She had gotten approval for what amounted to a free vacation, something that did not often happen to a freelance writer.
In contrast to Mark, Kathy was content with her life. She enjoyed her freedom, she enjoyed the way she made her living and she enjoyed her current lover--arranging them in that order brought on a momentary pang of guilt. Most of what she wanted and needed out of a relationship Mark provided. He was different, independent like herself yet warm and close when she needed warm and close. She was in no hurry to change, feeling comfortable in the assumption that it would all come in time.
She let her eyes roam the single room that was her apartment, seeing as she did more and more lately, how really small it was. The clutter did not help: a few magazines, breakfast and lunch dishes yet undone and one too many knickknacks in the breakfront occupying a big chunk of her living space. Claiming the rest of the room was an old secretary desk now used as a bar, a sofa, a brown, stuffed chair, a kitchen table, and a bed that could be tucked up into the wall. There was evidence of Mark as well, something she once objected to but now found ...comfortable.
With a sigh she had trouble understanding, Kathy tucked the bottom of her light blue tee shirt into her jeans then reapplied herself to the literary effort still occupying her typewriter. It was about canines, anecdotal incidents meant to entertain dog lovers. Prior to the delivery of the articles, all that remained to be done was to make readable sense out of a jumble of notes. Now it was back to the drawing board.
She sorted through the
articles, two of which were from
As she worked, she absently stroked the handsome animal that often sat by her side. It was not unlike what she expected the story animals to be--medium sized, light colored and friendly. She called it "Me-Too" because whatever she did it wanted to do as well, including, much to Mark’s chagrin, joining them in the bedroom, sometimes the bed itself.
"Let him work for it," she thought aloud!
The opening of the apartment door after a short rap—Mark’s way of acknowledging her much-expressed desire for privacy--brought Kathy to look up from her typewriter and acknowledge his presence with a smile and a silent kiss. The secretary-desk bar was sitting open and Mark moved toward it as if accepting its unspoken invitation. "Care for one, babe?" he asked.
"I have mine,
thanks." She had already turned back to her work, which Mark found
irritating. Despite the upbeat ending to his conversation with
Kathy listened as Mark wandered around the cramped apartment, dividing his attention between the window that opened onto the street and the faded avant-garde posters he had seen hundreds of times before. A loud sigh announced his discontent.
It was impossible to ignore either the sigh or the mood. Kathy had been looking forward to a pleasant evening, something that rarely occurred when it began in such a way. Bowing to the inevitable, she asked, "Bad day?"
Mark gave a light toss of his shoulders. "Just blue." But he was pleased that he had finally gotten her attention.
Kathy stopped what she was doing and swung around to confront him, her expression now one of annoyance. She was growing weary of Mark’s moodiness, the source of which escaped her, and this was as good a time as any to get it out on the table. "What is it, Mark?" she said not attempting to hide her exasperation. "You seem to be ‘blue’ a lot lately."
Pausing to take a sip from his drink, Mark answered slowly and with thought, as if the question had been unexpected. "It’s just this ...emptiness I’ve been feeling lately."
"Thanks!"
Mark felt a rush of impatience and was unable to hold it in check. "I didn’t mean it that way, Kathy! It’s ...I don’t know, I feel I should be out doing something, that life is passing me by. Its hard to explain."
She did not appreciate being included in the contemptuous "emptiness" of his life, but this time she kept it to herself. "There is nothing wrong with your life, Mark," she offered instead, her voice and her expression showing the hurt she was unable to suppress.
"You don’t understand. It’s not that something identifiable is wrong with my life, it’s more that ...well, whatever is happening is not enough." He hesitated, his face a twisted plea and his hands spread wide as if to indicate the magnitude of the problem.
It was true, Kathy thought, she did not understand, at least not entirely. She had a nagging suspicion that Mark was beginning to tire of the chase. His next words did little to soothe her fears.
"I need some time to myself, Kathy. Two weeks, three at the most."
Resentment turned to shock, even as she knew Mark would see this as further evidence of her lack of understanding.
"I made the reservations this afternoon. I’m going for ...well, think of it as a long walk in the woods."
"Woods?"
He nodded his head.
"
The shock remained a part of Kathy’s expression as she asked, "Why so far away?"
So pitiful did she look at that moment that Mark had trouble holding on to his resolve. He had a momentary urge to take her in his arms and yell out that it was all a lie, that all he really wanted was her. But that would solve nothing. The truth was more involved, and he knew it.
Two weeks alone to sort himself out, two weeks with the two of them separately focusing on what they mean to each other. "I have to lose myself in the woods, Kathy. Real woods, not some adult playground." There was a hint of contempt in the latter part of his statement.
When Kathy failed to change her expression, Mark wondered anew what he was doing, not only to himself but to the only woman he had ever felt serious about. In time he moved to the bar to add strength to an only half-consumed drink, spilling some of it in the process. He contemptuously stabbed at the mess with his sleeve.
Kathy waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing of what Mark was saying made sense. The two of them had camped together before in what was hardly an "adult playground," and she had been anything but a shrinking violet then. And what was it he wanted to escape? Her?
"You’ll be gone two weeks?" she asked softly.
"I’ll call you if it gets to be longer than that."
"How can you call if you’re ‘lost in the woods’?" she added spitefully.
Mark’s ire returned in both expression and voice. "I mean I’ll call when I can. It’s only a couple weeks, Kathy, not forever."
"No?" she asked softly.
"Dammit, Kathy, I’m not doing this to hurt you! If you can’t understand that then please try to accept it!"
"But you’re not qualified to travel in that kind of wilderness!" It was not the thing to say and she knew it immediately.
"Dammit, I know
what the hell I’m doing!" He resumed
his pacing and the
exaggerated hand movements as he added, "You know what I’ve been like lately. Even
Kathy could no longer keep her voice level. "He didn’t say you should lose yourself in some God-forsaken wilderness; he just said you should get your act together!"
"Well it’s the same thing! And how do you know what he said? You two decide these things behind my back?"
Another mistake. The
discussion was going from bad to worse. "Mark,
By now Kathy wanted to avoid saying anything at all, but this was proving increasingly difficult. "Yes, I know how you’ve been, Mark, and I’m trying very hard to understand it. It hasn’t done much for our relationship, you know! Neither will this," she added softly.
"Dammit, don’t do that, Kathy. I want us to succeed as much if not more than you do. That’s not the problem ...at least not the whole problem." As evidenced by the sharp rise of her head and the moisture that began filling her eyes, Mark knew he still had a tendency to hurt. He put a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and began to rub.
Kathy wondered whether she had waited too long to respond to Mark’s unspoken plea for a more formal relationship. Or whether it would have mattered in any case. She got up slowly, knowing that to say anything at that moment would compound mistakes already made. At the bar, after refilling her own drink, she unconsciously took a towel and rubbed the spot where Mark had spilled his, unaware of the nagging effect this had on him.
The rest of the
evening was no better. Mark made an attempt to instill in Kathy an enthusiasm
for the area in which he intended to travel, but she was in no mood to respond.
Except to note that Kelly, the town in
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com or booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
There is pain in today’s world, much of it
of our own making. At times the villain is pride, greed, envy or anger, four of
the Seven Deadly Sins. But serious pain can also be caused by people of good
intention encouraging moderation or restraint, two Heavenly Virtues. What
dangers do we invite upon ourselves by tackling one and ignoring the other?
1
The White
House; January 20th
With one mildly arthritic hand, President of
the
No complaints. Appearance had carried him a
long way: hair as white and as full as his eyebrows, a tall, slim frame that
reminded people of Lincoln, and a deep, resonant voice that impressed even if
it no longer convinced. Now in his early seventies, he had given the public
what they wanted to see in a leader, and even now few could deny the impression
of oneness between the man and the office he occupied.
Alone in the quiet of the Oval Office, Morrison’s
eyes, alert and darting, were a sharp contrast to the image he had painfully
cultivated over the last year, that of a tired old man welcoming the relative
obscurity that would soon be his. It had not required any degree of genius to
recognize early on that he would not be re-elected. Could not be, considering
how much of the voting public was alarmed by his unending demands, sacrifice to
be piled upon sacrifice.
Idiots!
It also had not required genius to recognize
that civilization and even mankind itself was on a slippery road to disaster,
that a new world order would be needed if either were to survive.
One
that will not require the blessing of my ‘loyal’ public!
Soon the depressing ceremony would begin, a
ceremony laced with gaiety and false promise. Within the hour his successor
would arrive at the front portico and together they would drive down
But it was necessary. It was important to
continue the deception if what was to follow had any hope of succeeding. The public
had to be convinced that the one who had made those disturbing predictions
about mankind’s future, had come to his senses. They had to believe he was now
willing, even anxious, to withdraw from their lives and trouble their
collective conscience no more.
Let the
games begin!
Morrison lit an old briar pipe and sank into
the stuffed chair his successor had chosen to replace one of Morrison’s own.
Inside the well-insulated office, the only sound reaching his ears was the
ticking of an ancient grandfather clock, the one item of furniture sure to be
retained by the room’s new occupant. Each stroke announced the end of a moment
in time, his time. Even so, he felt only pride. There was purpose in what he
was doing, real purpose.
2
Crouching motionless for hours in a sticky,
insect-ridden jungle was not only painful, it was proving to be impossible!
Carl shifted weight from one leg to the other, moving slowly and holding his
upper body motionless. They were out there somewhere, slithering in the thick
razor grass that so often lived up to its name, or tucked behind creosote
bushes or twisted jungle trees.
Carl Raymond McClure, recently assigned to
the
The eerie quiet, unusual for this part of the
jungle, told him otherwise. Someone was out there. What was not so clear was
who was stalking whom.
With a perennial look of cynicism on his
face, Carl looked older than his twenty-six years. Recruited by the CIA soon
after being released from a Cuban prison, he was having trouble putting aside
the events that had put him there. He had fallen in love with an escapee from
Carl’s face twisted at the memory, and he
would have purged it with an angry shake of his head had he not remembered in
time where he was and what was out there waiting for just such a mistake.
Among the many warring factions of
Carl’s eyes settled again on the back of the
lanky Peruvian officer, Captain Humberto Potosi. There were twenty men out
there, none more than a hundred yards away, but
Carl shifted his weight again. He hated
having to participate in a no-win situation. Hell, in
And all of them bash innocents who want
nothing more than to live out another miserable day!
