

DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3)

By: Jeff Dejent

This novel published by an arrangement between:

Jeffrey Wayne Dejent

and

Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC

Copyright © 2013

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3) is a complete work of fiction. All the characters, with the exception of Edward Teller are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The names, incidents, remarks, and opinions expressed by the characters are out of the author's imagination. They must not be construed as real.

DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3) is a work of historically correct fiction. While the characters, scenes, and events in the storyline are entirely the product of the author's imagination, there are off stage references to real people and real events. The author begs forgiveness for this trespass. He reminds if it were not for literary license, there would be no literature.

Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners / holders of various products and services and intellectual properties referred to or mentioned directly in the text. The publication, the use, the mention, of these trademark items in this work is: (1) neither authorized (2) nor associated with (3) nor sponsored by the owners / holders of these trademarks.

Nothing in this book is an expression or representation of the views or policies of any agency within the United States Department of Defense. Nothing in this novel is an expression or representation of the views or policies of any government agency in the United States or any government agency of any nation in the world.

DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3) is for mature audiences, age 18 years and up. The narrative includes a number of detailed action adventure and hugging and kissing scenes.

Images-

Photographic images on the cover and in the body of the manuscript are for the sole purpose of illustration. They do not advertise. Each picture falls within the Public Domain category. Our graphic design artist removed military markings from pictures of military vehicles, aircraft, and uniforms with the use of the clone tool in GIMP. In the rare instance when a human face turns towards the camera, our graphic design artist completely obscured his identifying features. Icons are from the **Open Clip Art Library** , a public domain source for high quality images.

**Start Read Image** /commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:US_10th_Mountain_Division_soldiers_in_Afghanistan.jpg | Photographer Staff Sergeant Kyle Davis | 4 September 2003

According to the text found on the Wikipedia source page: _"Reproduced with the permission of the Air Force, Quote from af.mil: "Information presented on Airforce Link is considered public information and may be distributed or copied. Use of appropriate byline photo image credits is requested."... "This image or file is a work of a U.S. Air Force Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal government, the image or file is in the public domain."_

Printing History-

The novel: DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3) published by an arrangement between Jeffrey Wayne Dejent and Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC Copyright © (USA) 2013

ISBN: 978-1-940028-07-1

All rights reserved. This work is available in the electronic book reader format. As a 6 x 9 inch trade paperback, Desert Shield would be **239** pages long ( **74,949** words).

No part of DESERT SHIELD Action Packed Techno Thriller (1/3) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval technology, without written permission from Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC. Brief passages may, however, be cited for the purpose of critical review. No part of this work may be translated into any other language without written permission from Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC. No part of this work may be marketed in a foreign country without written permission from: Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC | Terre Haute Indiana 47802

All three volumes of the IRAQ WAR trilogy are available bound as a single 7.44 by 9.69 inch trade paperback ( **582** pages, **215,347** words | ISBN: 978-1-940028-00-2). To learn more about the First War in the Gulf (1990-1991) see:

EVERY MAN A TIGER: the Gulf War Air Campaign by Tom Clancy, and General Chuck Horner (1999, reprinted 2008, available on Kindle, **564** pages, as a 6 x 9 inch paperback)

The Pretenders / Chrissie Hynde One of the best places to hear Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders perform: 'Middle of the Road' is on their 'Live in London' DVD.

Dedication-

The author dedicates the IRAQ WAR trilogy to the memories of four men:

Edward Teller, 15 January 1908 – 9 September 2003

Memoirs: A Twentieth – Century Journey in Science and Politics (with Judith Shoolery)

Clarence 'Kelly' Johnson, 27 February 1910 – 21 December 1990

Awarded the Medal of Freedom on 14 September 1964 by Lyndon Baines Johnson and the National Security Medal on 6 October 1983 by Ronald Reagan

Reginald Victor Jones, 29 September 1911 – 12 December 1997

Most Secret War: British Scientific Intelligence 1939 – 1945 (American title: The Wizard War: British Scientific Intelligence 1939 – 1945)

Benjamin Robert Rich, 18 June 1925 – 5 January 1995

Rich, Ben, Janos, Lee (1996) Skunk Works, Little, Brown, and Company

The Warrior / Scientist-

"Marcellus is said to have derided his own engineers and artificers with the words, "Shall we not make an end of fighting against this geometrical Briareus who, sitting at ease by the sea, plays pitch and toss with our ships to our confusion, and by the multitude of missiles that he hurls at us outdoes the hundred handed giants of mythology; but the exhortation had no effect, the Romans being in such abject terror that "if they did but see a piece of rope or wood projecting above the wall, they would cry 'there it is again,' declaring that Archimedes was setting some engine in motion against them, and would turn their backs and run away, in so much that Marcellus desisted from all conflicts and assaults, putting all his hope in a long siege."

Heath, T L (1897) THE WORKS OF ARCHIMEDES, C. J. Clay and Sons, Cambridge University Press Warehouse, London, England (page: xvii)

The Central Intelligence Agency created the Reginald Victor Jones Intelligence Award in 1993 to recognize those whose contributions to military science were as significant as those of R. V. Jones. Professor Jones was the first recipient.

GULF WAR ONE |DESERT SHIELD | CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 STORM CLOUDS GATHERING

Scene 1 Runway Left? Runway Right?

Scene 2 Two Very Important People in an Air Force Ready Room

Scene 3 The V.I.P. Reception Party For Captain Lapeer

Scene 4 Roxanne Denise La Fontaine Has A Check To Cash

Scene 5 You Can Go Parochial, ... You Can Go Secular...

Scene 6 A Psychiatrist Wants To Make Assassins Out Of Action Officers

Scene 7 Will Naadi Baspinar, PhD, Ever Receive Tenure?

Scene 8 Stanley Craypool Has A Problem With A Nosy Neighbor

Scene 9 Captain Randy Lapeer First Lays Eyes on Lieutenant Roxanne La Fontaine

Scene 10 Roxanne Holds On To Her Canon Fire

Scene 11 Elmer Ain't Been Here are In A While

Scene 12 Inside the Elmer Craypool Residence On The Fourth Of July

Scene 13 Naadi Baspinar Reviews the Physical Evidence

CHAPTER 2 MAKE READY FOR ALL OUT WAR

Scene 14 Mission De-Brief, the 404th Combat Air Support A-10 Squadron

Scene 15 Sometimes a Little Girl Needs To Talk With Her Priest

Scene 16 Professor Lakhdar Al Khayyami Provides A Physics Lesson

Scene 17 We Don't Want To Be Called Baby Killers!

Scene 18 Rope and Boiling Water! I Will Have the Truth From Craypool!

Scene 19 Infinite Series and Base 10 and Base 60 Systems of Numeration

Scene 20 Morrie Tietelbaum Upstages Stanley at the Monthly GENSA Meeting

Scene 21 What to Do About Craypool? An Informal Breakfast Conference

Scene 22 Stanley Craypool Needs A Piece of 'Open Source' Computer Code

Scene 23 Major Benjamin Hazeva Has a Collection of Surveillance Photographs

CHAPTER 3 STANLEY'S FIRST INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT

Scene 24 Elmer Orders Laverne To Make A Phone Call

Scene 25 Doctor Coolidge Assembles His- 'Evidence'

Scene 26 "Drop The Slide Rule, Craypool!"

Scene 27 Iraqi Intelligence Operatives Pay A Visit To The Stanley Craypool Garage Loft Apartment

Scene 28 Memo For Record On The 'Known Facts' Of The Situation

Scene 29 Stanley Craypool Assembles a Covert Listening Post In Silver Springs, Maryland

Scene 30 See What You Can Do With A Media Player And A Sound Card!

Scene 31 There's Nothing In Your Obstetrical Record, Mrs. Norman

Scene 32 Billy Norman Has His Blood Drawn

CHAPTER 4 STANLEY DUELS WITH THE MUKHABARAT

Scene 33 "It's A Guy Thing, Stanley! Why Don't You Go By Yourself?"

Scene 34 The Iraqi Embassy People Take a Lunch

Scene 35 Stanley and Elizabeth Take Sam for a Walk Down Wisconsin Avenue

Scene 36 'Hassan' Has a Blade, Kamel Abu Kamal, Has a Pistol

Scene 37 Mystery And Romance In A Restaurant Dumpster

Scene 38 Where Are The Infidels?

Scene 39 Dumpster Diving Can The Rough And Tumble, It Can Be!

Scene 40 Roxanne la Fontaine and The Motor City Air Hammers Play A Gig

Scene 41 The Guys Pay A Visit To Stanley Craypool

Scene 42 Moses and Linda Anderson Say Good Bye

Scene 43 Maybe Billy Is Taking A Nap!

Scene 44 The Andrew George Howell Family Is Expecting

Scene 45 Estelle Wingate Promises To Look In On Karen and Linda

Scene 46 Joe And Robin On The Joys Of Family Planning

Scene 47 "Don't Forget Your Derringer, Bo!"

Scene 48 The Action Officers Get A Send Off From Edgar Coolidge, MD

CHAPTER 1 STORM CLOUDS GATHERING

A USAF U-2 Dragonlady Makes a Safe Landing

Quote from af.mil: "Information presented on Airforce Link is considered public information and may be distributed or copied. Use of appropriate byline photo image credits is requested." ... "Picture prepared for www.af.mil/photos by Staff Sergeant Matthew Hannen. ... This image or file is a work of a U.S. Air Force Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal government, the image or file is in the public domain."

Scene 1 Runway Left? Runway Right?

Location: Runway approach, Beale Air Force Base, California

Captain Randall Aaron Lapeer, USAF, brings the wheel of his _'Dragon Lady'_ to the right about fifteen degrees with the thickly gloved palm of his right hand. While he gingerly works the steel rudder pedals beneath his boots to roughly the same angle. For just a moment or two, he holds his breath. Below a certain threshold, air speed the U-2 has a tendency to ignore the attitude of the rudder, rendering precision maneuvers difficult- if not impossible. Thankfully, luck is with Randy this early morning hour in the bright blue skies above Chico, California.

Graceful and sure, the dull grey painted fuselage of the U-2, formally U-2 BB 78 223, obediently banks to the right and turns from a heading due east facing into the rising sun to a new heading south-south east, with the sun now glaring in through the tiny cockpit window at his left shoulder. Almost immediately above the city of Thermalito, Randy's ship bolts upwards a few feet as he hits a stray air pocket. The jolt is enough to remind him it is time to key his microphone.

"Beale Tower? U-2 78 223 on final for runway nine."

Despite the early morning hour, the air traffic controller comes back with alacrity. Randy hears a tense man's voice made grainy by his earphones say:

"Copy U-2 78 223. On final for runway nine."

Randy lets out a sigh of relief. He wonders if ARTCC, Air Route Traffic Control Center, at Hickam Air Force Base, Honolulu Hawaii, has relayed his heads up to Beale. Captain Randall Lapeer clears his throat and speaks into the microphone sewn in his spacesuit.

"Beale Tower? Copy message from Hickam re cockpit fire?"

Randy quite reasonably expects a brisk and professional reply, maybe even with a solicitous tone. The com coming back over the radio, however, is both slow to arrive and a bit distant.

"Roger U-2 78 223, landing runway right."

Lapeer bites down on his lower lip while he deliberates. In three plus years of reconnaissance flights over the Middle East, he had always touched down runway left. The blond haired Captain feels like muttering but he restrains himself.

"Runway right Beale tower?"

Asks the tired young man dressed in a bulky space suit and cramped helmet. The voice in the tower comes back a little too fast and formal to suit Randy Lapeer!

"Affirmative, U-2 78 223, runway right."

Randy checks his gauges to see if his rate of descent falls within the limits of the envelope. Satisfied he is on course he goes back on the microphone.

"Clarify please- Beale Tower? Crash truck? E. M. T?"

The response is a long time coming. While Lapeer waits patiently for clarification- the broad streets of Palermo roll underneath his fuselage. Somewhat tense he brings the nose of his plane up to induce a slight stall. The plane responds by dipping its right wing slightly. Now Lapeer knows there is too much fuel in the right wing tank. As quickly as he is able, he works several switches on the control panels before him causing an electric pump to transfer jet fuel from the right wing tank to the left.

The U 2, first flown by the United States Air Force during the cold war years- has at best a 1960's dashboard. Lapeer's control panel includes a fuel gauge, but the unit reports only the total amount of fuel remaining and not the distribution of the fuel amongst its several holding tanks. Thus, he is required to trim the plane with seat of the pants rather than space age technology.

After a bit, Lapeer turns off the electric fuel transfer pumps and gingerly induces a second stall. This time the plane's long wings hold level against the horizon. Lapeer lets out a little air from his lungs in relief and leans back in his seat. Soon however, the Air Traffic Controller in the Beale tower wipes the smile off Randy's face.

"That's a negative 223, V.I.P. reception and Squadron Commander."

Captain Randall Lapeer opens his mouth to speak but then wisely decides not to pursue the unusual command with a request for clarification. If it is going to be a write up, they were probably tape recording the conversation. An out of place remark at this juncture, could lead, as he well knew, to a judicial punishment.

Barely a hundred feet above the soil, Randy, leans forward in his seat. Straining for a glimpse of the rotating mars lights on the roof of the Camaro or Firebird that customarily chases him down the concrete as he brings his 'Dragon Lady' to rest in front of the squadron hanger. He works the wheel slightly to the right- soon rewarded with a distant glimpse of a set of flashing red roof lights out the tiny forward cockpit window. Gingerly he brings the wheel back to the neutral position and checks on his instruments.

Lapeer shrugs his shoulders, sighs, and softly says to himself "Home sweet home, runway left or runway right." Then he enunciates into his button microphone one more time, just as detached and professionally as he is able, _'for the record, so to speak'_.

"Copy Beale tower. Affirmative. U-2 78 223 landing runway right."

Scene 2 Two Very Important People in an Air Force Ready Room

Location: The Ready Room of U 2 Squadron Four, Ninth Reconnaissance Wing, Beale Air Force Base.

Common to most United States Air Force ready rooms the building space allocated to Squadron Four, holds chairs, couches, and a television set. A weight lifting bench with bar bells and dumb bells, and a billiard table in the center of the main room. Moreover, there is an open bookshelf loaded with hard copy editions of well-thumbed action adventure novels written by the likes of: Tom Clancy, Dale Brown, and W. E. B. Griffin. Yet past the Spartan accommodations usual for fighter pilots, the Squadron Four, building includes a more private room set aside for V.I.P.'s.

It was in the nature of things. Reconnaissance flights out of Beale often begin with an impromptu phone call from the White House. The kind of information collected following the call so important, so time sensitive, as to warrant a reception from a member of the president's cabinet or senate intelligence committee. Just as soon as the pilot lands his plane and shuts down his engines. Thus, there has to be a quiet and private space for one or more dignitaries, in the ready room building, whether or no the Wing Commander actually wants a gaggle of annoying civilians underfoot.

For political reasons, the Air Force furnished the V. I. P. room like the parlor of an exclusive men's club in Washington, D.C. Overstuffed chairs, bookshelves with glass front doors, floor lamps with conical shades, magazine racks filled and overflowing, and of course, wall to wall carpeting.

"Will there be anything else, Gentlemen?"

The server stands inside the parlor, just past the doorway, with the drink tray held flat against her right thigh, having just placed two vodka tonics on the end table separating the pair of overstuffed chairs seating Professor Benjamin Poore and Clifford Peter Strawbottom. Professor Poore ignores both the drink and the server- he holds a copy of the Wall Street Journal up in the air, struggling to read the fine print with bifocals no longer strong enough to meet his needs for near focus accommodation.

Just to the extent, Physics Professor Poore appears aloof and business like, Clifford Peter Strawbottom, Chief of Human Resources at the Grand Corporation in Washington, seems relaxed and in his element. At the sight of the tall glass filled with ice cubes, vodka, tonic, and a slice of lemon his face breaks out into a wide smile. Gently, he lets the leather bound copy of Rudyard Kipling's poems and short stories down to his lap and reaches eagerly for the drink with his right hand.

Strawbottom takes a long satisfying sip from the glass. Then he remembers his lofty position in life as Poore's confidant and sometime advisor to the President. With a hasty motion, he lowers the drink to the end table, next reaches into the wallet pocket inside his plaid sport coat where he always maintains a supply of dollar bills for serving people.

Extending his hand out to arm's length Strawbottom rubs two folded dollar bills against one another while he smiles and says.

"Here young lady, here..."

In spite of the ingratiating smile spread across Mister Strawbottom's face, the server feels intimidated in his presence. She moves across the carpet with small tentative steps, forcing Strawbottom to lean way forward in his chair to place the folded bills in her outstretched hand.

"Thank you sir."

Replies the server mumbling in a small far away voice to the seated gentleman, with her eyes held off to the side.

After she anxiously slides the money into the front waist pocket of her lace fringed, apron. The young lady turns and begins to rush out of the room, but finds her egress blocked by two tall uniformed gentlemen standing just inside the doorway. She halts and then anxiously glances back over her shoulder at Mister Strawbottom and Professor Poore.

Both men in the doorway are clad in dress blues, set off by formal saucer caps on their heads. The man in the front, a full colonel wears silver eagles on his shoulder epaulets, the man in the back, a major; displays gold leaves on his epaulets.

"He's touching down right now, Professor Poore."

Says the full colonel in a soft and respectful voice to the man seated behind the day's fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal.

The room goes dead silent while Benjamin Poore, PhD. Chairman of the Physics Department at University of Maryland, College Park, slowly lowers the newspaper down to his lap. Next, he blinks repeatedly while his aged eyes slowly become accustomed to seeing objects at a distance across the room.

"Let's get it done."

Says professor Poore; to the room at large while he rises slowly to his feet.

Responding to the tension in the air of the room the server scurries out of the parlor. Moving so quickly, she nearly brushes up against the two tall men dressed in blue- standing at attention in the presence of Professor Benjamin Poore. The young Hispanic lady disappears in a heartbeat. A moment later, Poore leads the way out of the parlor, with the Colonel standing in solicitude at his side.

Just to the right of the light switch in the parlor hangs a photograph of Clarence 'Kelly' Johnson, Aeronautical Engineer and primary designer of the U-2 airship. Ben Rich's favorite picture, the one with Kelly's head and shoulders off to the left hand side and profiles of the U-2 and the SR 71 'Blackbird' above white puffy clouds to the right.