That too was not a
What the hell was he doing here?! He did not
believe as Noel did or as the DEA and the Peruvians did that they were
accomplishing anything. Maybe that was his problem: he didn’t believe in
anything anymore. He was the youngest of his colleagues yet he felt no less
shop-worn than the oldest of them. Too much had happened in his short life, and
nobody could come even close to understanding that.
Noel Harman, now his station chief, had made
joining the CIA seem the natural thing to do, and after learning how far the
man had gone to get him out of Cuba, Carl had not resisted. But his attitude
had not changed in the year of intensive training that followed even as the
terrible sense of loss weakened.
He had not known he was about to be released
until summoned from his cell by Dr. Caranti, head of the DGI, the Cuban
equivalent of the CIA, a man he had known during the bad times only as
"Tomas." He remembered the sixty-five year old, slightly overweight
Tomas as deceptively gentle in appearance, an impression enhanced by his silky
white hair and matching, well-groomed beard. But the way he entered a room,
dressed in impeccably tailored fatigues, his head held high and his expression
one of minimum tolerance for interference of any kind, quickly dispelled any
thought of comradeship. He was a hardened spy master, intent on furthering his
own private idea of what most benefited his country and its exalted leader.
After his capture, Carl had expected a
lingering death, a death that would import a sense of satisfaction to an
enraged Cuban government. What he got was five months of tasteless food in
barely adequate quantities, a bucket a day of foul water to be used for both
drinking and cleaning, and not so much as a word from the guards. Then, with no
warning given, he had been surprised in his damp and dingy cell by the arrival
of soap, clean water, a new set of fatigues and instructions to clean himself
up and get ready to leave. His voice, much out of practice, had trouble
responding. After barely enough time to comply with this, a young officer,
clean-cut and wearing starched and pressed fatigues, came to escort him to the
Plaza de la Revolucion, the place where Castro so often held his people captive
to marathon speeches.
They traveled in a well maintained, black Zil
limousine, and though guarded at all times, Carl was not burdened with
handcuffs. Unwilling to ask what he was sure would not be answered, he kept his
eyes on the road ahead and searched for signs that he was about to become the
star sacrifice in an elaborate propaganda ceremony. But the roads were as empty
as they normally were in this economically-deprived country, and no
bloodthirsty crowds were in the process of forming.
Equally confusing was the sight that greeted
him as he was marched through the entrance of a sparsely decorated office, the
office of the DGI chief himself. Instead of Tomas’s usual dramatic entrance,
which often included a long wait beforehand, Tomas was standing behind his
desk, his posture more that of a welcoming grandfather than the dangerous man
Carl knew him to be. His slight smile, which on Tomas was an oddity, said the
unpleasantness of the past was forgotten.
"They call your diary Broken Odyssey.
Perhaps you are aware of this." It was more a statement than a question,
but the smile on Tomas’s thin lips remained, even as Carl had trouble believing
it. Dismissing the escort with a nod of his head, Tomas ushered Carl into a
thinly padded chair then half-leaned, half-sat against the near end of his desk.
Carl knew enough about the man to see he was struggling to attain a level of
informality he did not feel.
The room was a natural contradiction to
informality. The few pictures and memorabilia Tomas permitted himself told of
one victory after another, and thus one act of violence after another. His
green fatigues might have implied informality were they not so well tailored
and seemingly incapable of suffering a wrinkle. And if his starched and blocked
cap were not positioned a little too well on his ample and notably uncluttered
desk.
It took a moment for Tomas’s words to
register in Carl’s mind. But then it became clear. Someone had rescued the
narrative of his ill-fated "invasion" of
Hearing no rancor in the younger man’s voice,
Tomas permitted himself a chuckle. It was true; McClure had been watched day
and night for more than five months, and no communication of any kind had been
permitted. "The things you wrote in that little diary of yours while at
sea, tell me, why did you do this? What good did you think it would do
Nicola?"
Carl’s sigh and averted eyes made it clear to
the man in front of him how little he cared—about anything.
Although aware of Carl’s on-going depression,
Tomas marveled at how little effect he had on this man who would be dead
seconds after he gave the word. And no one in the world could do anything about
it. Except, of course, proclaim the validity of what had been written in Broken
Odyssey, a work published as fiction only a month before.
Carl finally managed his answer, although his
speech was slow and pained. "When I thought Nicola and I were going to die
I guess I wanted someone in this rotten world to know the why of it."
Tomas stared in silence, the hate he was
trying to keep hidden tempered by a touch of sympathy. This young man had no
negative feelings toward the Cuban people. Indeed, his late mother was Cuban,
or had been before she abandoned the country of her birth. And his motives had
not included embarrassing the Cuban government, although certainly that had
happened. No, this man had committed a serious crime, but he had been motivated
by little more than the love of a woman, a love that, because of who she was,
could never be.
The conversation paused as a woman in
civilian clothes entered the room carrying a small tray and two white demitasse
cups, each three-quarters filled with a rich black liquid. Also on the tray was
a bowl of grainy, off-white sugar, and Tomas waited patiently while the woman
added two heaping spoons full, first to one cup then to the other. After giving
each a quick stir, she left as quietly as she had come, unaware or uncaring of
the silence her presence had provoked.
"I hope you appreciate our Latin version
of coffee." Tomas’s smile was almost friendly as he handed Carl a cup. It
was sweet and strong, and Carl was startled to find that he enjoyed it. He had
thought five months of prison life had destroyed his sense of taste.
Pausing to take a sip, Tomas held his
experienced eyes on his guest and searched for some sign that he might be
receptive to what would be asked of him. "Returning to my earlier comment,
your CIA took great pleasure in your written words. And now they want you back,
why, I cannot imagine. Perhaps they think you might have more to tell them
about us, more than was in the diary." He paused, obviously expecting a
response from his guest.
Carl raised his eyes to meet those of his
inquisitor, but there was little emotion attached to the look. "I know
nothing about that. And I think you know how much my feelings for Nicola govern
the rest."
"‘Govern the rest’...?"
A flash of anger appeared in Carl’s voice as
he said, "I mean I don’t give a flying fuck for the trash who might want
to turn my agony into a morbid expose! What Nicola and I did together and what
we meant to each other is ours and ours alone."
"Except for whoever reads Broken
Odyssey."
Carl flushed at the retort, but said nothing.
Satisfied at making his point, Tomas offered another smile, a concession that
ended abruptly as he said, "Did you know they actually published it? Your father
and a rebellious CIA agent? As a novel and with some of the names changed—your last
name, for example—but the message was clear enough. Already we have a number of
radical
Tomas did not bother to explain how the diary
had been recovered by a DGI double agent who had since fled to
There was more defiance than hope in Carl
eyes as he reached for the older man’s thoughts. "Is that why I’m here?"
Tomas did not appreciate the tone, but
elected to let it pass. "In a way I suppose it is. But they have also done
us a service. Publishing Broken Odyssey as a novel makes the subject easier to
ignore at the odd moment when it comes up. We may now dismiss all questions
with a supercilious smile and a poignant reference to the wishful thinking of
Tomas continued without giving Carl a chance
to respond. "But in all honesty we are unwilling to run the risks inherent
in what we know can be effective propaganda at times—a ‘lie’ spoken often
enough is accepted as truth. Why take the chance if to avoid it would cost us
little?"
Carl could not hold back his surprise.
"You really would let me go after all that’s happened?"
"Please do not misunderstand. I still
see red whenever so much as your name passes in front of me."
"Then why....?"
Tomas let out a breath of air then turned his
head away as if doubting the wisdom of what he was about to say. At the same
time his face reverted back to the carefully controlled anger that Carl found
better fit his past relations with this man. "Because I want a ... favor
in return. I have reason to believe your CIA will attempt to recruit you, and
from what I have learned of you from this ill-conceived diary, I suspect you
will accept their offer." Seeing the resentful look on Carl’s face, Tomas
held up his hand to ward off uninvited comment. "Young man, you must learn
to listen first then speak only after enough information has reached your
inexperienced ears to give you at least a tiny chance of knowing what the fuck
you are talking about! I have no intention of asking you to become a double
agent. Indeed I would have no faith in anything you might tell me while
pretending to be on my side."
A slight relaxing of Carl’s face told Tomas
his guess had been on target. Nonetheless, he let a few seconds pass before
continuing. He wanted to give his words the best chance of penetrating the
inbred prejudices of this American. "There is something I think you will
want to do, something I have been unable to do, despite what I assure you has
been a considerable effort—and I go against the express wishes of Fidel himself
in revealing even this much. We have reason to believe that your government is
involved in an ... an act of genocide, an act so twisted that even your enemies
have trouble believing it is true." Well versed in reading subtle nuances
in people, Tomas easily caught the slight dulling of Carl’s eyes. It spoke of
disbelief, even impatience.
"I assure you, this is more than the
accusations we routinely hurl at one another. I have no wish to turn it into a
propaganda bonanza for Cuba, nor do I hope that it is in any way true, for it
represents a concept that could, if not stopped, propel us in one horrible leap
into a future that neither your people nor mine would find bearable."
"Look, I..."
Tomas held up his hand for silence.
"Listen first, then do what you think is right. That is all I am asking of
you."
Carl again started to speak then decided
against it. It mattered little what this Cuban said. What mattered was that he
was actually going to be released, returned to a world that had lately seemed
impossibly distant.
Carl listened without comment as the DGI head
told of his discovery. He listened as Tomas accused the
Tomas saw this and started in again, his
voice revealing a hint of desperation. "Forget who I am. Forget where
these words come from. Forget ideology and national boundaries. Just think
about what I said and whether it could possibly be true. If it is true, there
is no way your new employers could fail to know about it."
Carl resented Tomas’s supposed knowledge of
who he might choose to work for in the future, but he decided this was not the
time to make a point of it. Instead he reacted to what he still thought was a
DGI recruitment attempt. "What if they did. They sure as hell wouldn’t
tell me. And I sure as hell..."
"Wouldn’t tell me? Yes, I understand
that. But you would do something, of this I am convinced. And the atrocity that
struck this impoverished Ethiopian community is so vile that it could not
survive the light you would shine on it. Those people were poisoned, the manner
of which continues to evade us."
Carl looked into Tomas’s eyes. There was real
concern there, and that confused him. Or was it simply that this man was good
at his job?
Tomas leaned closer to lend emphasis to his
words. "If you think I speak through ideology, consider what kind of
ideology will exist in a world where one group can decide how many of their
neighbors will continue to share this planet. Your mother was of Cuban origin;
what if this elitist group decides that half Cuban/half Irish is not a
combination to its liking?"
Carl was beginning to feel crowded. "All
right, I understand the implications. But why should I accept that what
happened in
Tomas sighed and pulled back a little.
McClure had made a perceptible turn in his direction, and it was important that
nothing be done to reverse this. Whether Fidel approved of this source or not,
Tomas felt it his duty to use every tool at his disposal in the cause of
uncovering what was happening in the American camp. "Because of
sympathetic socialist colleagues, we were able to obtain samples of plants,
water, fetal tissue, whatever we thought would help us discover what caused
this thing. We even called upon our sometimes-friends in
"Then how can you say the
Anger reasserted itself in Tomas’s voice.
"I will tell you how! A stranger appeared in the affected village a short
time before the troubles began. She was not African and she had no reason to be
there. Nor when questioned did she offer a believable explanation. She simply
arrived, stayed two days, then left."
"She?"
"Yes, a woman. We know exactly who she
is."
"And you’re saying she’s American."
The doubt was evident in Carl’s eyes.
"No. This woman was born in
"But..."
"‘But’ is correct, a very large ‘but.’
We have long known of this woman because of her intimate involvement with a
member of your government." Tomas let the curiosity spread on Carl’s face
before adding, "The current president of your
Exactly thirteen months after returning to
the
He had said nothing to anyone about Tomas’s
accusations, but they continued to confuse his thoughts. "American
led," the DGI chief had said. Did "American" mean the CIA, his
employers? And, if so, was this anything more than the usual? If he knew what
it was, would he approve, even grudgingly? Carl knew how unlikely it was that
he would ever come to know the answers to any of this.
Carl knew the pickup would not be long in
coming. The small paper bag he’d dropped into a trashcan just inside the
entrance to an inter-city park would be buried by other contributions if
someone did not get to it quickly. Keeping an eye on the package while appearing
not to do so, Carl strolled around the periphery of the park until finally she
came. It was a woman in her early thirties with a dark blue scarf wrapped
loosely around her head. The scarf failed to hide the lovely black hair that
flowed softly down her well-shaped back. Nor did it mask the beauty of her
face, a Latin beauty that reminded Carl too much of Nicola. Without making a
thing of it, she reached in, grabbed the bag then walked away, to where, a
suddenly guilt-ridden Carl did not want to know. He had already gone too far,
and there was a plane waiting to take him to
As he moved resolutely on, Carl failed to
notice the modestly-dressed man sitting quietly on a bench at the north end of
the park, the side opposite the girl and the package that was now hers. There
was concern on his heavily-tanned face as he watched the young CIA officer exit
the park then disappear down a crowded street.
3
Earth orbit,
January 20th;
The energy-gathering wings stretched a dozen yards
to either side and always managed to face the sun even as the satellite they
were attached to danced eccentrically in response to orders from the ground. It
was a massive and irregular structure, heavy with optical sensors, telemetry
equipment, attitude-control apparatus, radio transmitters and receivers. In
geostationary orbit 22,300 miles above the earth, it could be seen as a
prominent star to anyone happening upon a spot of empty ocean half way between
Even those aware that deeply hidden within
its complex circuitry was another, more devious purpose, did not know what that
purpose was, only that the satellite was to respond to a certain set of
instructions from the ground by emitting a short encoded burst of its own. Who
or what was to receive this message, and what use was to be made of it, they
had no idea. Nor were they inclined to ask.
They did know, however, that the highly
sophisticated device would require less than a thousandth of a second to
complete its ancillary assignment, after which it would stand by in the
blackness of space and listen for a follow-up command. If that command failed to
arrive within a specified period of time, then the exercise was to be regarded
as just another test. The machine would dutifully return to its primary
function until called upon once again. But if the second command did make it in
time, then the computer would immediately wipe out all trace of secondary
programming from its memory. It was to be an electronic lobotomy, and once
completed there would be nothing left for the curious; no way of proving it had
ever deviated from its principal mission.
For slightly more than a year the device had
done everything that was required of it, including waiting patiently for a
signal that never came. Not that this really mattered; to its indifferent
circuitry, time had no meaning. Besides, it was easy to keep watch. Even with
the countless other demands upon it, it could check for special orders a
thousand times each second, and could maintain this pace for as long as it
remained in orbit, which was years unless something unforeseen got in the way.
When its earth-bound master finally decided to take advantage of the secrets it
so zealously guarded, it would be alert and ready to go, and no one on the
ground would ever know it had involved itself in a few milliseconds of
moonlighting.
Three days and twenty three hours into the
fourteenth month of orbit, the waiting came to an end. The message was
received. Dutifully and without hesitation, the satellite tossed into the
vastness of space a precise set of codes, then positioned itself to receive the
second command, the one that would end forever this darker side of its
assignment. But the second command failed to arrive, and one millionth of a
second after the thirteenth minute of waiting, the obedient machine switched
back to what it had been before. Apparently the unknown source from the
blue-white planet far below was not yet ready to erase his tracks.
At the same time, and for a fraction of a
second only, the United States Global Positioning System malfunctioned. The
best way to determine where you are anywhere on the planet, GPS is used by
friend and foe alike. At any one time eighteen satellites (with three more held
in constant reserve) blanket the Earth, each broadcasting its respective
position to thousands of receivers on the ground. Each of these receivers,
often little more than a few square inches of electronic wizardry,
automatically selects the best three transmissions and uses these to compute
where it is at that moment. Accuracy is guaranteed to within a few feet.
When the malfunction occurred, some twenty
thousand independent receivers around the globe were in the process of using
the system. Not one of them detected the error. Their circuitry dismissed the
anomaly as a momentary glitch, an unusual atmospheric condition or a
temporarily unresponsive aerial. In less than a tenth of a second each had
double checked itself and was once again satisfied that a reliable fix could be
made.
But one tiny machine did not so quickly
dismiss what to it was a wake-up call. Like the satellite, it had been waiting
for a special command, though unlike its space-bound partner, it had done so
for less than a week, the time that had passed since being transported from
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com or booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
P R O L O G U E
The first thing you saw was the bloody fingerprints, a cover smeared with them. Flip to any page and you were sure to see more--blood must have been in this guy’s face all the time he was writing the diary. Blood mixed with ocean salt then baked by a tropical sun. There was artistry in how it melted into the light tan of the cover.
Alex brushed his fingers over the diary’s surface as if in appreciation of the delicacy with which its contents, gruesome to say the least, must be handled. In time he moved to massage his unshaven face, a face that mirrored a private anguish that the diary’s young author, Carl McCormic would never know.
If the contents of the diary were to become known, even to others within the Company, the shit would hit more fans then he could count. Alex was sure his younger partner knew this as well. Like himself, Noel would want the thing squelched, and if that meant squelching the author at the same time, then that’s the way it would have to be.
Who would know? Only three people in the world
were aware of the diary’s existence: himself, Noel, and the Cuban who found it,
a Company man who was smart enough to pocket the damn thing before anyone saw
it. That diary was trouble, big trouble, and if, God forbid, the public got
wind of it, tons of fingers would point to the Company and scream bloody
murder--dammit, it always worked out that way! And the irony is, the
Damn!
Thinking of the father--who still had to be
dealt with--Alex gave a quick shrug of dismissal. Like his errant son, Pat
McCormic had brought it on himself. An ex-cop, he should have known better. He’s
lucky others were willing to hush it up. With a scowl that made no attempt to
hide his contempt, Alex stared at the closed door beyond which sat a tired and
defeated old man. Captain Pat, they called him in
There was no confirmation from Cuba as yet, nothing to indicate how its aging government was reacting to all this, whether they were still in shock or planning revenge--it was this last possibility that bothered Alex most of all: The possibility of a reaction from Cuba was good argument for passing the diary along. The Company did not like to be blindsided.
Alex turned to the beginning and began to read, as if in doing so again he could change what was there. As before, he chuckled at the writing, tiny with each page being used twice. Short on paper, McCormic had turned the diary ninety degrees and had patiently written over what he recorded earlier. Smart! He used a pen in one direction and a pencil in the other, thus making each stand out, easier to read. Only thing he didn’t figure on was the seawater.
And, of course, the blood, some of which had to be hers.
Still not ready to bring in the older McCormic, Alex continued to scan the pages, seeing but not seeing, or at least not wanting to see. His brow paled with the pressure he exerted upon it as his eyes touched on the first mention of Nicola. Beautiful Nicola. Beautiful, troubled and deadly as hell.
1
THE DIARY
The delirium comes and goes, and it is not always clear to me what state I’m in, lucidity or fever. I think maybe it’s slowing down, the fever, I mean, but this isn’t all that reassuring. It could mean I’m entering a new phase, a more unpleasant one. Certainly my wound is no better; the angry red saucer that surrounds what I can see of it continues to spread, even as I cleanse it with sea water and apply what remains of our "liberated" antiseptic.
I worry that I won’t get all this down, that before I’m able to do so I’ll run out of either paper or life. In my current state of mind, I view the former with as much tragedy as I do the latter, since there would then be no way of telling the why of what happened, what it was that drove Nicola and me. You see, we were driven by separate demons.
If I appear to write nonsense through any of this, or if I ramble with no apparent end in sight, please understand the conditions under which this story is being put to paper. Facing death is not the problem, I’ve gotten used to the idea, even accepted the inevitability of it. More relevant is the off-and-on delirium brought about by three days of a tropical sun, relentless tossing by unmerciful waves, and not enough food or water. I guess the gunshot wound figures in there as well.
At least I think it’s been three days. It’s not so easy to keep track of time.
A numbness has all but replaced the pain, and with it has come inner peace. My mind is no longer moved by what will soon be imposed upon it. There is no rescue effort underway; I’d be naïve to think otherwise. More likely is that no one, not Pat, not the CIA and not the Cubans, know I made it this far.
But I dwell too much on the future when what I’m aiming at is the past.
I suppose it began with my college graduation. Getting to that point had made me a coiled spring ready to burst through to a world not found in books. I wanted to experience life, the best and the worst of it, and I wanted it now. It was more than the restlessness of youth, it was my mother’s death in an automobile accident four months earlier, and what that did to me.
My mother kept me in college by her gentle
and persuasive will. In return, as my conscience is not shy to remind me, I
gave her abuse. She was Cuban, and she had come to the
So much did I love and miss her that all things Cuban began to take on a new meaning to me. Suddenly I wanted to go there, to see where she lived, to see how she lived if that were still possible. Pat, my father, was dead set against any of it, his way of dealing with the same loss--they were wired, those two.