Between the window and door to the building outside the men stride in silence past a plywood medallion emblazoned with the coat of arms for the Ninth Reconnaissance Squadron and the motto: _"In God We Trust, all others we monitor."_

Scene 3 The V.I.P. Reception Party For Captain Lapeer

Location: Beale Air Force Base runway

Captain Randall Aaron Lapeer cuts the whining jet engines of his 'Dragon Lady' and peers anxiously out the tiny windows of his cockpit. The signs are all bad. First off, his buddies in the chase car drive off towards the Squadron Four Headquarters building without so much as a wave or thumbs up; as soon as they hear, his engines start to wind down.

Next, he notices that while the enlisted men roll the platform stepladder towards his cockpit with their usual speed and efficiency, they look grim rather than cheerful. Last Lapeer catches site of a brand new four door, Chevrolet, and a stretch Cadillac limousine with smoke black glass windows all around. The Chevrolet, he knows, belongs to the unit intelligence officer, the stretch Cadillac, he kens, is a worrisome unknown.

Through his tiny cockpit window, Randy sees four men dismount from their chauffeured automobiles and stand stiff in pairs in front of the two cars. His Squadron Commander, Colonel La Roche, his Squadron intelligence officer, Major Perkola, and two aged gentlemen. These men in bow ties, eyeglasses, and with grim looks on their faces, dressed in plaid sport coats set off with leather elbow patches.

"Uh Oh! Mister professor Poore here for a visit! Think tank nerd with the bloody hatchet!"

Randy mutters while reflexively hunching down in his cockpit seat.

Nothing adds up. Why would a colonel and a major tremble in the presence of two middle aged egg heads? Then, while Randy sits there shaking his head, the enlisted men climb the steps of the platform ladder and tap on the cockpit to remind their pilot it is time to release the latches.

Captain Lapeer reaches for the cockpit restraining latches and levers them into the open position. Soon warm April air and early morning sunshine flood the tiny cockpit that had been home for the last eight hours or so. He holds still while a solicitous enlisted man leans into his space to help him remove his helmet. With the helmet off and in his grasp, the enlisted man whispers:

"Reception party for you, Captain Lapeer."

As soon as he finishes speaking the white in the face green fatigue suited airman, bolts backwards down the metal stairs of the platform ladder in a rattle of combat boots on aluminum tubing. All alone and isolated, Randy Lapeer sits bolt upright with his head turned to the right. His cockpit seat is some sixteen feet above the tarmac so it is a few seconds until the head of an older, scholarly appearing gentleman begins to hove into view. Huffing and puffing and with both hands on the railing, Professor Benjamin Poore climbs the ladder up to the open cockpit.

Soon the man in the eyeglasses, bow tie, and plaid sport coat stands directly above him and looking down into the cockpit. The Squadron Commander standing next to the civilian dignitary but a respectful pace or two to the rear. The angry look in Professor Poore's eyes tells Lapeer the whole story.

Lapeer raises his arms up in the air, still encumbered by the spacesuit and begins to plead.

"The whole cockpit lit up! The deck turned white hot!"

With resolute motions, Benjamin Poore puts his clenched fists into the hollows above his hips and sneers. In Poore's mind, Lapeer's remark is as good as a signed confession. He glares down into Lapeer's wide frightened eyes and exclaims.

"YOU WERE UNDER DIRECT ORDERS NOT TO TOUCH THAT SWITCH LAPEER!"

Lapeer lets some of the air out of his lungs and bites his lower lip. He tries again.

"Saddam Hussein has to have beam weapons on the ground! There were sparks and flames all over the panel, Professor Poore, Sir."

As Randy explains, he waves his right hand towards the instruments on the panels to his front and sides. Professor Poore is not the least bit impressed. He barks in reply.

"R. V. Jones couldn't invent a beam weapon! Edward Teller couldn't invent a beam weapon! I couldn't invent a beam weapon!"

Lapeer groans softly and opens his mouth to speak. Then he catches sight of the cold anger in the eyes of Colonel La Roche. For a moment, he sits there, looking collapsed inside of his bulky spacesuit. A weary and anxious rabbit corned by two accomplished voracious hounds. Professor Poore breaks the heavy silence.

"It won't ever be reconnaissance, young man! You're through! Washed up!"

Benjamin Poore does not linger even for a moment for a reply. With the Colonel flinching backward reflexively, Poore wheels angrily on his heels and stomps down the steps of the steel ladder towards the waiting limousine. Randy watches the elderly professor make his exit as an enlisted man closes the rear door of the stretch limousine behind him and the stately vehicle then rolls slowly away.

With the Cadillac out of earshot, Randy glances up directly into the eyes of Colonel La Roche. In a voice filled with resignation, he asks.

"Is this a write up, Colonel La Roche Sir?"

The Colonel shakes his head back and forth and then replies.

"They need an A-10 Pilot in Kokomo."

Lapeer's mouth wrinkles up in self-pity. He perceives dive-bombers a step backwards in his long career. Now he begins to plead.

"Does it have to be dive bombers?"

The Colonel hunkers down on his right knee to reply. Then he glances up to be certain the professor is out of earshot. Nearly face to face with the younger man seated in the cockpit, he explains.

"You almost lost your United States Citizenship, Captain Lapeer."

Scene 4 Roxanne Denise la Fontaine Has A Check To Cash

Location: Foyer of the La Fontaine Family Restaurant in Detroit, Michigan.

Though a beautiful brunette, in her own right, twenty-six years old, shapely, and with dark brown eyes, Roxanne Denise la Fontaine still has a heroine, the lead singer of the Pretenders- Chrissie Hynde. Even with a bachelors' degree in American history and a teachers' certificate, Roxanne lives, breathes, and loves rock and roll music. She openly scorns the staid predictable life of a high school teacher, setting it aside for the roller coaster experience of fronting her own band- ROXY FONTAINE and the MOTOR CITY AIR HAMMERS.

This particular Thursday, in the month of June 1990, counts as nothing more than a hectic moment in the life of our young songstress. She has a check to cash. While standing on the concrete landing at the front door of her parents' restaurant, _Casa de La Fontaine._ Roxanne finds herself waving her right hand at Lenny Pingatore, her full time steady and drummer for the band.

"Drive around the block!"

Exclaims Roxanne to the skinny young man in the tee shirt seated behind the wheel of his 1970's vintage two door Chevrolet.

Lenny sneers at his girlfriend in his best imitation of James Dean. Then he works the eight ball on the end of the transmission shift lever from park to drive. With his right foot on the brake and his left wrist dangling over the top of the steering wheel, he grimaces at Roxanne and shouts a reply.

"Hurry it up already!"

With that, Lenny rams his foot down on the accelerator and speeds off headed east down Six Mile Road towards Evergreen. His rear tires squealing in response to the masses of torque fed to the rear wheels by his V 8 engine. Roxanne frowns at the noise, but it is too late to scold Lenny, he is already half way up the block.

With an air of determination about her, she wheels on the spike heels of her cowboy boots and passes through the immaculate bevel glass front door of her parents' Italian restaurant. In spite of the fact, Roxanne shuts the door behind her slowly and with respect. The 'CLOSED' sign rocks back and forth in the window with abandon. Once inside it is a moment or two until her eyes adjust to the intimate darkness of her parent's restaurant.

Once her eyes accommodate she sees her father, Emil La Fontaine standing behind the cashier's counter. Thumbing his careful way through banded stacks of single dollar bills, with a collection of fives, tens, and twenties, protruding from the lockable bank bag perched at his right hand.

At Roxanne's left, there is a collection of two dozen round tables, each covered with an immaculate white tablecloth. The tables spaced from the edge of the linoleum of the foyer to the kitchen door at the back of the room. A swift motion catches her eye and Roxanne smiles at the sight of her plump mother, Mildred, 'Millie' to her friends and husband. Walking towards her and her father, a thick sheaf of menus grasped in her right hand.

Mrs. Fontaine frowns instinctively as she spies her shapely daughter, her young silhouette outlined provocatively in the light passing through the glass of the front door. She takes a few paces more towards Roxanne and comes to a halt, bringing the menus to the front of her body as if they were a shield.

"Well, well. Are we dressed to teach American History to high school students?"

Roxanne blushes deeply. This warm April night she wears tight fitting red leather pants, a sheer red silk blouse with a deep cleavage that does more to reveal than conceal, and black cowboy boots with spike heels and sliver chains around both ankles. Roxanne takes in a deep breath and replies.

"We're, playing tonight Ma. I got a gig."

Mrs. La Fontaine not dissuaded by her daughter's reply. She moves a few steps closer to Roxanne. Facing her daughter square on the linoleum now, she continues her harangue.

"What did your tuition cost this family?"

Roxanne holds tightly to the strap of her black shoulder bag as if it were the rope on a ring life preserver. She loves her mom and dad without qualification, but rock and roll music is nothing less than life itself.

"Ma. I'm wearing a costume.... Lenny found out the Sex Weapon's manager is gonna be at the club tonight. We might get to open for them. Maybe get a record contract."

While Mildred La Fontaine glares up into the beautiful eyes of her daughter, Emil La Fontaine lets out a gasp of air in disgust. With a wad of bills held tight in his hand, he angrily asks from behind the counter.

"Sex Weapon?... What on earth is a Sex Weapon?"

Roxanne La Fontaine shakes her head in amazement. The she explains.

"The Sex Weapon's _are_ punk rock, Papa. The whole thing."

Emil La Fontaine breaks a paper roll of quarters on the edge of the open drawer of his shiny chrome cash register while he struggles to retain his composure. After the quarters spill out noisily into their appointed recess, he angrily crumples the paper in his right fist and lets out with a harrumph.

"Could it be Johnny Mathis?... Does it have to be a Sex Weapon?"

Roxanne steps backward while glancing warily back and forth between her parents, Mildred at the left and Emil at right. Her mouth goes dry and her heart begins to pound at the sight of her mother inching closer toward her over the linoleum. She licks her lips and then begins to explain and plead.

"The whole band is forty years old, Ma, maybe older."

It was just the right remark. Mildred lowers her scolding index finger to her side and stands there with mouth agape. Roxanne realizes it is time to change the subject. She reaches quickly into her shoulder bag to retrieve a paycheck. Then, without turning her back completely on her mother, she places the signed check on the rubber mat just in front of her father's thick hairy fingers.

"I need the whole thing Papa. Gotta drive to Kokomo on Friday."

Roxanne's father picks the check up in both hands and stares at it as if he did not recognize the watermark seal of the United States Air Force. He glances down at the dollar amount printed on the check. And then narrowly up into his eldest daughter's beautiful but perplexed eyes. Last, he lets out another gasp of air in frustration.

"Singing in taverns one weekend. Flying airplanes the next. What did I do to deserve this?"

Roxanne sighs as her shoulders slump in resignation.

"C'mon Papa, its' only two hundred dollars."

Emil glares stonily above his bifocals into his daughter's face. Her beauty has him weakening. You could see there is a bond of love between father and daughter that would never come apart. It was then that Mildred moves in for another round of scolding. She hates the thought of her eldest girl flying airplanes nearly as much as she hates her singing in a rock and roll band, Lenny or no Lenny, Sex Weapons or no Sex Weapons.

In a shrill voice, Mildred exclaims.

"Is your sister learning to play the harp? Does she live at home for free?"

Roxanne has enough intuition to realize the anguished scene has a root cause in love and affection. While her father counts out two hundred dollars and some odd change in twenties, she turns to face her mother, her mind racing feverishly for a conciliatory remark. It is then that the blaring noise from the horn on Lenny's Chevrolet begins to reverberate through the glass doors and windows of the restaurant.

Driven by the urgency of Lenny's strident horn play, Roxanne wheels about on her spike heels and rushes to the glass topped counter. Next, she sweeps the paper money up into her right hand, and twirls to her left to make her exit.

Just as the young lady, leans forward in preparation for a dash out the door her father turns and angrily taps on the glass window behind the counter to get Lenny's attention. Lenny catches Emil's hand motion out of the corner of his eye. Seeing the censorious look on Emil's face the young man in the t-shirt takes his hand off the horn ring with alacrity.

Emil La Fontaine shakes his head and sighs. Under his breath, he mutters:

"Kids today."

Then he turns towards his two favorite ladies and in a soft voice says.

"Give your mother a hug, Roxanne.... And don't fly too fast this weekend!"

Roxanne steps towards her mother, puts her left arm around the older woman's shoulder and then leans down to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Just as quick, she stands erect and begins the dash out the front door. Over her shoulder, she apologizes to her mom and dad.

"Lenny is double parked. I gotta get going!"

Once outside the restaurant Roxanne quickly closes the door against the late April afternoon heat, her spike heels making staccato clicking sounds against the sidewalk. As soon as she slams the rusting door to the double-parked car Lenny speeds away headed east down Six Mile Road. Emil and Mildred stand there in silence in the restaurant, watching the car disappear in the heavy traffic. For a long moment, the sign in the window rocks back and forth in response to their eldest daughter's hasty exit.

Scene 5 You Can Go Parochial, Colonel,... You can Go Secular....

Location: Judge Advocate General's Office, Quantico Marine Corps Base, Quantico, Virginia

It is nearly noontime. Donald Cornell, JD, Attorney for the Judge Advocate General's Office, Quantico Marine Corps Base, wants desperately to go to lunch. Teen-age drug dealing, to his way of thinking, is the least interesting problem facing the military legal community. Cornell has wide-ranging dreams and ambitions. He wants desperately to argue cases on international issues in international courtrooms. Disgruntled Lieutenant Colonels with their officers' wives club wives and troubled children in tow leave Cornell feeling impatient, worse, unfulfilled.

"Are there any more question?" asks Mister Cornell, of his audience of three, the lieutenant colonel, his wife, and their errant son.

"How can they kick me off base?" queries the Lieutenant Colonel with a scowl.

"Isn't that invading my privacy, or something like discrimination?"

Attorney Cornell lets the air out of his lungs. While trying his level best to hide his true feelings of irritation, he politely explains.

"A base commander can have any policy whatsoever. As long as the enforcement is even handed,... as long as it fits within the precepts of the so-called Uniform Code Of Military Justice,... its legal."

"But the kid here is the drug dealer!" insists Lieutenant Colonel William 'Wild Bill' Norman, while jabbing his right index finger in the direction of the teen aged boy in the seat at his left hand side.

Colonel Norman's son, William 'Billy' Norman Junior, begins to bounce up and down in his seat in response to his father's scorn filled remark. Although The Colonel is easily a head taller than Billy, and outweighs the high school student by forty odd pounds, young Billy jerks his head to the right to confront his father. He starts to scream.

"I WASN'T DEALING DRUGS!... THE GANGS MADE ME HOLD THE DRUGS FOR THEM!"

The room holds silent as everyone turns their heads to stare at the red-faced young man. After a pause, Mrs. Janet Norman, seated to the left of her son, flatly remarks.

"All the schools have gangs, Mister Cornell. Why don't _they_ do something about it?"

Mister Cornell lets the air out of his lungs for yet another time. He makes a steeple out of his fingers with both elbows perched on the desk. Attorney at Law Cornell taps the steeple against his pursed lips for a few long moments, while he deliberates on a response.

"Mrs. Norman.... It's natural for you to feel singled out. But _today_ you have to decide whether or not you want to go through a program..... No program- and its out of the Marine Corps for the Norman family. Period. End of story."

Mister Cornell's words go directly to the heart of the matter- not surprising they wound Colonel Norman to the quick. Lieutenant Colonel William Norman gets so stiff in the saddle and so red in the face at the mention of a threat to his career. Everyone else in the room, his wife Janet, his son Billy, even the Attorney, let out with an involuntary flinch.

"Do You Know What I'm Gonna Look Like If My Unit Goes To Kuwait And I Don't Go?"

growls, the Lieutenant Colonel with fists balled up on the tops of his knees.

Suddenly, it dawns on Mister Cornell that Colonel Norman wore his chocolate chip fatigues to this meeting in a desperate gesture. Bill Norman, Cornell realizes, is struggling against an avalanche of hostile rumors and loose talk to prove he is fit and ready for combat. As everyone on active duty is well aware, by the spring of 1990, there is a war looming in the middle-east.

At any moment and without warning, Iraq's Dictator, Saddam Hussein, might order his tanks to storm the border and occupy Kuwait. Would the Marine Corps Judge Advocate General's Office pull Bill Norman out of his unit, simply because of an indiscretion committed by his son?

Donald Cornell drops his hands to the top of his desk, where they lay flat and even.

"Colonel Norman. Billy has the problem, not you. A family counseling situation won't take you off the ready list."

Bill Norman bites his lower lip while the words sink in. His balled fists open back up into hands and his shoulders relax. Lieutenant Colonel Norman sneers at Billy and then growls.

"When do we get started, Mister Cornell?"

Mister Donald Cornell, JD, rises to his feet with a smile spread across his face. He walks half the distance from his executive swivel chair to the door to his outer office. Then he wheels about and says briskly.

"I have somebody I want the Norman family to meet."

As Janet, Billy, and Colonel William Norman rise out of their seats, Mister Cornell walks the rest of the distance to his door and swings it open. Then he steps outside with the Norman family following meekly in tow.

The attorney's outer office is furnished with chairs, chrome and glass end tables topped off with modern lamps, magazines, and a coffee machine filling the room with the smell of stale morning coffee. Yet, despite, the perfectly typical trappings of a law practice, the Norman family comes upon something, or rather someone, completely unexpected.

As Cornell and his entourage assemble in the reception area, they see a man in his forties seated in a chair facing the door to Mister Cornell's private office. For the most part, the man seemed perfectly appropriate for a military base. He is tall- heavily muscled- and dressed in Marine Corps tans. Moreover, he sports the gold bars of a second Lieutenant on his sturdy shoulders.

Yet, as the guest drops the magazine, he had been reading to the cocktail table at his knees and rises to his feet. The Norman family goes open-mouthed. For it is then, the Norman's, Bill, Janet, and Billy, notices the man wears a clerical collar around his muscular neck.

Donald Cornell, JD moves to a point where he can introduce the Norman family to the now standing Lieutenant.

"Colonel William Norman. Mrs. William Norman, Janet. Billy Norman....

I'd like you to meet Father Arnold. Weekdays Father Arnold's a Priest at Saint Didacus in Aspen Hill. Weekends he's in the Marine Corps Reserves."

Father Arnold strides round the cocktail table as if it were a referee standing in the middle of a wrestling ring. Soon he thrusts a friendly hand out in the direction of Lieutenant Colonel William Norman. The Colonel's face goes beet red. Though he grudgingly shakes hands with the stranger, he feels awkward in the presence of a clergyman.