My father is a retired
I get the feeling sometimes that he was on the streets too long, the way he talks, I mean, but he’s still one of the smartest men I know. He even looks smart; his dark bushy hair shows just enough white above the ears to import a sense of distinction. If dressed properly, which doesn’t often happen with Pat, he could pass as the head of a large corporation.
Pat was retired less than a year when my
mother died, and keenly aware of how unlikely I was to take any kind of career
seriously at the moment, he threw out this idea that we take a year off and go
on a sailing odyssey. To me, it was a no-brainer. I jumped at the chance, and
soon, using his money, we took possession of a used sailboat, a forty-one foot
Morgan sloop. We christened it the "Mary Lou,"
my mother’s Anglicized name. The grand plan was to sail to
We picked up the boat in
2
"What the hell?"
I couldn’t believe it either. Two middle-aged men of medium height but heavy build, were manhandling the prettiest little thing I had ever seen, and in plain sight of a dozen only slightly curious gawkers. The men were struggling to get her to where a third stood by the open door of a large, black Mercedes, clean but well past its prime. According to Pat, who was more trained in observation than I, it had official tags.
"There’s no way those guys are cops!"
I agreed. They were barely presentable, each wearing a soiled T-shirt under faded green fatigues and each sporting at least a day’s beard. And they looked anything but professional in the way they were handling their victim. One was trying to grab her flailing legs while the other had such a tight grip on her hair that, in spite of the woman’s obvious determination, she cried out as much in pain as in protest. Still, she was determined that her attackers would suffer at least as much as she. Her small fists flew in all directions, and she belted out her rage using every foul Spanish word I knew--my mother was rarely shy about airing her emotions. She looked like a little girl, angry and indignant at not being allowed to have her way.
I was instantly attracted to this woman, so much so that for a moment I could do nothing but stare. She was a dark-haired, Latin beauty, her face a cross between classic and cute and her large eyes as dangerously inviting as some mythical siren. Her mouth turned downward at each end and seemed a small step away from falling into a pout. What finally got me moving was the tone of her voice. She was frightened as well as angry. "This stinks, Pat!"
"I agree; let’s go." With that my oversized father took off on the run, his fists already forming what I knew would be a serious problem for anyone dumb enough to get in their way. It took me a few seconds to catch up.
Pat rarely wastes time in situations such as this. As soon as he was within range, he drove a fist into the stomach of the man holding the girl by her hair--he gasped for air and sank to the ground, on the way, releasing his grip. The girl, rather than run for cover, spun around and kicked out with the unmistakable intent of eliminating any chance that creep had of producing children.
I saw the second attacker reach into his clothes, the bulge under his armpit telling me he was not going for identification. I reached him just as the gun came into view, and with the sight of it adding desperation to my anger, I rammed a fist into the center of his face. The gun dropped faster than he, but I kicked out at his falling body, wanting to make sure he stayed down--there was still a third man to deal with. I spun around to see where he was.
Pat’s boxing partner was down and in obvious pain, but Pat was not following up. In fact, he was not moving at all. He and the guy holding the car door were staring past me to something in the distance, an uncertain look on their faces. I followed their gaze and saw two policemen coming up fast, both of them neat and trim in the white and black uniforms so admired by tourists. One was a female almost as young as the woman we were in the process of rescuing.
It signaled the end of the fight, or at least the end of round one. Just the appearance of those uniforms sobered everyone, including Pat and me who were now fighting thoughts of official retribution.
With all parties in full cooperation and acting like children caught misbehaving, the unarmed policepersons attempted to sort out what happened. We claimed ourselves to be good Samaritans responding to a damsel in distress--orally flashing Pat’s background with the law added credibility to this plea, as did the stubborn refusal of our adversaries to give anything other than their names. The girl’s corroborating story backed us up, but I could see that she was anything but pleased to see the police. Curiously, she seemed to fear them as much as she did the trio who were molesting her.
According to her she was an innocent bystander attacked by evil men. In softly delivered testimony, she hinted that they were lecherous as well--seeing a face and a body that would tempt strong-willed men into instant infidelity, even the female policeman found that easy to believe. They decided our gun-toting friends were the ones to cart off to jail while we should be sent on our way.
The three of us, Pat, the girl and I, moved away as quickly as good manners allowed--for the moment, there was no question of her remaining with us. Although in no way buying the innocent tourist role she played to the police, I was warmed by her presence. And by the look of her as she struggled to keep up with Pat’s massive strides.
My guess at nineteen later proved to be
correct, but she’d obviously been around long enough to know the effect she had
on others, men in particular. She walked with her head high and her look
defiant, and her stride was sensual and without hesitation. I saw her as about
five feet, six and a bit on the thin side, but it was the right kind of thin;
it helped promote that classical look. Her clothes were more young than
classical, but they were arranged by a master artist who knew exactly what his
audience wanted to see. She wore a soft yellow blouse with no sleeves and a
black, patent leather belt that purported to hold up jeans that were already
well supported by unblemished flesh. Sandals with one-inch heels gently encased
her slender, heavily-tanned feet. The memory of this is mine forever, for I
repeated that examination many times during our short retreat through the
streets of downtown
In silence and still burdened by doubt, we wound our way through back alleys to the Green Shutters, an attractive and well-attended restaurant down Parliament street on the south side of Nassau. We entered quickly then charmed a reluctant waitress out of a table in the rear. While waiting for drinks to arrive, my diplomatic, policeman father decided to go for answers.
"Would you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?"
His words pierced the bubble I was creating for myself. "For Christ’s sake, Pat, we haven’t even been introduced and already you’re swearing at the lady!"
He gave me that burdened look that fathers often show their children then said, "My apologies. I’m Peter McCormic; Pat to you. And that’s my son Carl." He paused and inclined his head in such a way that made it clear he expected her to respond in kind.
"Nicola. Nicola Valente." It was said softly and with a hint of Spanish in her English. I could feel the spell deepening.
"Okay. Now would you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?"
She laughed. I did too, in spite of myself.
"Those men were trying to kidnap me."
"That much is obvious. Why were they trying to kidnap you?"
Her expression saddened as if Pat reminded her of something she would rather forget. "You would not like to know."
"Maybe not, but I think we earned the right to decide that for ourselves."
Her answer was evasive. "I really thank you, both of you, for what you did. If it had not been for you, God knows where I would be right now."
"Would they have hurt you?" I finally joined the conversation.
She frowned, and her face turned bitter. "Those people enjoy giving pain. They would kill me in an instant if they thought they could get away with it."
I could see Pat’s impatience growing. "Why would they want to kill you?"
She shook her head. "Maybe later. I am too upset now." Seeing Pat about to object, she added in something close to a whisper, "Please do not press me."
With that appeal, delivered with such compelling tenderness, we had little choice but to back off. Even so, we decided over lunch to go back to the police, ostensibly to volunteer ourselves as material witnesses. The truth, of course, was that Pat and I needed to know more about Nicola’s attackers, specifically, where they would be when the sun went down.
"Why do you have to do this?" The pleading tone reappeared in her voice.
Pat was not deterred. "Those men are vicious, they have to be tucked away, for our sake if not yours."
"In this part of the world, it is not wise to get involved. You are Americans; you do not understand. You expect everything to be cut up and dried."
"Cut and dry." This was another of my brilliant attempts to join the conversation.
She stared at me with her mouth partly opened trying to decide whether I had just insulted her. I saw in that face an innocent child in need of protection. My protection.
"What I mean is, down here you cannot
expect people to act the way they do in the
This time I did not correct her mangled try at an American expression, preferring instead to state what I thought was the obvious: "But they’re in custody."
"I meant the police! How do you know they have not changed their minds. They might at this very moment be looking for the three of us."
That got a frown out of my father. "Frankly, that prospect doesn’t make me any less inclined to go back. The last thing I want is for Carl and me to become fugitives."
We could not convince Nicola, but at least she agreed to come along with us to the station. I guess I should have questioned her willingness to do so; she had no reason to follow us around, and she’d already made it clear how she felt about getting too close to the police. But had she not followed us, I might have followed her.
It turned out that Nicola was right; the police had gone through a change of heart. Not that we were about to be tossed into jail in place of the thugs; it was more that they were pissed that we had gotten them involved.
The three attackers had been released at the personal intervention of the Cuban ambassador. When Pat and I heard this we were aghast--Nicola did not seem surprised. We had fallen into something involving the Cuban government, armed agents of which had attempted to kidnap our lovely but mysterious friend. What we did not know was whether these thugs were acting officially or as everyday rapists--the latter, I could understand.
Another good question was why we were still in town after learning of the ambassadorial-level intervention. It was time to haul ass out of there before our battered friends remembered how much we screwed up their day. "Anyone for heading back to the boat?"
Pat agreed, and invited Nicola to come with us. To him she was a woman in need with us the only help available. I felt equally as noble, even if I did permit myself a stray thought about sleeping arrangements.
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com and booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
Twenty-five days before the launch of the shuttle Atlantis
All Therese Elliott could remember was the now, and the now was dominated by confusion and pain.
And death!
There was no doubt in her mind that the man was dead. Floating in the air not three feet away, his red-rimmed eyes were open and accusing and his face was twisted into a blend of agony and surprise. His casually-dressed frame, large for a shuttle astronaut, was bullying its way from one instrument-laden bulkhead to another only to ricochet off to follow a new path--perpetual motion in a surreal setting. Pushed out in front of him and extended to just above eye level, one hand moved slowly across his body as if trapped in an eternal wave. The sight brought on a moment of panic as Therese tried to remember the rule on how to control nausea in a weightless environment.
She was about to take a deep breath to fight it off when the thought of what might be mixed in with that breath, floating evidence of the corpse’s mortal struggle, made her hold back. In any event, it was not needed; the moment passed.
That the man was dead was surprising; that he was floating was not. Although never having been in space before, Therese was familiar with the nuances of shuttle travel, this the result of her husband’s abundant enthusiasm.
But it’s Mike who should be here, not me.
Shifting focus to her pain, Therese grimaced at the sight of bruises still in the process of forming just beyond the sleeves of her loose, blue knit shirt. More could be felt on her upper and lower torso and on her left hip just below where her bulky sweat pants began. A touch of a finger to her lower lip hinted at a swelling that had not yet reached its limits, and there was a throbbing at the back of her head that she knew would only get worse.
A crash? No, not possible. At close to eighteen thousand miles an hour, you get more than bumps and bruises!
There was an annoying fog in her eyes, and it would not clear no matter how much she tried to blink it away. But then a blow to the head would do that. She tried to remember what her husband, a physician as well as an astronaut, had taught her about concussion. The symptoms were there, including the loss of memory.
There is nothing about this voyage that I remember.
Some of the fog was real. Not only was she trapped in an overgrown thermos bottle but in one that did not pay its electricity bill. It was dark inside the shuttle, the only light available leaking in from the outside: stars and reflections from the night side of the Earth some two hundred and twenty miles below. No sound either; no radio chatter; no hum of instruments to prove life-support was still being maintained; no hustle and bustle of fellow astronauts going about the business of staying alive in an environment that was both hostile and unforgiving.
And no Mike!
Reluctantly settling her eyes on the dead man, Therese saw that it was fifty-two-year-old Fred Oberly, Mike’s mission commander and a friend to them both. On top of Oberly's head, where at a younger age hair would have prevented it from being seen, there was a small, white bandage, new and looking out of place on a dead man. It was like a beacon urging her forward, and she responded by moving her weightless body to where she could lift its edges and take a closer look. She saw a small break in the skin, put there by some kind of blunt instrument that was either not blunt enough or wielded with too much enthusiasm. It reminded her of the pain on the side of her head, and she explored the area with her fingers to see if she might also have a bandage. She did not, but there was a sensitive lump to testify to the blow she must have received.
She looked again at Oberly’s wound and saw that any blood that might otherwise have flowed had been held in check by a thick creamy substance that looked familiar; probably Avitene--Mike used Avitene to treat cuts on boxers during prizefights, one of his passions.
But why was it used here? Chances are that blow killed him before any blood could begin to flow.
The thought died in the air as a scene of horror flashed behind Therese’s eyes: violence in quick-time with herself as participant rather than victim. Faces passed by quickly, too quickly to be identified, each with eyes burning and lips moving in anger or in protest. And blood, lots of it, some being shed as she watched and by her own hand. Emotions, dormant until now, pushed through whatever protective shell had held them at bay, and Therese felt fear, fear that she would not live out the day, that there was a force within this tiny outpost of space-age humanity that could not be stopped.
Movement outside the spacecraft, felt as much as seen, another beacon she had no power to resist!
Carefully avoiding the dead body that had not yet found its rest, Therese pushed toward one of the two aft viewing windows, feeling as she did so like a puppet on a string. A part of her wanted to back off, to return to whatever void had preceded her awakening to this madness, but a greater part wanted to know; needed to know. This was her life; it was Mike’s life, and whether either of those lives were to continue was to be decided here and now.
Easily seen because of the starlight reflecting off his bright white spacesuit, one of the crew tugged against a badly shredded tether, his form otherwise as still as the dead man beside Therese. Another tether hung loosely in space, its near end connected to the shuttle but its distant end, the end that should have an astronaut attached to it, shredded and empty. Therese examined the Remote Manipulator System Arm, the robotic lifting device that had likely caused the damage. It was fully extended but out of action.
She could not see the face inside the space suit and thus could not tell which of the two astronauts scheduled to perform spacewalks it was. She could not even tell if it were a man or a woman--there were two women assigned to this crew, one of whom would be out there now.
More movement, this time beyond the spacecraft, something distant but closing. Like the shuttle, it was buried in the night side of Earth, but not so much that Therese could not pick out its spidery arms spreading outward against a backdrop of stars. It was the International Space Station and the shuttle was moving toward it at an alarming rate.
Before Therese had time to consider this new twist, the spacewalker slipped his mangled tether then began drifting toward the slowly-turning planet far below. Therese watched him move away, aware that there could be only one end for him. He would become Earth’s first (or perhaps second--the other spacewalker was nowhere to be seen) human shooting star as he tumbled into the atmosphere and evaporated in a flash of fire. And unless something was done to divert the shuttle, it and the International Space Station would soon follow.
Therese pushed away from the window in horror, the move ending in a jolt as she crashed against the opposite bulkhead. Three dead out of a crew of six. Two not yet accounted for. Badly in need of company, she headed for the bottom half of the cramped capsule, pushing through the air to the starboard interdeck access hatch then head first down to the middeck as if this were a route she took every day.
But it was even darker here than on the flight deck, and a buzzing appeared in her head as she scanned the room, barely able to see and afraid of what the shadows might reveal. As her eyes adjusted, one of those shadows became another of her ill-fated colleagues.
Howard! Howard Parkney. You shouldn’t be here.
Like the corpse on the upper deck, Parkney was drifting without purpose, his body occasionally brushing too close to a switch and threatening an action which, in a fully-powered ship, might spell disaster. His eyes, although seeing nothing, were half open, and like his dead colleague he wore a bandage, this one in the center of his forehead--he would have seen the blow coming.
Therese’s mouth turned dry as she moved within range then, in a moment of fear-driven frustration, grabbed the bandage and yanked it clear. Another small cut and another smear of Avitene to restrict blood that could never have flowed. She released the offensive bandage then watched as it drifted in her direction, the action eerie and threatening.
Sensing a presence behind her, Therese whirled to face whatever it was, her eyes wide and her heart racing. There, moving toward her and now only inches away, was the last member of the team, Thomas Karak, the mission’s pilot. One arm was stretched above his head as if readying a blow.
Even while knowing Karak was dead, Therese squirmed and twisted in the air wanting desperately to avoid contact—Karak’s body was moving at her as if intent upon a violation it was no longer capable of performing. The collision, when inevitably it came, was made worse by the blood, bright red and moist, that clung to Karak’s hair and forehead. Some of it spread to the hand Therese raised to protect herself, and yet additional molecules splashed into the air making breathing an unpleasant prospect.
Penetrating her haze of fear and disgust, Therese noted that there was no bandage on Karak’s head. It was as if his slayer, seeing that the blood was unstoppable, had given up. Looking further, Therese saw a small leather sack trailing the corpse. It was some six inches long and bulging at one end, and there was enough blood clinging to its surface to brand it as the murder weapon.
All dead; only me still alive.
In a flash of insight, the origin of which she had no hope of discovering, Therese knew she was not in her own body. She also knew that the human shell she wore belonged to a killer. Desperate in her need to know, she searched for something that might serve as a mirror, eventually moving back to the flight deck where it was easier to see. The overhead observation window was a mirror of sorts, but all she could see in it, besides the approaching space station, was a scratchy hint of the human being that was herself.
Then she noticed the writing in the window's upper edge, a confusing assemblage of words penned in a strong hand, the neatness of the letters suggesting it was the life’s work of the author to have it seen and understood. It took a moment of straining her eyes against the darkness, but soon the phrase, auto-da-fe appeared. Therese knew it meant "act of faith," but what its author had in mind by posting it here she hadn’t a clue.
As happens every ninety minutes when orbiting the Earth, the sun began to rise; there was light for the first time since this ordeal began. Fearing that it would as quickly be snatched away, Therese raced to find a way to discover who she was. She turned to the HUDs on the forward instrument panel, Heads Up Displays, television tubes used to present information in a easily viewed form. If she could get the sun to light up her face, it might reflect in one of the screens.
But as she struggled to make it happen, the spacecraft and all the horror it housed within its fortified walls began to fade.
No, not yet! Please!
Indifferent to her plea, the fading continued, and with only seconds remaining to discover the truth, Therese grabbed at the HUD screen and pulled herself toward it. It appeared to work; she could see the outline of a human face, the face of a murderer. The fading made it difficult to know for sure, but the glimpse she got made her think the final curtain was descending upon her world.
My God, it's Mike!
Therese Elliot,
Associate Professor of Middle Ages Religions at
Where the hell did that come from?
She took a number of deep breaths needing to calm herself. Only when she felt a touch of sanity in an otherwise insane moment did she look over at the person beside her. Mike was smothered in pillow and his breathing was slow and deep--at least she had not cried out in her sleep. They were huddled together in one of two beds crowded into the motel’s modest living quarters.
She remembered now: last night's party, the reception for family and friends of those involved in the Atlantis launch. It had lasted well into the night. In training or not, these guys could party!
She had had fun and, yes, a little too much to drink, but she was sure she had stopped short of dancing on the tables. No, it was something else, something said or done, an idle comment, a joke, something my subconscious picked up and turned into a creepy nightmare.
She closed her eyes but could not shut out the thought that something horrible was about to happen, that there had already been set in motion such events that a disaster was now all but inevitable, that the shuttle she rode in her dream was doomed to end its existence as a gigantic fireball, taking the International Space Station and her husband along with it.
2
Twenty-five days until launch
Inside the
The huge external tank, having already been checked out in another part of the assembly building, was worried into place then attached to the SRBs. It would hold the liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen needed for the shuttle’s three main engines, although the loading of fuel would not begin until launch was reasonably certain, about five hours before lift-off.
The final shuttle component, the Orbiter, having already undergone a checkout in the Orbiter Processing Facility, was patiently towed to the assembly building, raised to a vertical position then carefully mated to the external tank. When the last bolt was put in place and tightened, the collection of solid rocket boosters, external tank and orbiter officially took on the designation of "space shuttle." The Atlantis was now ready to be transported to the launch pad.
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com and booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
P R O L O G U E
All of this is true; I swear to the big guy it is. Well, maybe not exactly true. I mean, a lot of it is from memory and thus could stray just a tad from what was actually said--by God as well as by me. And maybe some of the feelings more represent my take than God’s, like I almost lost it when I saw the outline of a frown pushing through the glow surrounding his face (even now it scares me to think how close I might have come to encouraging the old heat treatment).
Anyway, what kicked it off was I fell asleep one night a little down about life in general and weary of all the conflicting thoughts that kept bouncing around in my head, thoughts about religion, why we’re here and what all this stuff means, I mean, really means. You know, one of those times when you’re flooded with doubts you gotta admit are there but don’t feel right about bringing up (you don’t even want to form the questions in your mind for fear you might actually ask them and in doing so tempt some kind of lightning bolt your way).
But the doubts are there just the same, and if you try to pretend they’re not, it just makes you itchy inside, like somebody’s calling for boarding on the last train to heaven and you don’t even know what kind of ticket to buy.