Mrs. Norman, Janet, glances back and forth between her husband, the Priest, and the Attorney. While her husband reluctantly shakes hands with the Priest, she turns to the Lawyer and explains.

"We never go to church, Mister Cornell, my husband doesn't believe in it."

The Attorney shakes his head and continues to beam at his clients. He still imagines he is doing the Norman's a favor. Donald Cornell' eyes sparkle while he says.

"It's a new program, Mrs. Norman. You can choose between the Clergy or Psychiatry for your counseling."

As the Attorney's words sink in, Lieutenant Colonel Norman drops Father Arnold's hand and goes stiff.

"If I want to worship God, I go out in the woods somewhere. There's no God in a church. Just a bunch of Hypocrites." says the Colonel in a gruff voice.

"I got a Master's Degree in Counseling and Guidance before I took orders, Colonel Norman. Mrs. Norman." counters the burly Priest.

Glancing about, Attorney Cornell notices looks of amazement on the faces of the Norman family- so he opts to speak in clarification for a second time. While waving his hands at his sides in light little semi-circular motions, he speaks to his reluctant clients in a sympathetic tone.

"You can go Parochial. You can go Secular. If you keep it in the church, you get more privacy. Sanctity of the confessional,... things like that."

Colonel Norman puts a hand on the shoulders of his wife and his son and pulls them close to his side, away from the Priest and the Attorney.

"The drug testing is bad enough. I don't want _God_ nosing in on my problems."

With that, the good Colonel begins to shepard his wife and errant son towards the door. Both the Priest and the Attorney for the Judge Advocate General's Office look crestfallen. Father Arnold leans down and picks his well-worn Bible up off the cocktail table. Then he turns to face Colonel Norman's retreating backside. As the Colonel opens the door and makes ready to exit his family, the Priest gets off with a parting shot.

"Saint Didacus is in Aspen Hill, Colonel Norman, Sir. Just come to the Sunday services, that's all you have to do."

Bill Norman is not the least bit persuaded. As he closes the door on the Priest and the Attorney, he barks.

"I'm running my family, not the JAG!"With the door slammed shut the Attorney and the Priest exchange glances. Father Arnold grimaces and then breaks the heavy silence.

"The MMPI is a Ouija board.... Why do they want a Ouija board?...

When they can have this!"

Arnold lightly waves the bible in his hand and adds.

"This book has two thousand years behind it."

Mister Cornell nods his head in agreement. Then he says tentatively to the Priest.

"Do you have time for lunch, Father Arnold?"

Scene 6 A Psychiatrist Wants To Make Assassins Out Of Action Officers

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley, Virginia. June 17th 1990.

Although Saddam Hussein and his minions had been rattling the saber for weeks, the reason for this particular conference had to do with two peripheral issues and not directly with the threat of a bloody war in the sands of the Middle East.

The first agenda item, a recent National Security Agency appointment to the Central Intelligence Agency, Miss Elizabeth Maxwell, PhD. Miss Maxwell was, from the time of this conference, on call to the Action Officers Unit out of the NSA, for issues such as translating the myriad of Arabic dialects into English. Moreover, she has just the right background to provide advice on Muslim customs and the Arabic political scene, especially the Iraq Kuwait axis. Consequently, she is highly regarded in the Washington intelligence community at large.

The second agenda item, Major Benjamin Hazeva, a young man on Active Duty in the Israeli Army and simultaneously a reservist in the Israeli intelligence agency, the Mossad. More properly the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks, in Hebrew: ha-Mossad le-Modiin ule-Tafkidim Meyuhadim. Benny Hazeva was at the conference to demonstrate a new technology to the Central Intelligence Agency. A network of surveillance cameras strategically planted throughout the Middle East and Europe. A myriad of hidden eyes controlled off a web site, in Tel Aviv.

For all its promise, however, the conference was fraught with difficulties for one of the attendees. As it happens, Andy Howell, Major, Action Officer in the Central Intelligence Agency, has to contend with the presence of his two archenemies at this roundtable, in addition to the storm clouds gathering in the Middle East.

First, Ronald Bruce Haynes, J.D., Attorney for the Chief Counsel, Central Intelligence Agency, and second, Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman, U.S.M.C. Colonel "Bo" Morgan's executive officer in the Readiness Detachment out of the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia. In Andy's opinion, these two men are among the darkest of dark hats in the Washington DC Intelligence community.

In spite of the burrs under his saddle, Andy's mood is a little lighter than usual. Factoring in the presence of his beautiful wife, Karen Chesley Howell in the seat next to him, against the presence of the dark bureaucrats on the other side of the table, Andrew George Howell felt that, in the least, he could cope.

At the head of the table furthest from the doors and nearest the windows, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, Commander of the Action Officers Unit, clears his throat and then rattles the papers in his grasp. It is a stage gesture meant to capture the attention of all those in the room. Both the men and women seated at the long conference table and the three milling about at his right hand.

The three standing people, Benjamin Hazeva, Stanley Craypool, and Elizabeth Maxwell, are hovering over a set of surveillance camera equipment perched atop the rubber-padded surface of an aluminum cart. These three watching in complete fascination as a surveillance scene in a restaurant on the black and white computer monitor evolves in front of their very eyes.

"Nine A.M., ladies and gentlemen, we've a good deal of ground to cover."

Colonel Wingate speaks in a baritone just as rich as that of the late Paul Robeson.

"First off- introductions. Miss Maxwell, her first visit from the National Security Agency, and Major Benjamin Hazeva, Major in the Israeli Mossad.... Miss Maxwell."

As the colonel's remark reverberates through the spacious room, Benjamin, Stanley, and Elizabeth break away reluctantly from the computer demonstration. Very quickly, they move and turn to face the seated audience.

Elizabeth Maxwell is a rarity in the female species. One of those beautiful and intelligent women so wrapped up in the intellectual side of life as to pay little attention to the style dictates of the moment. Though dressed attractively in tan pumps with tan hose and a light brown double-breasted sport coat and matching skirt. She habitually ties her beautiful long blond hair up in a bun. Worse, she wears eyeglasses....

Not just, wire rimmed or black plastic framed eyeglasses as one might expect for a linguist with a PhD. No. Elizabeth Maxwell's eyeglasses have white plastic frames with rhinestones embedded at the edges. It is a fad making its way through the female members of the GENSA organization of the greater Washington D.C. community. More properly: _Genius's Engaged in New Scientific Achievements_. That collection of millionaire inventors and eccentric misfits who gather the second Friday of each month to share insights, gossip, play foosball, and chess, and listen to Mozart and Steely Dan.

It was at the April meeting of GENSA where Elizabeth first met Stanley Craypool. Not surprising- it was love at first sight. Elizabeth with her hair up in a bun- lightly made up eyes blinking behind thick glasses with white frames. Stanley with a white plastic pen-holder in his shirt pocket, slide rule in hand, white socks, and brush leather shoes with laces.

Elizabeth knows how important Colonel Wingate is in the Central Intelligence Agency. Accordingly, she quickly takes her eyes off the fascinating scene on the surveillance camera monitor. Two men seated at a table in a fashionable restaurant. And swiftly turns to face the audience. First, she blushes; then, she cocks her head slightly to her right for a look of encouragement from Stanley. Stanley nods eagerly at his girlfriend as if on cue. Finally, she begins to speak in a professional yet still female voice.

"Well. .. I'm in the Foreign Language Division at the National Security Agency. My father taught Physics at the American University in Beirut, Lebanon. So- I guess you could say I grew up in the middle-east. .. Whatever problems you have with translations... Lieutenant Colonel Anderson has my office phone number and my pager number."

Moses Anderson; seated at Colonel Wingate's left hand, nods and smiles. He opens his mouth to welcome Elizabeth to the team. Just then, Colonel Bo Morgan interjects from the opposite side and the far end of the long conference table.

"You're _gonna_ be busy young lady, soon as Hussein's troopers cross the line."

Ronald Bruce Haynes, J.D., sits bolt upright and vigilant at the Colonel's brusque remark. As might be expected for an attorney, he is more conscious than most of the legal implications of any off the cuff remarks made at a conference held at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. Strictly speaking, President Bush and Premier Hussein are on friendly terms, at least for the moment. Thus, to his mind, while it is proper to speak of such things as defense preparedness, it is highly improper to _'name names'_.

With an anxious glance at the slowly spinning wheels of the tape recorder perched on the center of the table Haynes leans forward, and begins to admonish the grizzled man dressed in Marine Corps tan seated across from him.

"There's no evidence of a troop concentration at the border, Colonel Morgan."

Now it is Colonel Morgan's turn to get stiff. He lowers his chin, balls his hands into fists. And, while Haynes taps his pen on the table in angry disapproval of his blunt demeanor, Morgan barks in reply.

"Hussein's got to take all the oil in middle-east, Haynes. Kuwait. Iran.... He's never gonna settle for just the wells at Rumalia. It's his God Damn destiny! Is what it is!"

Colonel Wingate follows the hostile across the table banter between the ever-cautious attorney and the blustery Marine Corps officer, with his large head moving from side to side. As soon as he sees both men sink, back in their seats he hastily changes the subject.

"Next. Major Benjamin Hazeva of the Israeli Mossad. .. Research division- isn't it? Major Hazeva."

Major Benjamin Hazeva brightens noticeably at the mention of his name. A husky gentleman of average height, wearing a grey suit with white shirt and yellow foulard tie, he comes to attention and then begins to speak in a forceful yet pleasant voice.

"We have surveillance cameras at nearly two hundred locations. .. Restaurants, libraries, .. here and there an embassy office or private home."

Hazeva's head cocks back-and forth as he makes eye contact with all the people in the room. He takes a step towards the metal table on caster wheels at his left side. Using both hands he gently twists the computer monitor around. That those seated at the table can follow the surveillance scene on the screen. Next, he places his right hand lightly on a small metal ball protruding upward from a device bearing a vague resemblance to a computer key board. Glancing up he explains.

"With the joystick I can move the camera left and right, up and down, in and out with the zoom control."

Hazeva is obviously quite proud of his new technology. As the men and women in the room watch in rapt attention, he moves the focal point of the camera away from two men seated at a circular table near a large plate glass window and points it towards a glass entrance door filled with sunlight. With jerky and hesitant motions, a male figure soon passes from the out of doors- and then into the restaurant.

"Automatic backlight compensation." crows the major to the audience at large.

"What?" asks Karen Chesley Howell, seated next to her husband; Andy. Andy chimes in before Major Hazeva can reply.

"Without backlight compensation the figure would go black in the sunlight. It's something in the electronics."

Now it is Elizabeth Maxwell's turn to interject. Biting her lower lip while bending at the waist towards the twenty-three inch black and white monitor she queries.

"Why is the motion so jerky?"

Major Hazeva let some of the air out of his lungs with the frustration of an inventor. Then he replies.

"Our people are working on that. But the processor speed can't get much above 80386, the IBM standard."

Stanley Craypool pushes his glasses up on his nose and adds sagely.

"Serial transmission is a log jam too. Even when you go to a parallel connect the frame speed just doesn't make it."

"Frame speed?" queries Karen of the room at large- while her husband takes her left hand up in his right.

Moses Anderson, seated across the table from Andy, and at Colonel Wingate's right hand answers the question.

"The cutoff point is about thirty frames per second sent over the phone lines. Over thirty frames you get a regular motion picture, below thirty the image jerks from one scene to the next."

Major Benjamin Hazeva smiles and nods his head in mute agreement with Moses Anderson. He looks just the least bit dapper, completely in control in a professorial kind of a way. Hazeva skillfully works the joystick and the key pad as the slender man entering the restaurant makes his purposeful way to the round table near the windows at the edge of the dining area.

Everyone in the conference room watches as the three men in the monitor screen exchange greetings and then take seats. It is clear to Hazeva he holds his audience spellbound in the throes of a youthful digital technology. Hazeva beams triumphantly.

"Is the restaurant in France, Major Hazeva?" asks Andy Howells' wife, Karen.

"Actually Baghdad, the al-Jadriyah, restaurant, Mrs. Howell." replies Hazeva. Then his brow wrinkles up and he asks.

"Why would you think France?"

Karen Howell points an index finger at the monitor. She offers.

"The man who came in. He wore a beret and then he took it off."

Karen's remark brings Elizabeth Maxwell back into the discussion. Elizabeth walks up to the computer monitor and begins to peer intently at the three men on camera. After a bit, she stands up straight and turns to face towards Karen. Elizabeth explains.

"He has an Arabian Jubba on, Karen. The hat must have been a Pakol."

"Pakol?" queries Karen of Elizabeth. Elizabeth nods with an air of authority about her. She goes on to explain.

"A Pakol looks like a beret, but they wear them in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Sometimes when an Arab wears a Pakol it means he supports Osama bin Laden."

Miss Maxwell's remarks leave the audience in a thoughtful mood. The theater on the black and white monitor screen was a curiosity moments ago. Now it seems like a portent of dark events looming in the near future. Elizabeth stands at attention, waiting for more questions but there are none forthcoming. Accordingly, after letting out with a sigh of relief, Elizabeth steps to the side that Major Hazeva might continue with his demonstration.

With all three heads in the monitor screen at the same height, Hazeva zooms in on their faces and slowly move the focal point of the camera from one man to the next, left to right.

"Could I handcuff a guy on your picture? .. I mean, is biometrics as good as a set of fingerprints?" queries Andy Howell of Major Hazeva.

Hazeva's visage brightens noticeably at the question. He had hoped the C.I.A. would take an interest in the project, maybe they will even decide to help with the expenses. Benjamin opens his mouth, intending to speak. Then, quite abruptly, a sharp and pointed remark from Bill Norman cuts him off.

"Arrest Him! .. Can You Shoot Him!" That's The Real Problem With Rag Heads!"

Benjamin Hazeva sighs and lets his arms drop to his sides in exasperation. Andy Howell groans and shifts about in his seat. Karen and Elizabeth look a bit green. It is Colonel Wingate's turn to speak.

" Image identification has a long way to go. The algorithms can see through disguises, mustaches, eyeglasses,... But there will always be false positives and false negatives. .. At least for the foreseeable future."

The room grows quiet as the men and women in the Central Intelligence Agency conference room sit fascinated. Spell bound by the scene of three men talking to one another at a table in a restaurant somewhere in the middle-eastern city of Baghdad, Iraq. Each man in the restaurant completely unaware he is under camera surveillance of the Israeli Mossad.

A few moments pass in silence. Then Ronald Bruce Haynes, J.D., glances down at the heavy gold watch on his wrist. Realizing the conference is running late, Mister Haynes begins to tap the Formica top of the table with the tip of his gold ball point-pen.

The light noise is enough to get the attention of Colonel Wingate. The distinguished looking African American gentleman begins to sort his papers and soon opens his mouth intending to move on to the next agenda item.

It is then that the double doors behind Bill Norman and to the left of Haynes open wide, and Doctor Edgar David Coolidge's portly and unexpected form appears in the doorway.

Coolidge is, of course, Coolidge no matter the time of day. So the audience in the room is less surprised, by his blustery entry than the baggage he carries. And the fresh faced entourage of two psychiatry residents obediently following him in tow.

"Over here!... Over here!" Says Edgar Coolidge in an imperial voice to the two young men dressed in starched white linen laboratory coats.

While the Chief Agency Psychiatrist waves his left hand towards the center of the room, the two residents, each at one end of a gurney, wheel a patient transporter to center stage. Just as quick, Major Hazeva, Stanley Craypool, and Elizabeth Maxwell, move away from their computer surveillance camera set up, and towards the windows, to make room for the entry of the psychiatrist, his team of assistants, and the sturdy patient transporter.

Everyone in the room recognizes the heavy rubber caster wheel device for what it was, although it looks strange in some respects. The green oxygen tank clamped to the right hand side is familiar, as is the intravenous fluid bottle on the pole at the head.

Unexpectedly, Coolidge's reluctant audience also see, a heavy grey plastic tent projecting upward from the head of the bed. They each notice the tent had a sinister looking clear plastic window, about three-foot on a side, located just above the pillow on the top of the mattress.

Eyes gleaming, head bobbing up and down with an air of total self-satisfaction, Coolidge looks about the room. Satisfied he has the attention of all the attendees, Coolidge unrolls a light canvas tarp with gold tassels all around the edges until it lays cross ways over the tent.

Bill Norman reads the three inch red letters stenciled on the side of the canvass throw aloud for everyone to hear.

" **COOLIDGE SOMAMBULATOR TRANSPORTER**." And, in the second line below,

"Patent applied for, March 1990."

"Exactly!... Exactly!" adds the Psychiatrist in a voice rising with enthusiasm and pride.

"My most recent invention! .. A scientific instrument for transporting agents to foreign countries. Keep them sedated!... Get them in and out under anesthesia!"

For all the power, he wields at the agency, Edgar Coolidge M.D. did seem a buffoon to most. Thus, no one was surprised when Moses Anderson brought his fist up from the tabletop to conceal a burst of laughter.

Andy Howell breaks the silence. In a voice dripping with annoyance he says brusquely.

"What!"

Coolidge keeps his head bobbing up and down like a man on a manic mission. He moves close to the table and begins rubbing his hands together.

"ASSASINATIONS HOWELL!!! .. WET AFFAIRS!!!... GET THE HIRED GUN IN UNDER ANESTHESIA!!!... DO THE DEED!!!... GET THE MAN BACK UNDER ANESTHESIA!!!"

While Coolidge shouts in an agitated voice, he paces back and forth in front of the gurney adorned with the modified oxygen tent perched atop the mattress. All the while, he sweeps his hand over the plastic tent and chrome metal frame with the gestures of a boastful confidence man hawking his wares.

Karen Chesley Howell brings her fingertips up to her lips as her face goes white with fear and loathing. She begins to imagine her husband Andy under the plastic, unconscious and in a drug induced stupor. Andy groans aloud and says sarcastically.

"Who gets to be the ' _hired gun',_ Doctor Coolidge?"

"An Action Officer with _raw_ courage, Major Howell!" snaps the psychiatrist without a moments' hesitation.

The scene is too much for Attorney Haynes and Colonel Wingate. The colonel makes a quick hand waving gesture towards the attorney. Just as quick, the attorney turns the power off to the tape recorder on the table before him. More than controversial, the subject of political killing is completely taboo at the agency in 1990.

Joe Gomez, seated between Haynes on his left and Anderson on his right, sallies forth into the fray. In an even voice, he explains.

"Reagan wrote off assassinations in 1981 on executive order.... Its' a crime."

Coolidge rears back with his right arm stiff, his right index finger pointed straight at Drug Enforcement Agency Agent Joe Gomez.