Now don’t get me wrong; it isn’t like I doubt the whole shebang. Heck, I’m not that far gone. I just doubt everything I’ve ever been told by everyone I’ve ever known. I mean, there are a lot of people out there screaming their heads off about what’s what in this world and the next, and most of them have no doubt whatsoever about what they’re saying, even when what they’re saying goes against what other guys (who also have no doubt whatsoever) are saying.
Until this thing with the big guy happened--which I’m gonna tell you about in a minute--I had just about given up. I had no one to turn to, no one to ask, no one who wouldn’t hit me with the same old platitudes and half-answers. "Just have faith, Harold," they’d say, which to them meant have faith in what they were saying, not in what anybody else was saying.
Anyway, I just turned sixty, my back hurts from all the exercises I did to strengthen my legs, and my hair, which had already turned a horrible shade of dirty gray, is now falling out. Plus my feet hurt, my eyes see a little less each year, and I’m getting shorter. This all combines to tell me that I need to make sense out of what I am and where I’m going and that I’d better do it soon before whoever’s keeping score decides the game is over. "Time’s up, Harold. And oh so sorry, you should have followed religion 5,642. Step closer to the furnace, please."
Anyway, the problem I’m trying to tell you about started for me at an early age. I was even more confused about religion then than I am now, and when I tried talking to my friends about it (I remember asking, "If God can do no wrong but can do anything he wants to do then why can’t he do wrong? I mean, if he really, really wanted to?") all I got was laughter and ridicule. They didn’t much like the questions (and couldn’t answer them anyway) so they responded in the only way they knew: they attacked the one doing the questioning. Enough episodes of this and I knew to bury my curiosity in favor of going along with the crowd. I liked the guys who were telling me the religious facts of life, so backing off was no big deal.
But one day I moved to another town and a new set of friends who believed something different but who sounded just as sure about what they were saying as the guys I left behind. When that happened a third time, I got to wondering what gives. I mean, they were all good guys, but what they said just couldn’t be, not when you viewed it all together. Some said black, some said white, some said something in-between--I was young, but not so young that I couldn’t see something wrong with that. When for the second time in my life I got on their case about it, this time to question how so many different religious opinions could be right at the same time, I got to see my first funny look: a look that said, How could I not understand? How could I question the unquestionable? (I figured out that the "unquestionable" meant what they believed, not what my earlier friends believed.)
That’s when everybody began picking on me. A few guys got angry, but most of them just stared at me as if I had brain cells leaking out of my ears. It was funny to watch the progression; their eyes would widen and their smiles would become fixed and unsure as if they’d just cut one loose and were afraid the teacher had heard. Then, and it’s interesting how many of them did this, they’d take a step backward to avoid an accidental hit from a lightning bolt aimed at me.
But my playmates are not the guys I complained to God about. I still like those guys, all of them. Besides, we were kids; we didn’t know any better; we’d all been brainwashed by our parents. The gut aches I feel now come from grown-ups, the guys who are doing the brainwashing. The guys who stab their fingers at the sky, reveal enough of their eyes to make little kids fear the dark, wave whatever book they think proves their point, and cry out their message to the world, a message that demonstrates love of their own ideas, scorn for anyone who can’t see the wisdom of those ideas, and reasons why you should give them money.
What really bothers me is there are so many of them and so few of me.
Anyway, getting back to the night I’m trying to tell you about, I woke up in my dream (that’s exactly what it was; I was dreaming then there I was, as awake as I’d ever been in my life) and found myself standing alone at the edge of a rolling puff of cloud watching rambling rivers and winding roads run a neat pattern through multicolored patches of farmland far below. The only company I had was a gentle breeze, which, because there were no trees or stuff like that to catch the wind and make a noise, I felt more than I heard. As I stood there watching, I began to feel a need to make the most of this before the magic of the moment changed, before the pushing and shoving of a celestial rush-hour began.
But before I had time to decide how to do that, along walks the big guy himself, God. Because of the light radiating from him, I couldn’t see much, but I knew right away it was him. (Or her; I never did get the answer to that one.) Well, I gotta tell you, this surprised me some. It isn’t often that this kind of thing happens, not to me it doesn’t (to the guys running around in robes collecting money, it supposedly happens all the time).
But anyway, I seized on this great idea, the idea that this meeting was preordained; I mean, it must have been, right? The big guy must have guided us together just so I could hit him with my questions. I felt pretty important at that moment, even holy. And I figured who am I to risk angering God by passing up an ordainment, or whatever you’re supposed to call it. So I grabbed the moment and got the ball rolling. As you’ll soon see, once it started rolling it wasn’t so easy to stop.
"Hey, God; got a minute?"
ONE
This "in God's Image" thing,
did you evolve from apes like we did?
"What is it, Harold?"
"Hey, this is great; you talking to me, I mean."
"Yes, Harold, I understand. But I am a bit busy..."
"Oh yeah, God; didn’t mean to hold you up and all. I just got a few things on my mind. You know, things I can’t make gel."
"Gel?"
"An expression where I come from, God. But you see, that’s part of what’s bothering me. I thought you would know that."
"You think the way you speak should rank high in matters that occupy my mind, Harold?"
"Well, that’s what we’re told all the time. That you know everything, I mean, even the things that aren’t worth knowing."
"I know you, Harold."
"Ha! Good one, God. I’ll remember that--I mean, if you let me remember it."
"You have questions, Harold?"
"Yeah, a few thing I been thinking about."
"What kind of things?"
"Well, like ... now, you’re not gonna take offense, are you, God?"
"That depends."
"Yeah, well I don’t mean this the wrong way, you understand. I’m just ... well, sorta confused. I don’t want to get my buns scorched for stepping outta line."
"Get with it, Harold."
"Yeah, no sweat; I’ve been standing here writing it all down. Hold on a second, God."
"Harold."
"Yeah, God?"
"You said ‘a minute.’ How many sheets of papers do you have there?"
"Now see, there you go again. You’re supposed to know things like that."
(sigh) "Pick one, Harold, and let’s get on with it."
"Yeah, okay. It’s just that I have trouble believing all I’m told and I need a little help sorting it out--oh yeah, move on; right, God. Eh, how about this one: Now as I understand it, you made us in your own image, right?"
"What is your point?"
"Well, what image are we talking about? Homosexuals have..."
"That’s ‘Homo Sapiens,’ Harold."
"Homo Sapiens; got it, God. Well Homo-what-you-said have changed a hell ... eh, a heck of a lot, even in the last million years--we don’t look anything like we did back then. And go all the way back to the time of the dinosaurs and you see us looking like mice. Eh, you’re not telling us you’re a mouse are you, God."
"I beg your pardon."
"Hey, no way I see you that way; I just said that to prove a point. But you know, with all that glow, I can’t tell what you do look like--you couldn’t turn down the power a little could you, God?"
"Maybe you haven’t really tried to see me, Harold."
"That’s exactly what I’m getting at, God. I mean, that’s the point of this whole talk. I wanna try harder; I wanna know how to see you, how you want to be seen."
"Is it so important that I have a specific image?"
"Well, no, but that’s what we’re taught all the time, that we look like you, I mean. All I want to know is whether it’s true. Or whether you’re evolving like we are and, if so, what you have in mind as the end game--eh, you got pictures, maybe?"
"Maybe I want to leave that up to you, to permit you to see me as you wish."
"‘Maybe’ don’t exactly pay the rent, God."
"You want to run that by me again, Harold?!"
"Hey, no offense; I really want to understand. There are a bunch of guys out there saying all kinds of contradictory things. And these guys, they don’t say ‘maybe;’ they say ‘this is how it is and there isn’t any question about it.’"
"But you do question them."
"Yeah, but I question them, God, not you. I mean, they come up with way-out stuff, stuff they’ve got to have made up. Like this ‘in your image’ thing. I mean, mankind has gone all the way from one-celled creatures to what we are now—there’s a lot of in-between there, God. Heck, we’ve changed a lot even since your guy Jesus came on board. We’re taller now by a lot of inches. Eh, how tall are you, God?"
"Here’s another ‘maybe’ for you, Harold: Maybe I ‘evolve’ your image because I don’t like you looking so much like me--you people are not something one can easily take pride in, you know!"
"Present company excepted, right, God? Eh, just a little human joke there. But why do you let these people tell us something like that if it isn’t true? I mean, they say they got it straight from the horse’s mouth--no offense. They say they’re just passing on what you want us to know?"
"Your minute’s up, Harold."
"Oh, yeah. Well can I come back and see you later, God? I got a lot more of these questions."
"I can hardly wait."
"Hey, great! I was afraid you'd be offended."
"Goodnight, Harold!"
"Eh, right; see you later, God--Oh, one quickie, if I can?"
"’Quickie,’ Harold?"
"Yeah, that means like..."
"Do me a favor, Harold."
"Yeah, God?"
"Don’t explain."
"Oh, yeah, sure. I guess I really don’t have to. I mean, you would know that like you know everything, right?"
"Your ‘quickie,’ Harold?"
"Yeah, Eh, is ‘God’ your first name or your family name?"
(sigh)
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com and booksamillion.com
Return to top of HOME Page
Prologue
On
the 18th of July, 1995, a wisp of steam lightly dusted with ash trickled
upward from the northwest crater of Soufrière Hills, a long-dormant volcano on
the tiny Antilles
Almost
a month to the day after it began, a terrifying eruption blanketed the capital
city of
1
December 26th,
Boxing Day
Malcolm
Vershun, on the threshold of gaining recognition after forty-three difficult
years, tightened his grip on the phone and struggled to understand what it was
his sick wife was trying to tell him. This call was expected to be cheerful, a
final pat on the back, their last chance to gloat before the Knighthood
ceremony, the KBE, began. Soon, in front of friend and foe alike¾and he had to admit there
were more of the latter than the former¾, he
would receive an honor that not one of them had any hope of matching. Not ever!
A black man, an islander, becoming a Knight of The British Empire, a black man
who brought employment to thousands on six Antilles islands, three of them,
including his own
“Sir”
Malcolm.
They
would call him that, even his enemies. Those who did not would come to see that
their stubbornness came at a price. He was mentally superior to all of them,
and he had not come so far and achieved so much without knowing how to deal
with “enemies.”
Still
maintaining a death grip on the phone, Malcolm glanced over at the platform
hastily built on the grassy knoll adjacent to Government House. The chairs had
been carefully arranged and the lectern that had been carried down from the
upstairs assembly room was standing proud but unoccupied in front of an
impatient crowd. The Queen of England would soon be standing on that platform,
the chair she would occupy obvious by its color, the purple of royalty. Malcolm
could even now hear a distant thumping of rotors that said her helicopter was
on the way.
He
had only seconds to ensconce himself in one of the platform’s chairs,
there to await Her Majesty’s arrival with the proper amount of dignity,
respect and, of course, expectation. “Selina, I must go.”
His
wife Selina was confined to their home a short block away, but she would be
watching from a bedroom window. It was a beautiful home, the best on
“Malcolm,
it … happening; … frightened. I can’t ….”
“What?
Tell me what it is, woman! I cannot understand you.” Her voice was
strained and broken and so high pitched that it was difficult to connect enough
of her words to make a meaning. Although Malcolm was
annoyed
at this threat to what was to be a perfect day, inside he felt a stitch of
fear.
“Die
… my … cannot ….”
“Cannot
what? What are you trying to tell me?” This woman was everything to him,
his lover, his best friend, his partner. Much of what he had accomplished was
due to her, her support, her loyalty, her wisdom. When he was down, she was up;
when he was wrong, she was right.
“Breath,
can’t get … breath.”
Reality
began to dawn. “Take your nitro, Selina!”
Like
himself, his wife was only in her fifties, but less than a week earlier she had
been diagnosed with a heart condition that called for periodic use of
nitroglycerin under the tongue. Not serious yet, so they had been told, but it
had scared Selina enough that she panicked whenever she discovered she’d
forgotten to carry with her the small container of life-saving tablets.
Malcolm,
however, had been less than convinced¾the
diagnosis was too severe; it could not happen that quickly; they were too
young. A more logical explanation was the excitement, the Queen’s visit
to
“I
… I cannot.”
“What
do you mean, ‘you cannot’?”
“Find
….”
“You
lost your nitroglycerin tablets? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
“Downstairs
… can’t get … down.”
Although
the day was cool by island standards, Malcolm was sweating profusely. Ribbons
of heat were shooting through his body, bringing him to momentary paralysis.
This could not be happening. “Sit down, Selina, you are upset, that is
all. Sit down and take deep breaths.” Even as his body knew the truth¾muscles had drawn taut, and
his gut was feeling darts of heat¾Malcolm’s
mind cried out for another explanation. The ceremony of his life was about to
begin; his wife could not be having an attack, not a real attack! But the thud
of a phone hitting the floor brought an instant change of mind.
“SELINA!”
Even
with the ambient noise of a thousand excited islanders, Malcolm’s cry was
heard. Eyes swung in his direction, almost all of them mirroring their alarm.
Those harboring the greatest alarm belonged to the Queen’s security
detail.
Trapped
in fear, Malcolm saw none of this. He dropped the receiver to swing on its
short line, then began a mad dash toward his house a block away, the route
taking him within spitting distance of the pad where the Queen’s
helicopter was about to land. All he could think about was getting one of those
nitroglycerin tablets under Selina’s tongue. He had time, but not much of
it.
She
must not die! She must not die!
Geared
to instant response by the Queen’s imminent arrival, the two security men
detailed to guard the landing site reacted by instinct. The rapid thumping of
the helicopters rotors told them the black man, who had screamed some kind of
protest, was timing his arrival to that of the Queen. Their guns came out even
as they issued a cry for him to stop where he was, a cry that had to be shouted
to overcome the clamor of the helicopter blades. The security detail had been
briefed that this man was somehow connected to the ceremony, but his bizarre
behavior suggested he had a dark side.
Malcolm
heard the cry but saw little reason to obey. Selina was in the throes of a
heart attack, and the pill that would keep her from leaving him forever was too
far away for her weakened body to retrieve. He did not stop or even slow down,
but instead cried out to the men with guns, cried out that his wife would die
if he did not get home. In his excitement he yelled it out in island patois, a
language the alarmed security men did not comprehend.
“Halt!
I say halt!” The wild man running toward them was dressed properly for
the ceremony, a suit, tie, even a proper vest, but this could conceal
explosives strapped to his chest¾just
in case, they aimed their guns at the wild man’s head. Alerted to the
situation, the Queen’s helicopter halted its descent, but it was still
close enough to share a piece of shrapnel should this be a bomb and should it
explode directly beneath them.
The
security men saw their options rapidly dwindling to none. The wild man was
still vomiting a wild flow of patois and approaching at top speed. They
hesitated until he got within a few meters of the helicopter pad then knew they
could tolerate no more. One of them fired.
The
bullet missed Malcolm’s head, but did hit heavily just below his neck. At
first the impact merely surprised him, but then a searing pain shot through his
upper chest and his body lost all sense of purpose and direction. He fell and
his voice dropped to a whisper.
But
still the appeals came. Using island patois to the end, he begged his
assailants to get to his wife. He tried to tell them that they were killing her
as surely as they had killed him. In mid sentence, the faces around him
offering no sign that they understood, he lost consciousness.
The
Queen returned to her escort ship, the incident troubling to her, even as she
put up a good front. After it was determined that this was a tragic mistake and
not an attempt on her life, she promptly ordered the helicopter back and the
ceremony to begin. The Bestowing of a KBE, a Knight of the
The
world ceased to exist for four days, and even then Malcolm knew only pain,
fuzzy images and voices that made no sense. It took a while to process enough
of what he saw to tell him where he was and what had brought him there. It had not
been a dream; it had really happened. He had been shot by the very people who
were going to make a hero out of him. Why had they done this?
“Oh
my God, no!”
The
nurse taking his pulse jumped at the unexpected sound coming from what she
thought was a comatose patient. Recovering quickly, she hastened to summon a
doctor.
“A
heart attack. I’m sorry.”
The
doctor did indeed look sorry, but it gave Malcolm little solace. “How
could this be? She had the nitroglycerin tablets?”
“Yes,
but she was either unable or unwilling to take them.”
“Unwilling?
She was stricken! She needed help!”
“Please
calm yourself. You are a very sick man; you need rest.”
Malcolm
stared at the doctor as if he had lost his mind. Rest? How could he rest? His
Selina was gone. His life was gone. “Please tell me, did she … die
immediately?” How he hated to use that word.
“She
… uh, lingered for perhaps an hour, then … passed on.”
Malcolm
was finding it difficult to breathe but still he had to ask. “Where is
she?”
The
doctor, an elderly island man who had seen too much misery in his time, was
clearly uncomfortable. “She was buried this morning.” When shock
began to grow onto his patient’s face, the doctor quickly added,
“We could not know how long you would be in coma.”
The
rest of what he was told seemed to come from within an echo chamber, as a part
of Malcolm’s brain shut down. Although everyone regretted what had
happened, especially in light of the loss he had suffered, they were
disappointed in the way he had conducted himself during the emergency, in
effect placing a mark on the Queen’s visit that could never be erased.
Their disappointment extended to a “postponement” of the proffered
Knighthood. Malcolm listened first with a sense of incredulity and then with a
smoldering anger. This was how the British apologized for killing his wife?
order now at
barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com, bordersbooks.com and booksamillion.com
Return to top of Home Page
IF YOU CAN KEEP IT
FORWARD - EMPIRES COME AND GO
I
write this book because I fear the loss of a good thing: our country. I see
disease, deadly if not treated, metastasizing into our vital organs. I see this
and wonder how many others see as well, and whether those others are aware of
what that disease can do if we continue to avert our eyes and minds to its
presence. I wonder also whether anyone is aware that we do not have all that
much time left to decide.
A
while back, under the pseudonym John Barr, I wrote a satiric piece entitled
Hey, God; Got A Minute?[1][1]
It was a conversation between a simple man and an understanding deity, its
theme being to, through humor, provoke the reader into thoughtful examination
of his most treasured beliefs and to examine, with as little bias as his
emotions would permit, those of these beliefs he seldom challenged. For
example, we are quick to proclaim a “miracle” when a baby survives
an airplane crash that saw the horrible deaths of hundreds of people¾If the one is a
“miracle,” then what label do we place on the hundreds who died?
Reality
is that our world is made up of billions of individuals with billions of interpretations
of thousands of contrasting opinions, all of these individuals praising
themselves for the richness of their reasoning and the paucity of everyone
else’s. Awareness of this should instill in each of us a sense of
tolerance, understanding and, most of all, humility in what we so fervently
profess to others.
“No two persons ever read the same
book.”
Edmund Wilson, critic
(1895-1972)
But this is not a book about
religion. It is about our country. It is about the
“monsters” facing us all and how much of this is of our own making.
The mention of religion is to reflect upon the similarity between religion and
political ideology, each placing belief above fact, each rarely able to
challenge deep-seated opinion, each loath to consider with any degree of
sincerity, ideas that conflict with its own.
Neither
is this book about one political group or another. No one party has a corner on
either ideas or mistakes. Being a Democrat, Republican, liberal or conservative
matters less than whether one understands and respects history, in this case
the ebb and flow of empires, their birth in passion, their ultimate death
through apathy and complacency. To the extent we educate ourselves to such
history, we might yet avert what is otherwise inevitable and enjoy a while
longer the blessings of liberty and prosperity that our founding fathers fought
so hard to obtain for themselves and their posterity. What we Americans do now
will be read by future historians with an eye toward understanding why the
great experiment that was the
“No nation in history has survived the
ravages of time.”
Colorado Governor Richard D.
Lamm
The
first chapter of this book will deal with the subject of religious incursion
into politics, and will thus appear to be picking on the religious right. The
chapter following that will address the energy crisis, which points fingers at
both left and right. Subsequent chapters will touch on educational standards
and personal responsibility and will appear in this to “attack” the
left. Such will be the trend throughout; i.e. the intention is not to take
sides but to point out the harm we citizens, left or right, inflict upon our
mutually-owned country.
Reality
in both religion and politics is that each too often accepts without thinking
the full litany of teachings put forth by those they allow to speak for them
(preachers and political leaders). Too often one believes because one is told
to believe, told that to accept membership in this or that faith (or political
party) requires complete devotion to all the rules and concepts specified
within that group’s “holy” book. The “novitiate”
is required to support and even argue these beliefs.
Such
“conviction” is less than commendable. True conviction is not about
deciding to believe; it is about evaluating each situation then coming to a
considered conclusion, even if that conclusion is not what one would prefer it
to be. Belief is not synonymous with truth. Belief can lead us in unproductive
directions bringing harm to others or to ourselves, either through commission
or omission.
“To doubt everything or to believe
everything are two equally convenient solutions; both dispense with the
necessity of reflection.”