"Middle class prejudice!... Middle class prejudice!"

"Assassination is neither good nor evil. It's a political tool! A reality!"

Andy Howell shakes his head from side to side. Then he argues by example.

"The Mossad thought they could take Arabs out wholesale. The psych wards over there are wall to wall with people who found out they couldn't kill."

Benjamin Hazeva nods in agreement with Andy, he adds.

"Special Operations people burn out all the time. It's a dead end career."

Coolidge sneers- and struggles to hide his feelings of deflation. They are taking the wind out of his sails! He had expected Andy to disparage his newfound idea. However, Coolidge had not expected opposition from the Israeli's!

Edgar Coolidge bites his lower lip while he searches for just the right words. He turns to his left slightly to hold both Major's Hazeva and Howell in view. Next, he begins to elaborate to the unwashed on the 'Big Picture'.

"My Patent Attorney is negotiating with Mossad people as we speak! I'm proposing a controlled study with positive and negative controls and a placebo group! Soon as we prove anesthesia is the cure for guilt! My company is going public!"

Even Bill Norman begins to feel uncomfortable in the presence of Doctor Edgar Coolidge's single mindedness, his _'zeal'_. As with everyone else in the room he squirms in his chair as he searches for just the right words to express his concern. While most sit open mouthed, Andy Howell sums up the feelings of the group.

"Doctor Coolidge. The enemy is just a man. I _have_ to deny him beans and bullets. Sometimes we _have_ to inflict casualties. Killing somebody asleep in his bed is disgusting. It's murder!"

Andy's reply was the soldier's perspective and the consensus viewpoint throughout the room. Just the response you would expect from a veteran of the war years in Viet Nam. While Coolidge rears back wild-eyed and stares, Colonel Morgan and Colonel Wingate nod silently. Both these men are in full agreement with Andy.

Whatever the future for drugging men to make them hired, assassins might be. It is unlikely Coolidge would ever get his soporifics into either an Action Officer in the Central Intelligence Agency, a man in the Marine Corps Readiness Detachment, or a Special Agent in the Drug Enforcement Agency, not in this lifetime, anyway.

In the long silence following Andy's rejoinder, Edgar David Coolidge continues to glare at Major Howell through a pair of hot burning eyes. What of the fresh faced interns in the laboratory coats you may well ask? Well, they kept their gaze on the floor.
Scene 7 Will Naadi Baspinar, PhD, Ever Receive Tenure?

Location: The Al-Jadriyah restaurant near Baghdad University in the Al Jami' Ah District, of Baghdad Iraq

Baghdad is, of course, the capital city of the oil rich middle-eastern Muslim nation of Iraq. The city occupies a land mass, roughly the size of Columbus Ohio. With over four million residents, however, the population density is nearly seven times as high as its sister city in the state of Ohio. When you try to picture Baghdad, this most ancient of ancient cities in your mind's eye, imagine, street after street filled with multi-story apartment buildings. As in the five boroughs of New York City, rather than the suburban sprawl of single-family homes that make up the city of Los Angeles.

The Tigris River wends its slow and stately way through the middle of Baghdad. Here once again, the many beautiful bridges spanning the Tigris remind the visitor of nothing so much as the urban geography of Manhattan and Queens. Moreover, when you think about it, the cab drivers in both cities, Baghdad and New York, smile the same smile, and pray the very same Muslim prayers, either Sunni or Shi'ite, five times a day.

Saddam International Airport rests on the southeastern side of Baghdad. Rasheed Airport, the smaller of the two, is about twenty miles to the east of Saddam Airport. Government buildings, as for example, the ministries of defense, information, and planning, are each located within sight of the Tigris. The Iraqi Intelligence Services Headquarters are in the Mansur District. The Bath Party Headquarters, some blocks east and slightly to the south.

The complex of buildings that constitute Baghdad University and the Baghdad Science Research Center, are nestled in a tight bend of the Tigris, roughly five miles downstream from the Republican Palace. Just to the north of the campus, you will encounter trendy shopping centers, embassy buildings, and garden restaurants. Perhaps the largest of the restaurants, the one with the most expensive items on the menu, is the Al-Jadriyah. The Al-Jadriyah is a posh place- popular with people of privilege who enjoy ten thousand dollar limits (American Dollars) on their American Express cards.

The three men seated at one of the circular tables near the front windows in the Al-Jadriyah restaurant are a study in contrasts, indeed. As an officer in the Mukhabarat- the largest of all the numerous Iraqi Intelligence Services- central casting, would have dressed Hani Abu Sankaya in full Arabic regalia. No doubt with a curved tip dagger in a jewel encrusted scabbard at his wait. Quite to the contrary, Sankaya wears a chalk-stripe summer-weight wool suit, in navy blue with a matching vest. The suit set off by a rep stripe tie, in blue and red, over a fresh starched light blue button down shirt.

Given the level of political tension in Baghdad in the spring of 1990, the long-standing hostility between the Sunni _'haves'_ and the Shi'ite _'have nots'_. Moreover, the brutal nature of Sankaya's day-to-day duties- one might well have expected a bulge under his, left armpit, mute testimony he carried a semi-automatic handgun.

Surprisingly, there is no bulge hidden anywhere beneath his expertly tailored suit. Instead, a tall, muscle bound young man, Sankaya's bodyguard. Stands discretely behind the table, his huge arms crossed in front of his barrel shaped chest. Minute by minute the young man's wary eyes scrutinize the pedestrian traffic through the plate glass windows of the restaurant, as shoppers and tourists drift up and down the boulevard in the early summer heat.

In sharp contrast to Mister Sankaya- seated at the table. The standing bodyguard has sizeable lumps under both armpits, suggesting Sig Sauer's. Moreover, there is another bulge in the small of his back, hinting at the possibility he also carries a machine pistol. Mister Sankaya is simply too high up in the Iraqi intelligence community to carry a weapon, it would not be proper. His bodyguard wears the iron.

Sankaya lowers the tiny white porcelain espresso coffee cup in his right hand to the saucer on the table. His pinky finger held artfully up in the air. With his other hand, he takes a sideways bite out of a plump fresh date. After swallowing the morsel, he looks directly into the eyes of Baghdad University Associate Professor of Physics, Naadi Baspinar, and says in an urging voice.

"My people would not know what the papers mean. You _must_ go, Professor."

Naadi Baspinar, PhD, is in a tight spot. If he is not offered tenure at Baghdad University by this coming September, he will have to leave, and seek employment elsewhere. Baspinar loves his job teaching physics and he loves the city of Baghdad. Thus, he is open to any proposition that will lead to tenure. No matter how unsavory, no matter how sordid. In addition to the look of tension in Naadi's eyes, you could tell from his clothes, he is straining in the direction of political correctness.

Whereas most of the men in the restaurant wear suits or sport coats, Professor Baspinar heralded his late arrival to this table in the window of the al-Jadriyah restaurant with a unique style of dress. Baspinar walked through the front door of the restaurant garbed in full Arabic regalia. His over garment, a long flowing Arabian Jubba, in medium brown, over a light khaki colored Dishadasha, with heavy brown leather sandals on his feet. Tenured faculty appointments do not grow on trees in Iraq, you see, as they do at UCLA.

Consequently, Baspinar struggles to exude Iraqi nationalism, loyalty to the Baathist Party, strict obedience to the dictates of Saddam Hussein, and a kinship with the precepts of the Sunni Muslim sect rather than the Shi'ite, out of every pore of his thirty-eight year old body.

If tenured physics professors prayed to Allah seven times each day rather than five, the Muslim norm for the last fourteen hundred and twenty years, Baspinar would have, without hesitation, prayed seven times a day. His political situation was just that precarious, his academic future just that uncertain.

Baspinar sits at the round table with wide eyes and a mouth half open. He glances nervously back and forth between Hani Abu Sankaya, Officer of the Mukhabarat, and, Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami, Chairman, of the Baghdad University Physics Department.

Al Khayyami pours more coffee into the tiny porcelain cup at Baspinar's right hand, out of an ornate solid silver carafe, in a gesture of sympathy and friendship. Then he looks up at the younger man, Naadi, and with a smile on his face exclaims.

"He must be C.I.A.!... He followed me from place to place in Zurich last year!"

Naadi Baspinar sips the fresh coffee while he ponders on his reply. With the cup halfway between his mouth and the saucer on the table, he tactfully says.

"You are known worldwide, Professor Al Khayyami. Even the Americans know of your contributions to electronics."

As Baspinar lowers his cup to the table, Professor Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami, nods his head towards Naadi Baspinar. While Lakhdar's head bobs up and down, his eyes sparkle behind heavy thick eyeglasses with black plastic frames. Moreover, Al Khayyami's Arabian Shora headdress, an oversize white scarf held round his head at the temples by a braided gold rope cord, flops back and forth on his shirt and tie.

"This young man spoke of converging infinite series. He is aware of the Arabic method of counting in base sixty, rather than ten. In my mind, there is no doubt."

The tenured Physics Department Chairman explains to his untenured Associate Professor. Professor Al Khayyami's heart pounds in his chest, his eyes flash with fear. Baspinar can think of nothing to say to his two older companions. At his right hand side, Hani Abu Sankaya finishes eating his date and then adds.

"He registered at the conference in Zurich as a Grand Corporation employee, Baspinar. How can he _not be_ in the Central Intelligence Agency?"

Naadi Baspinar's expression transforms from skeptical to solemn. He feels like a goat led down the path by a rope tight round his neck. With both hands flat on the immaculate white tablecloth covering the round table in front of him, he turns his head towards the Mukhabarat Agent and queries.

"Is there more evidence I may examine, Mister Sankaya?"

Hani Abu Sankaya's eyes first light up with pleasure, but then a look of alarm fills his face. Sankaya lightly waves his hands in a dismissive gesture above the table. Then he softly exclaims.

"Not Here, Baspinar!... Not Here!... Too Many Eyes, Perhaps Microphones!"

Baspinar's hands drop to his lap in resignation. He begins to glance politely out the floor to ceiling plate glass windows of the al-Jadriyah restaurant. When his gaze returns to the table, Baspinar sees both Sankaya and Al Khayyami are turned in their seats to face him and are now staring directly in to his eyes.

Baspinar blushes, and explains his lack of attention to the critical subject matter at hand in an apologetic mumble.

"My brother in law, Kairallah. He has my automobile."

Physics Department Chairman Lakhdar Al Khayyami nods and smiles his most warm and avuncular smile at the younger man.

"This Saturday at my home, Naadi. Hani Abu and I will show you the rest of the evidence. At the party."

"You will see, young man!... You will see!" says Al Khayyami, triumphantly.

Naadi Baspinar glances back and forth between the Mukhabarat Agent and the aged Physics Department Chairman. Then his eyes go through the window and out onto the boulevard, where he spies a late model Citroen parallel parking into a tight spot between a Renault and a Jaguar sedan.

"My sister has arrived, gentlemen." explains Naadi Baspinar, in a voice trailing off at the end, as he makes reluctant eye contact once again with his dinner companions.

Associate Professor Baspinar does not wait for a beep of the horn from the Citroen. Any excuse at all to free; himself from his scheming companions! He rises to his feet and in a resigned voice says.

"Saturday it is then, this Saturday."

Both Hani Abu Sankaya and Lakhdar Al Khayyami nod and smile encouragingly at the younger man. Each realizes the enormous burden they are bringing to bear on the hapless untenured physics professor. Sankaya, the Mukhabarat Agent, says firmly.

"When you see the photos, you will agree there is no doubt, Professor Baspinar."

To which Al Khayyami, the Physics Department Chairman adds.

"Your report will go to Uday and Qusay, both, Naadi. Their father will be the one to reward you."

At the mention of the names of Saddam Hussein's sons, Naadi Baspinar freezes in his tracks for just a moment. He mutters under his breath.

"What am I getting myself into?"

When Baspinar recovers, he put his Pakol, a beret like cap, favored by the fundamentalist people of Afghanistan and Pakistan, square on the top of his head. There is now a look of grim determination in his eyes.

"Professor Al Khayyami, Mister Sankaya, good day to you gentlemen."

While Sankaya and Al Khayyami nod in satisfaction, Baspinar wheels round on the heels of his sandals and makes his way out the front door of the restaurant. Dressed in a flowing; knee length linen Jubba over a Dishadasha, with a jaunty Pakol on top of his head and sandals on his feet. Naadi Baspinar looks like nothing so much as a clean-shaven version of Osama bin Laden. Soon, without looking back, he is out the plate glass door of the restaurant and standing on the sidewalk. Baspinar takes a deep breath to steady his nerves.

Next Associate Physics Professor Naadi Baspinar wends his cautious way through the streams of luxury car traffic and across the boulevard to the point where his brother in law, Kairallah Karaman had parallel-parked Naadi's light tan Citroen. As Naadi closes the last few feet of the distance to his car, Kairallah lowers his drivers' side window with the touch of his fingertip to an electric power button.

Kairallah is a theatrically handsome man who sports a pencil thick mustache that comes into view as he leans his head slightly out the window. With mischievously twinkling eyes, he says.

"So now you enjoy full tenure, my brother Naadi?"

Naadi shakes his head and almost laughs in spite of himself. He stoically replies.

"What I enjoy now, is a garden party. This Saturday. Al Khayyami has someone for me to meet."

With that rejoinder, Baspinar walks round the front end of the Citroen to the front door on the passengers' side near the curb. He opens the unlocked door and swiftly lowers himself onto the leather bucket seat. Once in the seat Naadi Baspinar doffs his beret like hat, his Pakol, and drops it to his lap. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Baspinar spies his sister, Lahib, in the seat just behind his, and, his eleven-year old niece, Euphrates, in the seat behind her father.

Naadi's brother in law, Kairallah, wears a three button knit golf shirt in dark green over black poplin trousers and black silk socks and oxblood penny loafers. Dressed as he is, he could have passed for a resident of Dearborn Michigan, instead of a trucking company owner native to the southern Iraqi town of Basra.

In the rear passenger seat immediately behind him, Naadi sees his sister Lahib is dressed for the mall. Lahib Karaman wears a tailored embroidered Salwar Kameez imported from Pakistan. This is in a beautiful shade of deep sky blue, set off perfectly with embroidered velvet Punjabi shoes.

For the sake of modesty, even in the confines of a family automobile, Lahib covers her head with a matching print Georgette shawl. In contrast to the women of Europe and the United States, Muslim women use a Kohl stick to apply eyeliner. As they believe, the substance, in addition to making them beautiful, renders them immune to many common diseases. Hence, Lahib's face glows with a unique beauty- not seen in the west.

Squirming and impatient in the rear passenger seat next to her mother, eleven year old Euphrates smiles up at her uncle Naadi, while simultaneously gazing eagerly into all the windows of all the luxury stores and restaurants up and down the street. Euphrates, it seems, wants to go shopping for new clothes just as much as does her mother, Lahib.

Euphrates wears a pleated navy jumper over a white cotton blouse with a wide collar sporting tiny mother of pearl buttons at the throat and lace at the edge. She has on dainty white anklet socks and round toed navy leather shoes with delicate buckle straps across the insteps.

Naadi Baspinar smiles as he sees his niece pound her feet impatiently against the base of the leather seat. He turns to his brother in law and explains.

"Al Khayyami is every bit the Mordecai, Kairallah. Still, I am not ready for the king!"

Well educated, Muslims are as schooled in the bible as in the Koran. Thus, Naadi's reference to the story in the old-testament book of Esther, when Mordecai prepared Esther for the king's pleasure, making her take baths in milk and oil, resonated with Kairallah, Lahib, and Euphrates. Kairallah smiles and replies to his brother in law.

"I have three dozen trucks, Naadi, six more coming in November. I _need_ a partner who understands ignition systems."

"My PhD would only get in the way." says Naadi Baspinar as he tries to carefully back away from a very worthy and sincere business proposition. The car grows silent and then Lahib breaks in with a question from the back seat.

"Will it help if we come to the party, Naadi? We don't have to return to Basra until Tuesday."

Naadi Baspinar turns round in his seat to speak to his younger sister.

"The Al Khayyami's have a beautiful home in the Amiryah district, Lahib. Your fashion statement will not go unnoticed!"

Kairallah Karaman and his wife Lahib laugh lightly at Naadi's wry humor. Lahib had the last word, almost.

"Well then, off to the mall. If my clothes can get my brother tenure, Naadi. I must have the best clothes!"

Again everyone in the car laughs. After a bit, Euphrates chimes in.

"May we have ice cream uncle Naadi, may we?... Please!"

With that, the four happy people drive off in search of an ice cream store.

Scene 8 Stanley Craypool Has A Problem With A Nosy Neighbor

Location: Just outside Stanley Craypool's garage loft apartment Silver Springs, Maryland, USA.

The weather in Silver Springs Maryland this particular Saturday afternoon, June 1990, is especially beautiful. It is the kind of bright sun shiny day that makes people feel like turning their air conditioning units off and opening the windows. It is an interlude, one of those rare fleeting moments in a lifetime- when the breeze blows as a light zephyr- and the air fills with the scent of a myriad of fresh blossoms.

The perfect weather finds Stanley Craypool's black and tan male Saluki hound, 'Sam', tied on a long cord to a metal stake in the lawn in front of his one room doghouse. The wonderfully well-behaved purebred dog sits obediently on his haunches. Wagging his long silken hair tail to and fro and yawning from time to time.

Looking about, this way and that, an observer could see the yard in back of the house. Where Stanley Craypool lives in a loft above a two car garage is empty. Not a soul anywhere. Thus, this particular afternoon, Sam's duties as a bodyguard are light, indeed. Mostly, what the dog has to do is take sips of fresh water or bites of dry dog food, from the two bowls placed just at his side.

In the back yard next door to the house where Stanley lives, the three members of the Hubert Spangler family busy themselves with a picnic lunch at their back yard picnic table. The Spangler family composed of, head of the house, Hubert, his wife and _'better half'_ Dot, and their nubile seventeen year old daughter- Misty. The Spangler's also own a dog. A tiny Pekinese named _'Fluffy'_ gamboling about on the lawn by herself while her masters dine at the rough wooden table.

While white puffy clouds pass by overhead, the Spangler's work their way through fresh cooked ears of corn, steaks grilled over charcoal, and plates heaped full with salad. Moreover, a great many sixteen ounce cans of beer for the man of the house- and numerous glasses of red wine for his wife.