Poincare
The
message in the above is that we aid our understanding when we reflect upon
every piece of information that penetrates our senses, recognizing as we do so
that no one alive or dead has ever had a lock on the truth. Where one says
black, another says white or gray, each influenced in his choice by environment
and personal bias. As said by Saint Thomas Aquinas, “The light of
religion makes us see what we believe.” This works equally well if we
substitute “politics” for “religion.” The undisciplined
political mind too easily sees what it wishes were true. Two news commentators,
one left-wing and one right-wing, will watch the same event yet
“see” different “truths” in what lies before them.
Particularly if they form their opinion without “the necessity of
reflection.”
“One who professes to know truth has an
obligation to fully and fairly consider opposing opinion. If he fails to do so,
if he fails to challenge himself with all the doubts and counter-arguments that
man can devise, then the beliefs he holds are less than commendable. They are
little more than recordings in a stagnant mind, to be replayed upon
Pavlov’s call.”
John Barr[2][2]
We
diminish ourselves when we believe or doubt everything in our party’s
“book of acceptable beliefs.” One should not have to first search
through a party line (or church doctrine) before making up one’s mind.
More commendable is to examine each item on its own merit (perhaps in the
privacy of one’s home where no one can witness this “heresy”),
using reason rather than bias and offering criticism or praise as each appears
to deserve it, then making a selection without regard to whether this conforms
to party litany. A conservative, for example, might find logic in legalizing
drugs (“take the profit out of crime”), while abhorring the thought
of abortion. A liberal might rebel against welfare while supporting civil
rights.
The
point is that it is less than intellectually honest to force-feed an opinion,
popular or unpopular, into one’s catalog of beliefs. When we assume an
end point, what we want to believe, then structure our arguments to support
that end point, we fool no one, not even ourselves. This is one of the pillars
of “denial.”
“Good ideas should take precedence over
rigid adherence to any particular political
ideology.”
Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg,
Right
or left, ideology today too often dispenses with the necessity of reflection,
even when there is strong indication that alternatives exist that will produce
more desirable results. It is like wearing blinkers while claiming to see the
world. Horses are calmed by such programmed ignorance, but should we follow the
teachings of a horse, console ourselves as the animal does through ignorance?
Our country is soon to be passed on to our children then a short time later to
our grandchildren, and the care we are taking of it today will not escape their
notice. Our conscience should be clear in what we bequeath to them. We should
feel comfortable in the knowledge that we reasoned well and did not force upon
them the burden of our prejudices, that we placed a greater emphasis on
pursuing truth than perpetuating belief and that we acted, not with passion,
but with reason.
“It is denial to a pathetic degree when
one fights so hard
to protect a single thought to the exclusion of
painful challenges to that thought.”
Howard Gardner, Frames Of Mind
STATUS OF THE AMERICAN EXPERIMENT
There
is little evidence at the moment that we are able to reason without rancor or
bias, that we can suspend valued beliefs even when, as in Iraq, we face a
situation that can do serious and probably long-term damage to our country.
There is also little evidence that we look beyond the near term, or that our
concern for the future of our children and grandchildren rises above platitudes
and slogans. This does not reflect upon the love we feel for them; rather it
testifies to how seriously we consider the necessity to pass on to them what
our parents passed on to us.
In
1787, Alexander Tyler, a history professor at the
“A democracy cannot
exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the voters
discover that they can vote themselves largesse from the public treasury. From
that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates promising the most
benefits from the public treasury with the result that a democracy always
collapses over loose fiscal policy, always followed by a dictatorship. The
average age of the world's greatest civilizations has been 200 years.
“Great nations rise and
fall. The people go from bondage to spiritual truth, from spiritual truth to
great courage, from courage to liberty, from liberty to abundance, from
abundance to selfishness, from selfishness to complacency, from complacency to
apathy, from apathy to dependence, from dependence back again to
bondage.”
We
invite the truth of the above in our apathy and complacency, in becoming too
set in our ways, too comfortable in the wisdom of our thoughts and too
reluctant to bridge interference with those thoughts. We are too quickly
persuaded by light and transient arguments that say it is reasonable to turn
off concern and turn on a sit-com. If an opinion is demanded of
us—selection of a candidate or referendum on a local, state or national
matter‑we seize on preconceived notions rather than reasoned examination
of the issue. The latter is simply too demanding.
Step
by tiny step, we are losing the
1
- FEDERAL BUDGETS are rocketing out
of sight, with ramifications to our economy that are absolutely frightening,
for us as well as for our posterity. How is our government able to pursue
policies that openly ignore this? Is it possible that the
“informed” electorate, from whom our government receives all power,
has its eye on the wrong ball? The phrase “weakening of the dollar”
may sound esoteric and command little of our thinking, but if this weakening
happens too quickly, as now appears likely, it will bring disruptions in jobs
and prices throughout
The
problem is that we are asking foreign countries to buy more and more dollars to
support our debt. Or restated, we are asking them to pick up the bill for the
spending excesses of Americans. Is it so surprising that they are, at long
last, beginning to say no?
HOW IMPORTANT IS THIS TO THE
ELECTORATE? In the last election the weakening of the U.S. dollar
ranked well below the issue of same-sex marriage.
2
- INTEREST RATES are poised to rise
significantly, not only to combat inflation as the Fed is determined to do, but
because of increased competition for dollars between business and a government
that needs more and more to cover its rapidly-increasing debt. Very few of us
escape the results of this increase. Prices rise, as does unemployment. Jobs,
those needed now and those needed as our children mature, are not created due
to the high cost of investment dollars.
HOW IMPORTANT IS THIS TO THE
ELECTORATE? In the last election, keeping “under God”
in the Pledge of Allegiance was deemed more important.
3
- We have a rapidly growing FUEL CRISIS
in this country, and in ignoring it we feed the very people who publicly vow to
destroy us. Yet we, the electorate, dare any politician to get in the way of
enjoying our gas-guzzling SUVs or suggest higher gas taxes to encourage
conservation. Clever politicians, wishing to remain in office, and correctly
measuring the mood of the people, smile obsequiously at our excesses rather
than employ the “bully pulpit” to gather us together in a
nation-saving cause.
HOW IMPORTANT IS THIS TO THE
ELECTORATE? In elections since the crisis began in 1973, flag
burning was more of an issue.
An
increasingly favorite tactic among politicians is to seize upon issues that
require little thought but generate great emotions. The above suggests the
electorate accepts the lighter and more transient issues as reason enough for
making a voting decision. Such issues are easier to understand; they are
promoted by important faces, those of movie stars and rock singers. And who can
vote down a person who so strongly defends mother, apple pie and baseball?
There
is a serious stew of problems brewing in our country, and the electorate
appears either not to notice, or, if a tug of recognition has begun to leak
through, not to consider it their problem. They say, “That's what we hire
politicians to do! If they don't perform, we'll throw the bums out and get
someone new, someone young and exciting, someone who will tell us what we want
to hear and trouble our collective conscience no more!”
Aware,
as a growing number of people are, that there is a crisis that could threaten
everything we have managed to secure for ourselves in the two-plus centuries of
Yet
it is both unfair and dishonest to blame the politicians. Politicians are
prostitutes, they give their “customers” what they want. Were we
“customers” to revise our preference, the prostitutes would assume
a new position. We have the choice, we vote them in, we decide what is
important, even if it is not. Therefore the fault for the mess we are in
“lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.”
Increasingly,
we minister this nation like a bad marriage, one in which the parties consider
themselves tied for life and no longer obligated to court one another. Such a
marriage has a better-than-even chance of failing, whether it is between a man
and a woman or between citizens and a country.
There
was a restaurant near the waterfront in
Even
before closing their doors in 2001, they had begun to hemorrhage badly.[4][4]
To
the extent we recognize no obligation to ‘court’ one another, to
become involved in maintaining this marriage of individuals we call a nation,
we might, like Bookbinders, ultimately find the blessings of what was once ours
to enjoy fade to a distant memory. As husband and wife should wake up each
morning reminded of the care needed to maintain their ever-shifting
relationship, so should we as a people daily consider ways of maintaining the
unique nature of American democracy. Not as it is today, and perhaps not as it
has ever been in its past, but along the lines of what was intended when this
magnificent invention eked out of the minds of our colonial forefathers.
That
is not to say revisiting the ideas of our forefathers is not a good thing.
Ideas fit the times, and the times change. We should never use as an excuse for
action (or inaction) that our forefathers did not intend this or that, or that
they would not approve. Whatever government we wish to construct for ourselves
should not be restricted to what our forefathers elected for themselves. We
should praise the wisdom they exhibited at a time when so much less was known
than is known today, but we need not surrender to them the right to extend
their choices beyond their life span. That was their time on earth; this is
ours.
Legitimate
change is not what we need to guard against. Legitimate change saw the exit of
slavery and the recognition of equality between the sexes. Legitimate change
put a limit on the power of individuals and institutions, giving birth to the
middle class whose spending power continues to drive our economy today (more on
this later). What we do need to guard against (beyond apathy and complacency),
is change based on ideology, change attempting to import credibility by
cloaking itself in patriotic words and religious doctrine, and exuding such
cleverness in how they do this that we gravitate toward acceptance of what is
often not in our best interests.
Our
founding fathers deliberately made change difficult, demanding of us that we
think hard about each revision and that we place compromise above decree. They
did not think it wise for a majority to “rule” a minority, and
indeed, since the early days of our country’s birth this has been a moral
imperative. The filibuster, the insistence that it takes more than a simple
majority to end a debate¾often
frustrating to both parties¾, permits
a say to the minority that would otherwise devolve to smoldering resentment (or
worse). And, since majority and minority are ever changing, it could also morph
into a “get even” philosophy when the inevitable happens and a
reversal of roles occurs.
Yet
even while wrapping themselves in the banner of patriotism and invoking our
founding fathers as gods to be honored and followed, the collection of power
for themselves is vigorously pursued by both far right and far left. The result
is a steady erosion of our founders’ collective wisdom. Those practicing
the extreme behavior they condemn in their opponents, never seem to notice how
closely they resemble those opponents. And the people fail to notice that
‘their’ government is less theirs to command.
It
is difficult to convince left and right ideologues that they are blinded by
their own delusions, that their ideology is too much in the forefront of their
argument, that it is poorly reasoned and overly consuming. Like many of
history’s destructive fanatics, they see only an opportunity to establish
once and for all the ‘inescapable truth’ that they see so clearly.
Order now at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, bordersbooks.com
Return to top of Home Page