The Spangler residence and the house in front of the garage where Stanley lives, rest on a quiet residential street far from any boulevard consequently, the air is nearly still. From time to time the sounds of birds flitting about or tree branches rubbing together in the breeze, punctuate the calm quiet. Smack in the middle of this idyllic silence, Hubert Spangler and his wife are in the middle of a conversation.

"I'm telling you Dot, this will be the last year for those wooden windows if we don't cover em up good with aluminum. The last year."

Just then, a high-pitched whining and grinding sound breaks the silence of the afternoon. Given the noise level, Mister Spangler and his wife are suddenly unable to converse.

So with a look of irritation on his face, Mister Hubert Spangler cocks his head this way and that in an effort to triangulate on the whining racket. After some deliberation, it seems to him the noise is coming out of the window, behind the landing at the top of the wooden steps leading up one story to the Stanley Craypool residence.

Hubert Spangler reluctantly removes his right hand from the end of a huge ear of corn he has been nibbling. He points with his index finger to the window of the garage loft apartment right next door. Then he turns his head back to come face to face with his wife and says.

"Four eyes over there is making all the racket!"

Bending and twisting in their seats at the picnic table, the Spangler family is able to see Stanley Craypool standing just inside his living room window, with some kind of an object or tool in his hands. Then, seconds later, the mystery resolves, as a steel bit wood drill bursts through the wooden frame of the window.

"Why in the hell would anybody drill a hole in a perfectly good window!" exclaims Mister Hubert Spangler in a voice filled with disgust- shaking his head back and forth.

As if on cue, the Spangler family lower, the ears of corn in their fingertips to their paper plates. Then they shift in their seats to get a better look at the strange going's on next door.

Under the watchful eyes of the Spangler's, Hubert, Dot, and Misty. Stanley disappears from the window to reappear at the door at the top of the wooden steps. Stanley turns round in the doorway. The door half open and one hand on the knob. With his head facing into the apartment, oblivious to the scrutiny of the Spangler's, he says.

"Don't toss it out just yet, Elizabeth!" then Stanley wheels about and rushes down the steps, leaving the door wide open.

At the bottom of the steps, Stanley takes up a long handled spade from its resting place against the banister of the railing on the steps. He hefts it in his left hand and then begins the long walk to the front of the yard, where the corner of his landlord's property line meets up with the public sidewalk.

From out at the sidewalk, Mister Craypool glances back into the yard and smiles at his handiwork. He has been laboring with a spade and pitchfork since nine in the morning. Finally, a little after one in the afternoon, he has a narrow one foot deep trench extending from just beneath the window nearly all the way out front to the sidewalk.

Stanley is pleased with himself, his ingenuity, and his diligence. He thrusts the tip of the spade into the thickness of the soil on the grassy lawn. Next, puts his right shoe atop the blade of the spade and makes a decisive push downward with his foot. A few minutes more labor with the spade and the long narrow trench is complete.

Stanley wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt and begins the long march back into the yard to the stairs leading up to his apartment. Soon he is within earshot of Hubert Spangler. His neighbor, Mister Spangler, now stands leaning with his forearms on the top of the fence that separates the two single-family homes from one another.

"Hot enough for you- Hube?" asks Stanley in a cheerful enough voice.

"What are you up to, Stanley?" replies Mister Spangler in a skeptical tone of voice.

Stanley Craypool smiles triumphantly and walks a few more paces to a point just underneath the window he had been working on with his electric drill. He cups his left hand to his mouth, tilts his head upward, and loudly says.

"I'm ready now, Elizabeth!"

Then Stanley turns back to face Hubert Spangler. With the shovel in his right hand, and a grin on his face, he says proudly.

"Underground antenna, Hube!... Offset dipole for the shortwave bands!"

As with most non-technical people, Hubert Spangler imagines there are only two kinds of antennas. The first, a shiny, silver stick protruding up from the fender on your automobile, the second, a dish screwed to the exterior wall of your house, aimed at a satellite way up in the sky. Hubert smiles the smile of a man of wisdom indulging a complete fool.

"Antenna's go up in the air, Stan!.... That's where the signal is!"

Then Mister Spangler turns half way around and points at the satellite dish on the exterior wall next to his kitchen window. Stanley Craypool nods patiently and tries to explain.

"Shortwave is amplitude modulation, Hube. Lots of static and harmonics. Once in a while, if you bury an antenna in the ground, the water cancels out the harmonics."

Before Mister Spangler can reply, Elizabeth Maxwell tosses a long coil of very thick plastic covered wire out the window with the freshly drilled hole in the frame. Stanley bends down to pick up the lasso like loops of the antenna sprawling on the grass. Then he shouts up at Elizabeth.

"Run it through the hole with about twenty feet left inside, Elizabeth!"

Soon Elizabeth Maxwell's dainty female hand protrudes out the window, obedient to her live in boyfriend's wishes. She takes the bare end of the wire in her hand and threads it through the freshly drilled hole in the window frame.

Stanley imagines his prying neighbors questions answered. So he begins tucking the wire into the trench with his hands, and the toe of his gym shoe. From time to time, he uses the side edge of the spade to scrape fresh earth into the trench and thereby cover up the wire.

Hard at work, Stanley pays out the antenna wire one foot at a time, gradually making his way to the sidewalk at the front of the yard. On the other side of the white picket fence, well out of Stanley's range of hearing, Hubert Spangler shakes his head from left to right. Then he wheels on the heels of his jogging shoes and says.

"C'mon Dot!... Misty!.... Something here just ain't right!"

Mister Spangler walks back to the picnic table for his half-empty can of beer. Then he marches down his fence line towards the street with his wife and daughter following obediently behind. At the front gate, Hubert Spangler takes a long drink from his can of beer. Then he works the latch and swings the gate open. Soon, the Spangler family stands in a skirmish line just behind their unsuspecting next-door neighbor.

"Gonna nip this one in the bud, Dot!" barks Hubert with his chin thrust forward.

Stanley is so startled he drops the spade in his hands and quickly turns round. Looking a little dazed, the young man says only.

"Huh?"

Spangler eyes Stanley like a drill Sergeant staring at a recruit absent without leave. He walks a few paces closer to the electrical engineer, leans down, and picks up the end of the putative underground short wave antenna in his right hand. Cocking his head left and right, Spangler recognizes the male end of a heavy-duty three-wire extension cord. With the prongs covered by a thick gob of elastic cement. Hubert puts his other hand behind his back in a parade rest stance. Then he brings the end of the wire close to his wife's eyes.

"Lookeee here, Dot!... It ain't even a real antenna!... It's an extension cord!"

Dot Spangler's head and shoulders jerk back in surprise as she recognizes the extension cord for what it is. No matter Stanley's intended purpose, she reacts with alarm rather than reason. Hubert's better half puts her hands on her hips and says sharply.

"He's gonna plug that in and electrocute Fluffy!... Misty's gonna have birth defects!"

Stanley Craypool blinks while he tries to sort things out in his mind. For some strange reason he decides to appeal to his neighbors on an intellectual level.

"By the time the signal gets here from Iraq, its only about a millionth of a volt!"

Right on cue, Hubert Spangler slaps the palm of his hand on his forehead.

"A million volts he says!... What in the hell is he hiding up there to make a million volts?!"

By this time, Elizabeth Maxwell has made her way out of the apartment and now stands politely near the edge of the conversation circle at the sidewalk. There is no reason for her to anticipate any kind of a miss understanding between her boyfriend and his neighbors. Accordingly, Elizabeth smiles brightly at every one and simply says.

"I plugged it into the back of the set, Stanley."

Hubert Spangler throws the extension cord down on the ground as if it were a venomous snake. He wheels around towards his wife Dot and his daughter Misty.

"Get the cell phone out little girl! Call the police!!"

Mister Spangler then says to his wife.

"A million volts and I had it in my hand! I could have been killed!"

Mrs. Spangler glares at Stanley Craypool, Stanley standing there looking sheepish and confused.

"Shame on you young man! Shame on you!"

Then the well endowed Misty pipes in.

"Is the police, Nine One One, or just Zero, Daddy?"

Last, Elizabeth asks.

"Was it something I said, Stanley?"

The police car arrives a few minutes later. Both officers understand Stanley's harmless intentions, thus and such, with a bit of pleading on his behalf they soon defuse the situation. Yet still, there has to be an incident report. A record of one Stanley Warren Craypool in a dispute with his neighbors, a public document that very well might some-day be, used against him in a court of law....

Scene 9 Captain Randy Lapeer First Lays Eyes on Lieutenant Roxanne La Fontaine

Location: A routine A-10 training mission in the skies between Kokomo Indiana and Grayling Michigan, USA

The full size cube van roars slowly up the flight line on Grissom Air Force Base, just to the north of Kokomo, Indiana. The exterior of the van painted dark blue, the interior furnished in plywood. Amenities in the passenger compartment include rough handholds in the walls. These handholds a few feet above a floor constructed of unpainted pine planking.

Yet in spite of the utilitarian surroundings, each of the six passengers sitting on the floor in the back of the cube van feels like a member of an elite military force. Deservedly so, as each of the four men and two women rocking back and forth with the motion of the van, is fully qualified to fly the A-10. The first United States Air Force fighter plane- _purpose built_ for the role of ground combat air support.

Roxanne Denise La Fontaine, more properly _First Lieutenant_ Roxanne Denise La Fontaine, feels a tingling sensation all up and down her spine. The fact that she is about to climb into the cockpit of her very own fighter plane, a twin-engine jet A-10 with the name _'Air Hammer Babe'_ painted on the side. Then fly on up to a gunnery range in Michigan. Where she will pound a target set up for her by Special Forces Teams with a Gatling-gun cannon was not even the half of it. She had flown missions like this dozens of times in the past.

The tingling sensation in her spine has a root in the fact that the two men seated just behind the drivers' compartment are taking turns glancing at her. Roxanne recognizes the older man, Colonel Curtis Parmelee, as the commander of the active duty A-10 unit, the 404th Combat Air Support Squadron. Parmelee, Roxanne knew, was there this morning to have a look at her style as an Air Force pilot. His interests- were purely professional. Leading, quite possibly to an invitation to join the active duty people if-and-when they went to Saudi Arabia. To support the Kuwaiti's, in their struggles against Iraq's current dictator- Saddam Hussein.

It was the man seated next to Colonel Parmelee, and not the Colonel himself, that was the cause of the tingling sensation sliding up and down her spine. He was someone new to the base, someone she had never seen before. Although Roxanne could not read the man's nametag she realized from the patches on the shoulders of his flight suit he held the rank of captain. Of course, the shoulder and breast patches on the man's coveralls, were not the problem, not in the least. It was the combination of the man's shoulder muscles, his dead level eyes, and his firm jaw, that had Roxanne's heart going pitter-patter. Who is this hot guy?

Roxanne swallows as she struggles with her conscience whether or no, she should play with her hair to get the dashing young man's attention. On one hand, the drummer in her band, Lenny Pingatore, has been her steady for a little more than a year. On the other, Lenny could have put a ring on her finger, but to date, he has declined to make a commitment. Worse, what would happen to her if Colonel Parmelee saw her flirting with a perfect stranger? What was a girl to do?

Before Roxanne can make up her mind between not flirting and flirting, the cube van grinds to a squealing halt near two A-10's parked side by side on the flight line. The twin-engine jet to the south _'Air Hammer Babe'_ the plane to the north with the name _'Sky Queen'_ painted in the same place on the fuselage of the big and deadly airship. Out of the corners of her lightly made up eyes, Roxanne sees Colonel Parmelee twist around to say something to the enlisted man in the driver's seat of the cube van. It was her big chance.

Roxanne Denise la Fontaine begins to play with her hair. Then she turns her head to enjoy one more glance at the best pair of shoulders she had ever seen on an Air Force base, maybe the best pair of shoulders she had ever seen in her entire life. As soon as the captain's mouth falls wide-open. Roxanne twists away and rolls off the back of the van, dropping her tiny combat boots flat onto the concrete of the runway. It is a real battle for her not to look back, but she forces her nurturing instincts to the bottom, and begins to concentrate on the challenge of flying a plane as an officer in the United States Air Force.

Soon after Roxanne hops off the van, Wendy Melvin, a Captain in the Regular Air Force, and the pilot of the second A-10 plane, named- _'Sky Queen'_ follows in tow. Both women are dressed in flight suits both hold flight bags in their right hands, both carry flight helmets in the bend of their left elbows. It is there, however, the similarities between the two young women come to a-halt.

For one, while Wendy has light blond hair, cut short, Roxanne's hair is dark, thick, and long. Second, while Wendy strides towards her plane with her thoughts focused in on the day's mission, Roxanne's attention holds divided. True, Roxanne has her mind on the mission, just as Wendy, but unlike Wendy, in her heart, she dreams about the Captain in the cube van.

Roxanne's heart pounds, she prays the hunk with the perfect shoulders will keep his eyes glued to her backside as she walks towards her plane.

Just then, a frosty remark from Captain Melvin breaks Lieutenant La Fontaine's romantic reverie into a million pieces.

"La Fontaine!" says the blonde Captain to the dark haired Lieutenant. Roxanne turns slowly to face her Flight Leader.

"Yes, Captain Melvin." answers the Lieutenant with the long dark hair.

"I want you up in the air first, La Fontaine. In front of me so I can watch." orders the Flight Leader to her Wingman.

"Yes Sir, Captain Melvin, Sir." replies the dark haired Wingman to the blonde Flight Leader.

There is no more space for conversation between the two female pilots. As the cube van starts up again with the groan of an old straining six-cylinder engine. While Wendy glances instinctively over her shoulder at the noise, Roxanne forces herself not to look back.

As the shapely brunette, begins walking towards her ground crew and the ladder leading up to the cockpit of her plane, she bites her lower lip to regain her composure. In a minute or two, First Lieutenant Roxanne Denise La Fontaine will be requesting permission for takeoff from the tower. This was not the time to sound out of breath over a microphone to the Air Traffic Control people. Like some stage struck teenager, who just caught sight of the hottest male heartthrob in Hollywood.

"Who's the babe?" asks the man with the blue captain's stripes sewn to the shoulders of his flight suit, of Colonel Parmelee, as the cube van rolls on forward.

Parmelee winces at both the overly familiar question and the overly familiar tone in the voice of the junior officer sitting next to him. He had expected a former U-2 pilot to be a little bit condescending towards the member of an A-10 Squadron. Intelligence people, after all, were in the habit of reporting directly to senators and presidential appointees. Accordingly, it was natural Lapeer would perceive an air force base in Indiana as a back woods operation. Yet still, the Colonel thought it necessary and proper to reign in the younger man's too familiar style.

" _Captain_ Wendy Melvin is the best female pilot in the squadron, _Captain_ Lapeer."

replies Colonel Curtis Parmelee to Captain Randall 'Randy' Lapeer, in a firm tone with an emphasis on the ranks of the persons under scrutiny.

Given the level of Lapeer's hormones, Colonel Parmelee's frosty voice goes right over the young Captain's head. Randy Lapeer shakes his head vigorously. With a look of pure hunger in his eyes says.

"Not the blond Captain, Colonel. The Lieutenant. The one with the dark hair and the body!"

Colonel Parmelee shakes his head from side to side lightly, while he forces back a grin. It is difficult for him to hold himself aloof from the junior officer, as Lapeer is so completely honest and straightforward in his tail-wagging demeanor.

" _First Lieutenant_ Roxanne La Fontaine is a reserve pilot. _If_ _Captain_ Melvin likes her work today, la Fontaine might get to be her wingman in Saudi Arabia."

Randy Lapeer grins from ear to ear. He feels like thumping the Colonel on his back out of sheer joy. Lapeer exclaims.

"Soooooo!- I get to be Forward Air Controller to a _very, very,_ hot babe!?"

Colonel Parmelee shakes his head again lightly. Struggling to sound firm he says.

"Maybe Test Pilot Squadron is the right place for you, _Captain_ Lapeer."

Scene 10 Roxanne Holds On To Her Cannon Fire

Location: Air to ground gunnery range, Grayling Michigan

First Lieutenant Roxanne Denise La Fontaine squirms in the pilot's seat of her A-10 fighter plane. While she cranes her neck to get a better view out the cockpit window on her left hand side. There is no doubt her two-ship is both on course and on time, as Roxanne has no trouble making out the Michigan State capital dome in downtown Lansing, on the ground below. While her head hurts a little from the weight of her flying helmet. In addition, the unwelcome pressure of the oxygen mask strapped to her face at the front of the helmet, still it feels good to be up in the air.

Roxanne, 'Roxy' to her friends, has no detailed knowledge of the details of the mission she is flying. On the ground, at the early hours preflight briefing, she learned only the Contact Point the 'CP' was over forestlands just to the north of the city of East Tawas Michigan. This made her heart glad. As Roxanne knew from previous experience, the strafing mission could only take place on the gunnery range north of Grayling Michigan.

With a CP that far to the east and slightly to the south of the target, she would have more than enough time to get her instructions from the Forward Air Controller and her Flight Leader straight before rolling in on a target with her cannon blazing. Perhaps more than most, Roxanne has a real sense for the destructive power of the cannon tucked lengthwise in the belly of her airship. Her feeling is, the longer the line to the target, the less chance of a friendly fire incident or a go around, and hence, the more willing she is to squeeze down hard on the trigger.

Lieutenant La Fontaine taps her knees together against the control stick resting between her legs. She is just about to start humming _'Brass In Pocket'_ her favorite Pretenders tune, when Wendy Melvin's voice comes crackling over the pair of earphones in her heavy helmet.

"One to two." Roxanne recognizes a relaxed and professional tone in her Flight Leader's voice- so she hesitates not a second in her terse reply.

"Wing to Leader, go ahead Leader." says Roxanne into her microphone in a voice glowing with resolve to make a good impression.

"One to two." repeats Wendy Melvin, "Pull back to a full sixty degree wedge, two."

Roxanne glances out the left hand side of her cockpit window and realizes she is following her Flight Leader by a mere five to ten degrees, almost in a side by side straight-line formation. Captain Melvin it seems- wants her Wing woman further in trail, more in a classical wedge position.

"Copy Flight Leader." answers Roxanne in a brisk voice. "Pulling back to sixty degrees. Watch your five O'clock, Sir."

Roxanne gets busy with her flight controls. She pulls up on the stick slightly to bleed off some forward air speed. Simultaneously she throttles down slightly on the twin engines resting in pods at the back of the fuselage. In a matter of seconds, First Lieutenant Roxanne La Fontaine falls back to the position her Flight Commander ordered her to assume.

The rest of the time and distance to East Tawas Michigan elapses without event. As the two-ship of A-10's passes over the east west state highway cutting Tawas in two, Captain Melvin's voice comes back on the earphones in Roxanne's helmet.

"Left ninety degrees on the Au Sable river, just ahead, two. Command Point third dam up off lake Huron."

"Copy Flight Leader, left on Foote Dam. CP second dam west."

Now both female pilots busy themselves with the challenge of turning a lumbering aircraft from a northerly to a westerly heading. This is no mean task. If they fly too slowly through the turn, their momentum will carry them, far to the north of the Command Point, perhaps out of sight of the Forward Air Controller. Worse, if either of them make the left hand turn too quickly, their wing surfaces will lose lift, perhaps enough lift, to force their planes into a stall. It is a tense moment for both of the pilots. Regardless both had done quite well in their undergraduate and graduate pilot training courses.

Located as she is to the outside of Wendy and slightly behind, the turn is a less dangerous maneuver for Roxanne, the Wingman, than Wendy, the Flight Commander. Roxanne pushes forward lightly on her throttles. She tips the stick slightly to the left, and works the rudder pedals under her combat boots in sympathy with the motion of the ailerons on the wings. Soon both planes bank and begin moving in slow majestic concentric circles from right to left, changing their heading from north to west.

Seconds later, after counting two dams on the sparkling waters of the river below, Wendy and Roxanne see another A-10 in the clear blue skies ahead of them. This third airship, they note, flying in a relaxed left hand circle above the town of South Branch, Michigan. As the two-ship closes in on the circling A-10, Roxanne wonders if Wendy will be the first to break radio silence or if the Forward Air Controller will take command.

"Lancer 6 inbound with A-10 two ship, Forward Air Control." Speaks Captain Wendy Melvin over the radio to the pilot in the A-10 circling in front of her and to her left. "1,100 rounds of cannon shell. Fuel for forty-five minutes over target. Copy Control?"

"Copy that." replies Captain Randy Lapeer from the cockpit of the Command Point A-10. "1,100 rounds, forty five minutes over target.... Ready Check In, Flight Leader?"

"Ready Check In, Control. Say mission orders, sir." says Captain Melvin to the Forward Air Controller.

"Abort Code Lima Charlie, copy Flight Leader?" states Captain Lapeer while checking a fresh prepared sheet. The sheet indicating, that if the mission has to be-called off for any reason, _'Aborted'_ is the proper technical term. The abort code letter for the day is- GAMMA.

There is a long moment of silence while both Captain Wendy Melvin and Lieutenant Roxanne La Fontaine run their gloved fingers down identical lists prepared for the mission by the squadron's intelligence officer. They too see from their lists, if there is any reason whatsoever to abort the mission. Either the Forward Air Controller circling in the air next to them, or, a member of the Special Forces laser designator team on the ground. Will call for a mission abort over the radio and authenticate the command with the code word- GAMMA.

"Flight Leader to Forward Air Control. Acknowledge Abort Code Lima Charlie." responds Captain Melvin to Captain Lapeer.

Captain Lapeer is now free to continue with the details of the mission orders but he decides to query the Wingman as to the abort code, just to be on the safe side.

"Copy Abort Code, Wingman?" says Randy Lapeer in a rising tone.

"Copy Control. Abort Code Lima Charlie." replies Lieutenant La Fontaine to Captain Lapeer. Completely unaware the Forward Air Controller is the pair of shoulders she has been dreaming about since the early morning ride in the cube van.

As a matter of rigid rules and regulations, applied to both air to air and air to ground communications. The phonetic letters exchanged by the people in the mission team imply yet a third phonetic letter, which always goes unspoken.

Under this communications protocol, even if the enemy is listening in on the cryptic exchange between the members of the mission team in the skies above. There is no way he can halt the mission by stepping in on the day's frequency and calling out the abort code. Simply because the abort code letter goes unmentioned.

Satisfied he can terminate the mission with a secure abort code (GAMMA) if something goes wrong. Say if a farmer goes chasing a stray cow over the gunnery range. Just at the moment, the two-ship arrives with loaded guns and gloved fingers resting on triggers. Captain Lapeer gets down to the deadly and destructive business at-hand.

"Initiation Point Delta, Flight Leader. Heading two hundred eighty degrees, out twenty-five nautical miles, one hundred feet above sea level. Targets, two light vehicles facing east on a north south line, one hundred meters separate. Targets three miles west of north branch, Au Sable. Targets marked off lasers. Friendlies five miles north in Lovells. Egress south, Lancer 6." states the Forward Air Controller in a voice deep enough to penetrate the roaring whine of the jet engines thrusting his plane through the air.

While the Forward Air Controller speaks, both women busy themselves making notes on identical Air Force issue pads of paper strapped just above their knees. In aluminum-brackets held secure by wide elastic band surrounding their thighs.

This is a first time together mission for Captain Melvin and First Lieutenant La Fontaine. Quite naturally, the captain wants to be certain the lieutenant has dutifully noted the orders coming in over the air and into their earphones. Melvin might have repeated the Forward Air Controller's dictates and then gone on with the mission. Instead, she chooses to check in on her wingman, actually wing woman or wing person.

"One to two." says Melvin to La Fontaine.

"On your orders, Flight Leader." responds La Fontaine to Melvin.

"Say again mission plan, two." commands Captain Melvin of Lieutenant La Fontaine.

"Mission plan copied, Flight Leader." replies Lieutenant La Fontaine to her Flight Commander. Then Roxanne begins to read back the orders she has written on the pad strapped on her right thigh. "I.P. Delta, heading two eighty, twenty five nautical miles, one hundred feet above sea. Two light vehicles facing east on north south line, one hundred meters distant. Targets laser designated. Friendlies five miles north in Lovells, egress south."

"Copy that, one. Copy that, two. Proceed at will to Initiation Point Delta." says the Forward Air Controller, Captain Randy Lapeer. That was it. The two female two ship is off and running to the target.

On the way to the IP, the Initiation Point, the town of Red Oak Michigan, both ladies begin a descent to three hundred feet. Moreover, both ladies hold as close as possible to a pace of three hundred nautical miles in forward air speed (Knots In Air Speed). Halfway to Red Oak, Lieutenant La Fontaine hears her Flight Leader's voice come over her headphones for yet another terse exchange.

"Activate Pave Penny, two. Three hundred, three hundred, in line formation. Fence Check Now!" says the Flight Leader to her Wingman.

"Copy Flight Leader. Pave Penny on. Three hundred by three hundred in line. Fence Check in Progress." replies the Wingman to her Flight Leader.

The phrase _'Pave Penny'_ refers to a heads up cockpit display. During the strafing run all either pilot has to do is bring a Constantly Computed Impact Point, a CCIP or "Death Dot" within her lighted display. To bear on the beams of reflected laser light Special Forces infantrymen on the ground are now pointing at the two separate targets. As soon as the targets are in the death dots. The pilots need only to squeeze down on the cannon triggers embedded near the top of the control sticks between their knees.

The A-10's ballistics computers will take care of the rest. Each plane has a microprocessor buried somewhere behind the collection of gauges in the cockpit dashboard. This device able to hold the point of aim of their cannons right on target, despite moment-to-moment changes in wind drift. And even more subtle changes in the nose attitude, or flying angle, of their planes.

By the words three hundred by three hundred in line, Captain Melvin means the A-10 two-ship is supposed to arrive at the IP moving along at three hundred nautical miles an hour at an altitude of three hundred feet above the ground. The two ship flight holding to a line rather than a wedge formation. With both A-10's side by side and less than four hundred feet apart measured from the Flight Leader's right wingtip to her Wingman's, left wingtip.

Last, the phrase _'Fence Check'_ is an order from One to Two. That both pilots should (F) ready their fire control systems, (E) determine their electronic countermeasures are turned on, (N) have look at their navigation systems, (C) be certain their communications are turned functional, and last, (E) see to it their active emitters, such as Identification Friend Or Foe (IFF) transponders are broadcasting.

With such a tremendous rate of forward air speed, the A-10 Pilots soon find themselves at the Initiation Point, the town of Red Oak. Here they turn left, and continue hurtling through the air side by side. Seconds later they cross the AP, the action point, and begin a twenty degree climb out. Then, with all the grace of a pair of Ballet dancers at the Julliard, both female pilots push forward on the control sticks resting between their knees. Almost immediately, both planes begin to dive down towards the leafy green forest canopy. That is the gunnery range north of Grayling, Michigan.

As soon as the nose of her plane, _'Sky Queen',_ pitches down in the attack dive. Captain Wendy Melvin sees the pinpoint laser beam illuminating her target vehicle. She opens her mouth to speak but decides to wait for her wingman to make the call. It is a test to see if la Fontaine is just as keen and as alert as is she herself. Captain Melvin has not long to wait. A second later, she hears the pilot of _'Air Hammer Babe'_ speaking into her earphones.

"TALLY HO! Flight Leader! Two has target! Twelve O' Clock, four miles distant."

"Permission to fire at two miles plus, Flight Leader?" says Lieutenant la Fontaine to Captain Melvin in a completely professional voice.

Melvin is especially pleased La Fontaine wants to wait until they get in close to begin strafing the vehicles on the ground with cannon shells. That means that even though they are involved in a mere practice run. Her wingman wants all the rounds to fall on the target without risking hits on a friendly emplacement. It is the kind of professional and business like attitude every Flight Leader hopes for in a Wingman.

"Tally Ho! Wingman! One has target south of two. Twelve O' Clock, now three miles out."

Captain Melvin reaches forward and flicks a switch that changes her radio to a channel the Air Force shares with Special Forces Teams on the ground. There is little time to spare, so she speaks rapidly into her microphone.

"Laser's acquired off Pave Penny- ground. Clear to fire?"

The response from the laser designator teams in the forest below comes back in an instant.

"Clear to fire, Lancer 6."

Melvin still has her hand on the radio channel selector so she immediately switches back to the air-to-air frequency and says.

"Fire at will, two. Fire at will!"

A split second later and both women squeeze down on their Gatling gun triggers. The seven barrels of the cannons beneath their feet begin rotating at speeds sufficient to spew out a thousand rounds of ammunition in less than fifteen seconds. Soon, a mix of hot rounds of amour piercing and white phosphorus ammunition roar ahead of the planes and towards their targets on the ground.

Beneath and in front of the planes, in foxholes covered with sandbags a dozen layers thick, two squads of Special Forces infantrymen staff the laser sight devices beamed on the targets hundreds of yards in front of their emplacements. The targets themselves, rusted out stake bed trucks. With their engines left running on full tanks of gasoline. The reason for leaving the engines roaring on idle, that both the women in the air, and the men on the ground, will see first-hand what damage secondary explosions might cause to a lightly armored or even an unarmored vehicle.

The first hand learning experience is not long in coming. Cannon shells designed to pierce the armor of Soviet battle tanks have no problem whatsoever with sheet metal, gasoline tanks, even engine blocks. With hundreds of rounds ramming through the rusting metal targets each second. The laws of chance dictate at least one white phosphorous round has to penetrate a gasoline tank, either sooner or-later.

Obedient to the laws of probability, the gas tank penetrations take place sooner rather than later. While the A-10's roar directly overhead, both vehicles on the ground explode in a flash of blazing gasoline. The blasts accompanied by a baritone chorus of victory shouts from the special-forces men on the ground.

Up in the air, the A-10 pilots look back through their cockpit glass to enjoy the sight of pillars of flame rushing up at them from the ground below. They are pulling out of their dives, and climbing back to three thousand feet. On the way up and out Captain Melvin says.

"Flight Leader off left." then Lieutenant La Fontaine adds.

"Copy Flight Leader, Wingman off right."

While, not yet over- the live-fire, training mission is a complete success. As the men on the ground watch from below, the two pilots bank their planes away from each other. After circling and turning round, Melvin and la Fontaine join up again in a sixty-degree wedge formation. For the leisurely trip, back to Grissom Air Force Base, in Kokomo, Indiana. Seconds after Melvin and La Fontaine form up in their wedge, the Forward Air Control A-10 pulls in along side of the two ship, which is now headed due south at three hundred plus nautical miles an hour. Randy Lapeer keys his microphone with unrestrained enthusiasm and says.

"Good shooting Lancer 6!... Ground reports sixty percent direct hits, secondaries off your phosphorous, smooth egress,... Flight Leader and Wingman!"

Both Wendy Melvin and Roxanne La Fontaine nod their helmeted heads in understanding. Then Captain Melvin speaks into her microphone.

"Acknowledge Control. Lancer 6 returning base!"

Scene 11 Elmer Ain't Been Here In A While

Location: The old neighborhood in Baltimore, Maryland

Stanley Craypool holds the door to the Tip Top Tavern open while Elizabeth Maxwell passes gingerly out to the sidewalk. When Elizabeth wheels around on one-inch heels towards Stanley, Stanley turns back to the dark gloomy interior of the Tip Top tavern and says,

"Thanks anyway!"

Pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk is moderate and polite. Stanley and Elizabeth have only to contend with the noise from passing vehicles, including buses and eighteen wheel tractor-trailers. Elizabeth sees a mix of worry and embarrassment on her escort's face. She smiles a maternal smile at her boy friend and suggests.

"Maybe we should have called your Dad, Stanley?"

"Naaah!" Replies the slender young man wearing brush leather shoes, white socks, horn rimmed eyeglasses and sporting a white plastic pocket liner in his long sleeved shirt pocket.

"I always show up on the Fourth of July.... It's like a family ritual."

Stanley shyly takes Elizabeth's left hand in his right. He points across the street to a recessed doorway, half hidden from view by a cluster of three battered green garbage cans.

"Right over there."

The young man explains to his girlfriend, all the while raising his voice, to carry over the din of the traffic.

Stanley and Elizabeth cross the street and make their way to the dingy doorway. Elizabeth can see the trepidation in her boyfriend's eyes. Her intuition tells her she is the first girl Stanley has brought to his father's home since his divorce of several years previous.

Once in the doorway they are loomed, in on all sides by chipped and fading green paint. The young couple faces a glass-pained door with a jagged diagonal crack jury-rigged with duct tape. Stanley halts with one hand on a loose and rattling doorknob. He turns and looks directly into Elizabeth's eyes. Does she really want to go through with this?

Elizabeth decides it is time to sound optimistic. She smiles brightly.

"Maybe we could order a pizza, Huh, Stanley?"

Stanley realizes Elizabeth is completely sincere about the visit to his father. He recovers his composure, then, pushes the heavy door in with a decisive motion. As the door moves forward, paper flyers make a scrubbing sound under the doorjamb.

With Elizabeth safely inside on the lower landing, Stanley closes the door behind them. The clamoring street noise fades away. Elizabeth glances down to see empty liquor bottles perched on the steps. Stanley lets Elizabeth take the lead up the stairs and mumbles.

"Watch yourself." In, a reference to the empty glass whiskey bottles on the steps.

While mounting the steps both Elizabeth and Stanley are careful not to touch the rickety banister. Despite the gloom that is scarcely relieved by a naked forty-watt light bulb in the ceiling at the top of the stairs. They can see years of accumulated dirt, sediment really, everywhere within reach. At the top of the stairs, a heavy wooden exterior door presents for their inspection.

Elizabeth turns and looks directly into Stanley's eyes. Stanley nods mutely, encouraging her to take the next step. Elizabeth wheels slowly back towards the door and raises her hand to knock.

Scene 12 Inside the Elmer Craypool Residence On The Fourth Of July

Location: An above a drugstore apartment in Baltimore Maryland

Laverne Mostowski stands in the bedroom of her boyfriend Elmer's above the drug store apartment. She faces a large mirror perched above a bulky dresser. With her right hand Laverne sweeps a hairbrush through the heavily hair sprayed strands of her bleach blond hair. The fingers of her left hand clutch a king size filter tipped cigarette. The filter stuck to the exact center of her red painted lips.

Laverne expects Elmer's return at any moment. She is dressed for the ' _boudoir' –_ sheer floor length gown with ruffles at the shoulders in imitation black silk, black panty hose, black lace brassiere, and panties, and bedroom slippers in red with fluffy pom poms above the insteps. She primps, carefully, with deliberate motions. Moving strands of hair this way and that, then inspecting the results in the mirror with a studied air about her.

The light knock at the door comes as a complete surprise to Laverne. Her expression screws up and she mutters a curse word under her breath. Laverne knows the door is open, she expects Elmer to burst through- in his customary bluster. The knock returns. Laverne hears a female voice, muffled by the thickness of the door say- "Mister Craypool?"

With a look of intense irritation, Laverne Mostowski puts her hairbrush down on top of the dresser. Swiftly now, she takes the cigarette out of her mouth with her right hand while picking up an ashtray from the dresser top in her left. With the sound of shoes flopping against the soles of her feet, Laverne rushes out of the bedroom.

The middle age lady passes a heavy walnut dining room table strewn with old newspapers, empty beer cans, high ball glasses, with lip stick marks, and a half open pizza box. A few paces short of the door she comes to an abrupt halt.

There is another polite chorus of light knocking on the door. Once again, Laverne hears a female voice say- "Mister Craypool?"

Laverne puffs nervously on the cigarette. She transfers the butt to her trembling left hand, and walks to the door. Last, she turns the knob and opens the door, a vigilant six inches wide. In the deep gloom on the landing, Laverne sees a young woman and a young man, both peering at her quizzically.

"Yes, what is it?" asks an impatient Laverne of the couple outside her door.

"I'm Elmer's son, Stanley." replies Stanley in a dry voice as his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

There is a moment of silence while Laverne ponders on a course of action. Her brow knits up quizzically.

"Stanley?" says the woman dressed in the sheer black nightgown with black lace undergarments. At last, she opens the door and says.

"Come on in Stanley, your father should be back any time now."

Elizabeth Maxwell and Stanley Craypool step gingerly into the Elmer Craypool residence. They both make an effort not to stare at either Laverne or her surroundings. Elizabeth is relieved to see the interior of the apartment is much cleaner than the hallway. With growing confidence, she notes a clean sheet of linoleum on the kitchen floor, and a living room area rug free from fresh spots and spills.

The view out the kitchen windows at her right hand, however, gives Elizabeth pause. She struggles not to shiver at the sight of heavy iron bars, sturdy insurance against a home invasion, fastened tightly onto the exterior window frames.

Elizabeth smiles at the lace throw covering the lumpy couch dividing the kitchen from the living room. A glance out the wide-open living room windows and through worn curtains flapping in the warm July breeze at her left hand reveals the roof tops of a gaggle of cars rushing down the street. She can clearly see the corner traffic light, just now shining green.

"Once you get inside, its pretty nice." offers Laverne to her reluctant guests.

"The place is kind of cozy, really." says Elizabeth while looking directly at Laverne with smiling eyes.

"Do you kids mind if I smoke?" queries Laverne, while waving her cigarette in the air with cavalier motions. Stanley shakes his head left and right while Elizabeth continues to smile.

"Naah, go ahead." Answers Stanley. "The windows are open." adds Elizabeth in a pert voice. Pleased now, Laverne takes a deep, deep, puff on her cigarette.

Glancing down- Laverne sees the cigarette is nearly down to the filter. With nervous jabbing gestures, she extinguishes the cigarette inside the glass ashtray in her left hand. Next, she turns and places the ashtray on the dining room tabletop. When she turns back on her flapping bedroom slippers Laverne looks directly at Stanley.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Stanley honey?" Stanley's brow knits up in wonder until he catches on. He briskly replies.

"Elizabeth Maxwell. My girlfriend." In spite of her years there is a girlish look in Laverne's heavily made up eyes, she turns her head towards Elizabeth and asks.

"Where did you two meet?" Elizabeth smiles coyly before she answers.

"I started going to GENSA meetings when I moved to Washington."

"Two geniuses out on a date! That must be something!" observes Laverne, in a struggle to be charming.

Just then, a clamor out in the hallway interrupts the awkward three-way conversation. First, the street level door slamming shut, next heavy foot falls on the squeaking stairs. Last, they hear a loud, raspy, middle age, male voice.

"COMING THROUGH LAVERNE! OPEN THE HATCH! COMING THROUGH!"

As Laverne, Elizabeth, and Stanley stand facing the doorway- an elderly man, nearly seventy years old kicks the door wide open with his foot. The stocky man wears a dark green crew neck t-shirt with a pocket over the left breast. His sturdy cotton trousers are a medium shade of grey. His heavy black shoes sport thick soles and carefully tied laces.

As the old man passes into the confines of the one bedroom apartment, he carries a case of twenty-four cans, sixteen ounces each, of generic beer on his left shoulder. The bulky beer can burden obscures the elderly gentleman's view to his left. He fails to notice the presence of either Stanley, his prodigal son, or Elizabeth, Stanley's girlfriend.

Elmer Craypool marches to the dining room table and lowers his prize of beer cans down to the Irish linen tablecloth. Swiftly now, with a flourish, he pops the lids on two cans. Mister Craypool flexes his right elbow, and takes a gulp from the can in his right hand. After standing there in triumph for a moment he wheels about, a grin spread from ear to ear. His eyes twinkling behind silver rimmed glasses.

"Bottoms Up! Lovvie!" cackles Elmer to Laverne in a lewd and loud manner. Then, at the sight of his neatly dressed son, and Stanley's attractive blond haired companion, Elmer Craypool freezes in his steps. He leers a little bit at Elizabeth, then, regains his composure, and shouts at Laverne.

"That's the kid, Laverne! That's my boy Stanley!"

Laverne Mostowski leans forward and takes her can of beer from Elmer's outstretched hand. She sips from the open can with reserved motions, as if it were a brandy snifter. Then she lowers the can to her waist and firmly and softly explains.

"They both belong to GENSA, Elmer. Her name is Elizabeth."

"GENSA!" shouts Elmer at the top of his voice. "Still pushing the egghead routine, kid?"

Stanley Craypool feels just as embarrassed as challenged by his father's bluster. While it is obvious that the older man loves his son without reservation, it is just as clear that Elmer intends to dominate Stanley in every situation until the last day of his life. Given the pressure, Stanley feels now, he cannot help but rise up to the challenge. Who will be the top dog in the kennel?

"I'm working for the C.I.A., now, Elmer. Elizabeth is a linguist at the National Security Agency."

Elmer Craypool cringes when his son Stanley speaks to him in what he feels is a too familiar manner. He blinks and then shrugs his shoulders in disbelief.

"What happened to Electrical Engineer, kid?"

Stanley takes a deep breath and then begins to narrate.

"I went down to South American on a mission with my C.I.A. buddies. We shot it out with Alberto Nayari, a big drug dealer."

Elmer Craypool takes a long sip from his can of beer. He stares at the shiny aluminum surface of the top, searching for wisdom. Then he marches elbows out towards Stanley with a scowl on his face. A calculated bit of stage business designed to intimidate. Laverne and Elizabeth's eyes shine with fear.

Elmer waves his index finger under his son's nose with angry motions. He screams-

"GUN BATTLE! A PUNK KID LIKE YOU IN A GUN BATTLE?"

Elizabeth can think of nothing to say. She and Stanley have not been dating long enough for her to know whether Stanley is telling the truth. Given Elmer's confrontational nature, Stanley might be stretching reality a fair distance, she realizes. Laverne glances back and forth from one member of the tense trio to the next. Most of her men were alcoholics; she knows what to say to defuse the situation.

"It's the fourth, of July, Elmer honey, the kids are here for a visit."

Elmer Craypool swings his shoulders towards his live in girl friend. Still with righteous indignation fueling a too loud voice, he rasps.

"Don't Elmer me on this one, Laverne!"

Laverne opens her mouth to speak more words of conciliation but it is too late. Elmer turns back to go toe to toe with Stanley. Now the beer can wobbles up and down, along with the index finger.

"Lying is what you always did. Lying and fighting your father."

Stanley blushes deeply and looks down at the floor. Nothing- it seems will bring a halt to his father's fury. Elmer sees the wounded look on his son's face. He wants more, he launches into a tirade.

"IT WAS GONNA BE INVENTIONS! INVENTIONS AND PATENTS! THAT'S WHAT IT WAS GONNA BE! REMEMBER THAT?"

Silence pervades the one bedroom apartment above the drug store in inner city Baltimore. Through the living room windows, out the corner of her eye, Elizabeth Maxwell sees the traffic light turn from yellow to red. She inches forward and takes Stanley's arm in hers.

"Maybe we should have called first, Stanley." Says Elizabeth in a voice filled with concern and sympathy. Laverne halts midway through a long and delicate sip on her can of beer. She adds.

"Labor day I could barbecue on the back porch. Do you kids eat ribs?"

Laverne sees Elmer, Stanley, and Elizabeth standing before her in silence. She walks to the door in her floppy red slippers. As she turns to face the tense trio, Elizabeth begins to nudge Stanley out of his fathers' reach and towards the door.

"Labor Day it is then." Says Laverne brightly. "You kids have an invite for Labor Day."

Soon Elizabeth and Stanley are outside the door. Elizabeth turns back to see Laverne's face peering at her through a six-inch space between the door and the doorjamb.

"Thank you Mrs. Craypool, we'd love to visit on Labor Day."

Laverne cringes at the assumption of familiarity in Elizabeth's voice. Scolding now, she replies.

"Mostowski, Laverne Mostowski, young lady, Elmer and I are just dating."

Elizabeth blushes and opens her mouth to apologize to Laverne but it is too late. The door closes swiftly and firmly in her face. Elizabeth and Stanley walk slowly down the steps- towards the noisy automobile traffic and sunlight out on the avenue. Soon they pass through the exterior door with the cracked glass pane held together by duct tape.

The last thing they hear from the apartment above the drug store is Elmer's, raspy voice shouting through the living room windows.

"GUN BATTLE MY ASS!"... "HE'LL NEVER BE THE MAN I AM! NEVER!"

Both Elizabeth and Stanley glance reflexively up towards the window. For a long wistful moment, they watch worn Irish linen curtains, waving this way and that out of the Craypool residence living room windows in the warm July breeze.

Scene 13 Naadi Baspinar Reviews the Physical Evidence

Location: Faculty party at the home of Professor Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami the Amiriyah District, Baghdad Iraq

As might be expected for a man of his stature, the six-bedroom three-bath ranch style home of the Baghdad University Physics Department Chairman- Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami is spacious, airy, and well appointed. One of the long walls of the living room is given-over to plate glass. Moreover, there are sliding glass doors in the plate glass wall leading out to a patio-courtyard. The courtyard concealed from the eyes of neighbors by a ten foot high poured concrete fence.

In consultation with her interior decorator, Mrs. Al Khayyami decided on boxy couches and chairs covered with plush velour fabrics for the living room. For the courtyard, she went with concrete, and flagstone. The masonry and stone set off with a hot tub size pond holding ornamental goldfish and a young orange tree. The orange tree potted in a wooden tub with a shiny brass ring around its waist.

For as tempting as were the oranges in the orange tree, none of the guests at the Saturday afternoon faculty party partook of the hanging fruit. This because Mrs. Al Khayyami had taken the precaution of filling tables in the living room and courtyard with enough middle-eastern delights to capture the undivided attention of all of her guests. There are huge ornate tureens filled to the brim with morsels of mesgouf, portions of fish flesh roasted in clay ovens by her Shi'ite servants. Moreover, huge oval serving plates heaped with pyramids of beef shish kebabs.

In addition to the staples on the menu, each table groans under the weight of two wicker baskets filled with fruits such as dates, grapes, pomegranates, and pineapples. Last, there are ten bottles of Champaign, each standing ice cold in its own frosty brass ice bucket. The bottles accompanied by dozens of elegant Champaign glasses turned upside down on expensive linen napkins. Muslim law forbids alcohol consumption, of course.

Accordingly, the guests limit themselves to tasting the delicious liquid without actually consuming. Tasting alcohol is a well developed, and carefully cultivated skill amongst the wealthy and privileged Iraqi's, living in Baghdad, the word _'Baghdad'_ due to the Persian and Kurdish people and meaning, roughly, _"given by God"._

To an outside observer, looking in on the party from above, there is no doubt the locale for the party is somewhere in the middle east. As while there are, indeed, women in tight woolen dresses with heels and men in suits, sport coats, shirts, and ties. Easily half the women dress in orthodox Arab garb. Glancing about one can see someone's girlfriend, wife, mother, or mother in law, wearing either, a Jordanian Jilbab, a Moroccan Abaya, or, in rare instances, even a very expensive, embroidered Saudi Thobe.

Yet despite the fact, these garments carry an air of the traditional and the solemn about them. Still it is clear the party is nothing less than a festive-occasion. For if, the get together at the Al Khayyami's had been for spiritual purposes, say a prayer meeting. The women would have covered their heads with two piece religious veils, 'Al Amira's', or concealed their faces completely under Burqa's.

Here again, on the issue of feminine headgear, the demographics went about half and-half. Half the women making a European or American style display of their expensive hair do's, the other half electing to flirt with the world from under stylish Georgette Shawls.

Clothing styles among the men at the faculty party split up in about the same ratios as with the women, although, for the men, there seems no predictive pattern within the same family. An associate professor might be dressed in an Arabian Jubba, as he spoke with an assistant professor wearing either: a three-piece suit, a sport coat, or a shirt and tie and an Arabian Shora, atop his head. Yet, the odds were about even the wives of the two men would either be garbed as Arabs, else as westerners.

Thus, if you saw two couples making small talk while sipping Champaign. There was no guarantee the man and the woman in flowing robes were husband and wife and the man and the woman in Brooks Brothers and Younkers were likewise married to each other. It might very well have been the other way round.

Naadi Baspinar stands in the courtyard, in the space between the orange tree and the gold fishpond. Next to him in a loose circle, his family members, brother in law Kairallah Karaman, sister Lahib, and his eleven-year-old niece, Euphrates. At the dinner, table Friday night before the party. The Baspinar – Karaman family decided by majority rule vote, they would wear traditional Muslim clothes to the faculty party.

They made this decision out of respect for Professor Lakhdar Al Khayyami and his ultra orthodox Sunni beliefs. Moreover, out of the hope strict obedience to Muslim law would lead to the most swift, most direct, path to tenure for uncle Naadi. Accordingly Naadi and Kairallah sport pastel Arabian Jubba's, Lahib wears a modest Moroccan Abaya, in desert shades of orange and red, and daughter Euphrates looks resplendent in a brand new Salwar Kameez.

A moment or two earlier Mrs. Al Khayyami walked up to their circle and begun an animated conversation with Euphrates. While the adults stood in an anticipatory, respectful, silence, Champaign glass in one hand and a Muslim pastry in the other. Mrs. Al Khayyami leans down towards the eleven year old with both hands on her knees.

"Will you stay with us for the summer, Euphrates?" asks the wife of the Physics Department Chairman, Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami.

Euphrates eleven-year old heart feels divided. While fascinated by the gold fish in the pond, and the many elegant shopping malls in Baghdad, still she yearns for her friends in Basra. Euphrates looks up into the warm, grandmotherly eyes of the older woman dressed in a Jordanian Jilbab, with a Turkish Gauze Hijab covering her hair, and replies.

"My parents have not told me, Mrs. Al Khayyami."

Kairallah Karaman realizes Mrs. Khayyami is offering his family refuge from the inevitable war with the western powers. Yet, in common with most Iraqi men, Kairallah believes the western armies will never push their way onto the soil of his country. Thus, with his thick pencil mustache waving proudly, Kairallah interjects.

"Respectfully, Mrs. Al Khayyami, All my drivers have rifles in their trucks."

Mrs. Al Khayyami remains bent over with her hands atop her knees but turns her head up to look at Euphrates zealous father, Kairallah.

"You can stay here, with my husband and I, Kairallah. Euphrates could have her own room."

Lahib Kairallah, Naadi Baspinar's younger sister, Kairallah's wife, shakes her head and says.

"I signed a contract for the summer semester, Mrs. Al Khayyami."

Mrs. Al Khayyami slowly stands up straight and lets her arms drop to her sides. As everyone but Euphrates knows, she lost a son to the war with Iran in 1985. Consequently, the trepidation etched on her face is very real and very first hand. In a world-weary voice, eye to eye with Kairallah's wife, Mrs. Al Khayyami says.

"How can there not be another in Basra to teach fifth grade, Lahib?"

Kairallah is not happy with the look of fear and terror working its way from Mrs. Al Khayyami's heart into the hearts and minds of his wife and daughter. While shaking his empty Champaign glass back and forth for emphasis he counters.

"What happened to the American's in Viet Nam?"

"They will not get as far north as Zubayr, let alone Basra!"

Mrs. Al Khayyami's eyes begin to tear and her voice goes very sad.

"The war with Iran had nothing to do with logic, Mister Kairallah. Death was as a cloud, not a lightning bolt from Allah."

Naadi Baspinar sees the tension building between his brother in law and the wife of the Chairman of the Baghdad University Physics Department. He begins to think it might be time to mention something of the secret weapons the Iraqi's possess, of which, he believes the west knows nothing.

"Thanks to your husband, Mrs. Al Khayyami, the hanging gardens are secured behind an impenetrable wall."

Mrs. Al Khayyami knows vaguely of her husbands' efforts on behalf of the Kingdom of Iraq with beam weapons. She also knows, for the beam weapons to repel an invading army they must remain a complete secret. Now the aged woman turns slowly to come face to face with Naadi Baspinar.

"Especially in our home, Naadi, my husband says nothing of weapons of war."

Naadi Baspinar blushes at the polite rebuke. While he tries to think of something to say to mollify his overbold comment. Hani Abu Sankaya, the officer in the Mukhabarat he had met in the al-Jadriyah restaurant a few days ago, walks right up and into the conversation.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Al Khayyami." says Hani Abu in a very respectful tone. "Professor Al Khayyami is ready now."

"I'll just be a moment." explains Naadi Baspinar to the people in his family circle. Then he nods obediently at Mr. Sankaya. Sankaya quickly nods back, but all can see his brow knitted up in a look of impatience and irritation. Quite clearly, Naadi Baspinar is not as obedient as he should be to please his masters. With that terse exchange, the two men quickly depart the sunny courtyard and make their way through the plate glass sliding doors and into the shade of the living room.

Naadi falls behind Hani Abu as he places his empty Champaign glass down on a table and throws his napkin in a wastebasket. Soon the two men stand at the door to a large bedroom that serves as Professor Al Khayyami's home office and study. Hani Abu Sankaya puts one hand on the doorknob. Then he turns to look directly at Naadi Baspinar.

"At most, Baspinar. At most, you have four weeks. Four weeks and no more."

Sankaya waits until he sees his words register with the Associate Professor of Physics at Baghdad University. Then he works the doorknob and swiftly crosses the threshold into the gloomy room.

Baspinar's heart pounds wildly as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the bedroom converted to a study. Soon he recognizes the elderly form of Lakhdar Al Khayyami, eyes twinkling behind thick plastic glasses, head adorned in an Arabian Shora, moving towards him from around his desk with an outstretched hand.

Naadi swallows and reluctantly raises his hand to accept the greeting from his physics department chairman. As the two men shake hands, Al Khayyami says warmly.

"So your sister Lahib will be staying with us, Naadi, and Kairallah, and Euphrates?"

Naadi Baspinar blinks and swallows on a dry mouth. His head swivels around as if on a greased pivot. He feels a good deal more like a sacrificial lamb than an academic colleague. Behind him, Naadi recognizes the bulky form of Hani Abu Sankaya's bodyguard. Deeper still in the shadows stands another man Naadi has not seen before.

"Nothing's for certain, Professor Al Khayyami. My sister might be summer school teaching this year." replies the younger man to his supervisor.

Al Khayyami has no trouble whatsoever picking up-on the young man's discomfiture. He holds onto his fatherly smile and tactfully changes the subject.

"Well then, let's turn to the problem at hand, my worthy son, Naadi."

With that, Al Khayyami drops the younger man's hand and walks back to the opposite side of the desk behind which he had been sitting when Naadi and Hani Abu made their reluctant way into the dark room. As Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami raises a manila-file folder off the top of his desk and bends the folder, open. The other men in the room move in reflexively towards the desk.

The edges of his Arabian Shora Headdress flop on his shoulders and chest as Al Khayyami turns an eight by ten inch color photograph so Baspinar can see it. Then Al Khayyami begins to speak.

"This is the first photograph of my American protégé, my secret admirer, as it were."

Glancing down Naadi sees a picture of a slender man walking a black and tan Saluki hound on a leash down the sidewalk of an expensive neighborhood. He notes the cars parked at the edge of the curb are all of American manufacture. Peering more intently, he sees the man walking the dog wears thick eyeglasses and he carries a small canvas athletic bag in his left hand. Hani Abu Sankaya begins to elaborate.

"The embassy people in Washington noticed him walking his dog at all hours in front of our building, Professor Baspinar."

"They followed him from the embassy to his home and from his home to work. Then we knew he was an employee of the Grand Corporation."

Now Al Khayyami puts the photograph down on his desk as if it were an article of evidence for a grand jury's perusal. Then he goes to the folder for a second time and pulls out another eight by-ten photograph.

This second photograph the Physics Department Chairman displays as the first. Here, Naadi sees the same man closing the door to his four-door automobile in a parking lot located in front of the Grand Corporation, in Washington, DC.

Naadi Baspinar's mouth drops open. He is about to say something, when Hani Abu Sankaya speaks out in the dead silence of the room.

"It's much worse than that, Baspinar. Much worse. Show him the next picture." says Hani Abu Sankaya to Professor Lakhdar Al Khayyami in a hissing voice.

Al Khayyami's eyes cloud over and he lets out with a sigh of frustration. He puts the second photo down next to the first and goes back to the folder for a third photograph. Naadi bends forward and peers at the third photograph. Then he flatly says.

"I see the same man sitting on a park bench, perhaps he is eating lunch."

"What does he have in his hands, Naadi? Look closer!" urges Al Khayyami.

Baspinar leans forward and brings his nose to within a few inches of the eight by-ten photograph. His head moves to-and-fro. Then he stands up and says.

"I can make out a radio or a compact disc player."

Hani Abu Sankaya inches close to Naadi Baspinar. He hisses.

"It is not just a radio. It is a scanner radio, frequency hopping!"

Baspinar's eyes blink as the weight of the visual evidence begins to sink in. He knows how critical a differential there was between a casual radio and a scanning device. Consequently, he wants more proof than just the word of a Mukhabarat Officer, a man whom might naturally be inclined to build castles in the air as a means of furthering his own career.

"How do you know this?" replies Baspinar to Sankaya in a voice laced with skepticism.

Sankaya grins from ear to ear. He swiftly turns to the Physics Department Chairman and says.

"Show him the next photographs, Professor!"

Professor Al Khayyami breaks into a smile that soon infects every man in the room but Naadi Baspinar. Quickly now, he pulls two more photos out of the folder and after lowering the file folder to the desktop, stands there with a photograph in each hand.

Al Khayyami shakes the photo in his right hand lightly. From just behind Baspinar the muscle bound young bodyguard explains.

"Look closely, Baspinar. You can see the antenna to the radio has a right angle bend. No casual radio comes with such a feature."

Baspinar turns rapidly towards the bodyguard standing behind him. Then he turns back to peer intently at the now still photograph in front of his nose.

At once, Baspinar realizes a Mukhabarat agent has captured this new picture off a very powerful telephoto lens. With the added magnification, he can clearly make out the radio perched flat on the slender man's thigh, and the antenna projecting straight up into the air. Curiously, there seemed to be a wire extending out of the radio, though the picture is not sharp enough to be certain.

"I see the right angle antenna." concedes Naadi. Then he pokes his finger against the print and asks. "What is the blur?"

Al Khayyami puts the print down on the desktop and brings the picture in his other hand into Baspinar's near vision range. Baspinar sees an even closer view of the man's head. It is obvious the man had an earphone in his ear. Thus, the blur in the previous shot had to be a wire connecting the radio to the ear bud in the interloper's right ear.

"Now I can see the blur is a wire connecting the radio to an earphone. What of it?"

"The park bench is less than a kilometer distant from our embassy." adds the tall and muscle bound bodyguard. "That particular scanner radio can receive analog cell phone calls."

Naadi Baspinar slowly rose to his full height. Hani Abu Sankaya can see traces of skepticism around the thirty eight year old physics professor's eyes. Sankaya scoops a magazine off the top of Professor Al Khayyami's desktop and begins riffling the pages in a hurried manner. Baspinar's eyes catch the rapid motion. He sees the title of the magazine, which reads in English: WIDE WORLD OF RADIO. Then, very quickly, Sankaya holds the magazine open to a particular page and points with his blunt fingertip.

Baspinar sees Sankaya holding the magazine open to a monthly feature. Aloud he reads.

"Utility Frequencies, Embassies and Military Bases Round The World."

Sankaya nods his head up and down with real urgency. He hisses.

"Which frequencies, Baspinar!... Which frequencies!"

Naadi Baspinar's face screws up as he tilts his head slightly, to-and-fro, while peering at the printed page. Then he looks directly into Sankaya's hot eyes and concedes.

"Someone has underlined our embassy short wave frequencies in ball point pen."

"Not just _someone,_ Baspinar." hisses Sankaya in a rising manic voice.

Sankaya closes the magazine and points again with a stabbing finger at the address label on the cover. Naadi Baspinar needs no urging. Again, he reads aloud.

"Stanley Warren Craypool, Silver Springs, Maryland."

"We found the magazine in the trash can behind his house!... Now do you believe?!"

Sankaya's voice is loud, insistent, and triumphant.

Having reviewed all the evidence with his own eyes it is actually not too difficult for Professor Baspinar to imagine this harmless looking man with the thick glasses and the too prominent Adam's apple running an electronic surveillance against the Iraqi embassy in Washington. Perhaps out of direct orders from the Central Intelligence Agency. Whether or no the stranger's efforts had compromised Al Khayyami's secret beam weapon research remains an unanswered question, a question calling for urgent exploration. Naadi Baspinar realizes there is no turning back.

"I will not be a Chicago style gangster!" says Baspinar in a firm voice to everyone in the quiet study.

Just then, the other gentleman who stood back in the shadows of the room with the bodyguard steps forward into the light. Baspinar is afraid to turn his head. He glances at the man out of the corner of his wide eyes. The man from the shadow says flatly.

"I will break his neck for you. At worst it will look like a home robbery gone bad."

Baspinar slowly turns to look into the eyes of the man who had just volunteered his services. Then he hears a rustling noise behind him. Baspinar turns further back and sees Sankaya holding a Hajj, or pilgrimage belt, a kind of a money wallet in his left hand, as if it were a freshly caught trophy fish.

"Ten thousand dollars, American. Pakistani passport. Pakistani driver's license. List of phone numbers." Sankaya reads out the items one by one as he stuffs them sequentially into the pocket of the money belt. Next, he closes the zipper of the pocket on the wallet with a decisive sweep of his right hand. Last, he thrusts the belt out towards Naadi Baspinar, the untenured associate Physics Professor and says.

"You have not one moment to spare, Baspinar. Not one moment."

CHAPTER 2 MAKE READY FOR ALL OUT WAR

An A-10 Two Ship Soars Through The Clouds

Quote from af.mil: "Information presented on Airforce Link is considered public information and may be distributed or copied. Use of appropriate byline photo image credits is requested." ... "Picture prepared for www.af.mil/photos by Senior Airman Greg L. Davis. ... This image or file is a work of a U.S. Air Force Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal government, the image or file is in the public domain."

Scene 14 Mission De-Brief, the 404th Combat Air Support A-10 Squadron

Location: Briefing Room of the 404th CAS Squadron, Grissom Air Force Base, Kokomo, Indiana

Stateside at least, Air Force mission briefing rooms always include plush leather executive chairs set off with brushed aluminum frames for the air crewmembers. The reason for this, the most effective way to get a pilot to perceive himself a member of an elite fighting force, is to surround him with the trappings of military life at its best. A pilot has to view himself as a man on a mission, as _'man on a mission'_ is what he really is. You could no more order a pilot to sit on a canvas chair during a mission preflight or a mission de-briefing, than order a supreme-court justice to ride to court on a unicycle.

Colonel Curtis Parmelee, Commander, the 404th Combat Air Support Squadron, stands next to the podium at the front of the room. His left elbow perched on the right hand corner edge of the sturdy lectern. The fingers of his right and left hands casually interlaced. Behind him on the blackboard, Parmelee had written the words: OBSERVE, ORIENT, DECIDE, ACT. Out of a reverence for the teachings of John Boyd, a retired Air Force Pilot, whose career spanned the wars in Korea and Viet Nam.

Just to the extent people referred to Boyd as colorful, some would go so far as to say flamboyant. Just to that extent, Parmelee was way out diplomatic on the opposite end of the dealing with people and relationships scale. Nevertheless, Parmelee felt the Air Force would never have bought up a purpose built combat air support airplane. The mighty A-10, had it not been for the pressures brought to bear on the pentagon by John Boyd.

Parmelee believes, without Boyd, the higher ups in the defense department would have continued the tradition of delegating air to ground support missions to airplanes no longer fast enough or maneuverable enough for air-to-air combat. Consequently, Parmelee religiously copies Boyd's teachings, while personally avoiding Boyd's style.

From his front row seat vantage point, Captain Randall 'Randy' Lapeer sees that in addition to Boyd's five commandments, Parmelee has written the following phrases under the word: NOTAMS (Notices To Airmen).

1.Abort Codes.

2.Wedge Formation- Full Sixty Degrees (Israeli Split or B'nai Formation)

Randy swivels his head around in his seat. He tries to get Roxanne's attention, but the young lady's demeanor is all professional pilot this afternoon. While Randy smiles at Roxanne, Roxanne keeps her eyes fixed on the blackboard behind Colonel Parmelee.

"Abort Codes, ladies and gentlemen. I can't emphasize enough. Don't count on digital encrypted to secure your communications."

"It's nothing at all for someone to steal a radio on an airbase overseas. Be certain of your abort codes. All a hostile has to do is speak English and know how to use a cell phone with pre-programmed talk groups. They can be in our communications in nothing flat."

Lectures Colonel Curtis Parmelee from his rightful post at the head of the room.

Parmelee brings his right hand up to his lips and clears his throat. He twists about at the waist to check the last item on his list on the blackboard. Then he turns back to face the men and women in the room and says.

"Reserves First Lieutenant La Fontaine."

First Lieutenant Roxanne Denise La Fontaine gets red in the face. She wonders if she should stand at attention. Is she going to get a grilling?

"Yes sir, Colonel Parmelee, Sir." answers the Air Force Reserves Pilot from Detroit Michigan, to the Squadron Commander of the Active Duty Unit.

Roxanne decides to put both hands on the arms of her plush leather chair. As the gesture will make it appear, she is ready to leap to her feet if the Squadron Commander orders her to do so.

"Remain seated, Lieutenant." says Colonel Parmelee.

"Yes Sir, Colonel Parmelee, Sir." replies Roxanne in as brisk a voice as she can muster. Then she folds her arms on her lap.

"Lieutenant La Fontaine. Do you know why the 404th always flies sixty degree wedge formations?" asks the commander of the female pilot.

Roxanne shakes her head. Then she replies.

"Thirty degree wedges are standard at undergraduate and graduate school, Colonel Parmelee, Sir."

Parmelee nods his head to concede a worthwhile point to the young female pilot. Then he counters by saying.

"If Hussein's armies storm Kuwait, La Fontaine, where are we headed?"

Roxanne knows the name of the Air Base in Saudi Arabia they will occupy if the 404th goes overseas. An Nafud. But she is reluctant to reply, as she feels the question holds deeper implications. Consequently, she sits mute, her face growing more bright red with every passing moment.

Randy Lapeer raises his hand in the awkward silence, and then begins speaking without waiting for Colonel Parmelee's permission.

"Colonel Parmelee, Sir. Begging your pardon, Colonel. Lieutenant La Fontaine wouldn't know anything about Israeli Forward Air Controllers, Sir."

Parmelee nods his head again. Then he smiles and while looking directly at Captain Lapeer says.

"That's half the answer, Lapeer. Any one have the other half?"

"Colonel Parmelee, Sir." Wendy Melvin raises her hand for permission to speak.

"Go ahead Captain Melvin." replies the Colonel.

"The Israeli Air Force flies sixty degree wedges because it's easy to maneuver from a sixty to a tandem and drop two bomb loads, one after the other." offers the female Captain with the short blond hair.

"Exactly." says the Colonel with a triumphant grin. "We fly Israeli wedges to get used to Israeli Split or B'nai formations."

"In the middle east, Lieutenant la Fontaine, your Forward Air Control is likely to be an Israeli Pilot or Israeli Special Forces trooper on the ground."

Roxanne La Fontaine is beginning to regain her composure. It is now clear she has not made a mistake. Rather she was merely unaware of a nuance unique to the active duty tactics of the 404th.

"Yes sir, Colonel Parmelee Sir. Thank you sir for the clarification."

Says Roxanne La Fontaine from her seat a few rows back of Randy Lapeer.

Colonel Curtis Parmelee drops his hands to his sides. While grinning, a grin of obvious satisfaction with both the mission and the men and women on his team he says.

"Dismissed, ladies and gentlemen. Dismissed."

The Colonel breaks off his military brace posture, and collects a soft-sided leather briefcase from up off the table at the front of the first row of seats. Then he speedily makes for the exit door, walking briskly up the center aisle. After the sound of his footsteps disappear; out the double doors at the rear of the auditorium. The pilots turn their heads to be certain the commander is out of the room.

Then they rise to their feet, stiff with the tension of military business as usual. After a brisk walk, Captain Randall Aaron Lapeer corners Lieutenant Roxanne Denise La Fontaine at the bottleneck of uniformed pilots just inside of the exit doors.

"I'm Randy Lapeer, Lieutenant La Fontaine. Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?"

Roxanne can see the hound dog ardor in Randy's eyes but her instincts tell her to make him wait. He is too forward, too sure of himself. It was too much like one of those old movies starring Clark Gable that her mother loves to watch on cable television.

"I'm _Lieutenant_ Roxanne La Fontaine, _Captain_ Lapeer." says Roxanne to Randy in a tone calculated to deflate his ego.

"I already have a boyfriend."

Randy Lapeer is anything but timid. He quickly replies.

"Your gonna get an active duty contract with the 404th, Lieutenant."

Roxanne gives out with a startle gesture in spite of her efforts to remain in control.

"How do you know that?" she asks in a brisk and pleasantly surprised voice.

"I was Forward Air Control on your strafing run this morning." answers Lapeer.

Roxanne is starting to feel like a thirteen year old just handed a perfect report card. She wants to tease the guy with the perfect shoulders who is hovering over her, oblivious to the pedestrian traffic surrounding the both of them.

"What does that do?" replies Roxanne in an impish voice.

Randy throws his shoulders back slightly. It is obvious he admires Roxanne's skills as a combat pilot.

"I told Parmelee you held off firing until you were well inside three nautical miles. The Colonel wants pilots who worry about civilian casualties."

Roxanne Denise La Fontaine can think of nothing to say. From the moment she landed her plane she worried, she might be dressed down for being too cautious about where she placed her cannon shells. Now she knows the man of her dreams had been flying at her side all morning long, and that he admired her style. Moreover, that her style had just landed her an active duty contract! There was only one thing for her to say.

"I told you, _Captain_ Lapeer. I already have a boyfriend."

With that decisive put down, Roxanne turns away from Randy and rushes out through the doors- intent on catching up with her Flight Leader, Captain Wendy Melvin.

Scene 15 Sometimes a Little Girl Needs To Talk With Her Priest

Location: Roxanne La Fontaine's room at the visiting officers quarters on Grissom Air Force Base, Kokomo, Indiana

Father Arnold sits at his desk in his office in the rectory of Saint Didacus Catholic church, in Aspen Hill, Maryland. It is nine in the evening, the sun just recently set. All the light in the room comes from a brass lamp with a conical green shade at the right hand side of the blotter on the desk. Although it is quite unlikely a parishioner might stop by for a word or some counseling at this late hour, still the good Priest wears his clerical collar.

Father Arnold sits there chewing his lower lip. He thumbs a bible with the meaty fingers of his left hand. While he make notes on a yellow pad of paper with a ball-point pen balanced in the fingers of his right hand. Tomorrow morning Sunday, at 10:00 O' Clock sharp, he has a sermon to deliver. Still by nine in the evening, Saturday, the good Father has a long ways to go.

When the phone rings, Father Arnold sighs. An expression of annoyance spreads across his face. He puts his pen down on the blotter and leans back in the chair to stretch the muscles in his burly arms and back. Then he reaches forward and grasps the handset of the telephone on his desk in his left hand.

"Saint Didacus Church, Father Arnold speaking." says the Priest into the microphone.

First Lieutenant Roxanne Denise La Fontaine lays on her bed in her room in the Visiting Officers Quarters on Grissom Air Force Base. Roxanne is flat on her stomach, arms around both pillows, the channel changer remote dangling in the fingers of her right hand. Her beautiful eyes moving back and forth from the picture tube in the television set against the wall to the alarm clock resting on the top of the television.

The clock shows eight in the evening. Roxanne knows full well, it is nine in the Washington DC, community. If she is going to call, she had better call soon. Roxanne sighs. She presses down on the power button on the remote in her hand and the television screen fades to black grey. Roxanne drops the remote to the rug on the floor. Next, she curls around and sits up with her back to the headboard of her bed. She takes one of the pillows in her arms and places it behind her that she might sit up in comfort. The second pillow remains clutched in her arms. Pretty-much fulfilling, the role of a jury-rigged teddy bear.

The young lady reaches to the night table at her bedside and brings the phone next to her thigh on the bed. Then she reaches for her purse, and puts the purse in her lap. A few seconds rummaging about in the purse and a tiny address book appears in her hands. Roxanne brings the handset of the phone up to her ear. She opens the address book and soon begins dialing a number in Aspen Hill, Maryland.

When the call goes through Roxanne says.

"May I speak to Father Arnold, Please."

The burly Priest on the other end of the line does not recognize the voice.

"This is Father Arnold speaking." he says in a completely open manner.

"This is Roxanne La Fontaine, Father Arnold. Do you still remember me?"

Father Arnold leans forward in his hard wooden chair. His eyes sparkling behind wire rimmed reading glasses.

"Roxanne! How's the girl?!" Roxanne lets out a sigh of relief. She quickly replies.

"I'm on Grissom Air Force Base, Father Arnold."

"Are you still in the reserves, Roxanne?" queries the Priest of his former parishioner.

"Not after today, Father. The Air Force gave me an active duty contract!"

Father Arnold is, of course a Lieutenant in the Marine Corps Reserves. Thus, he understands how completely happy Roxanne is at the-moment.

"What are they going to have you do, Roxanne?" asks the Priest.

"Still flying A-10's. But with the 404th Squadron." replies Roxanne in a voice that is now excited and a little bit girlish in tone.

Father Arnold leans back in his chair and begins to scratch the top of his head with the nails on the fingertips of his right hand. He feels proud.

Roxanne pauses while she screws up her courage to get to the issue weighing in on her heart. After a lengthy pause, she says.

"Do you remember my boyfriend Lenny, Father? Lenny Pingatore?"

"Of course I remember Lenny!... I even remember the name of your band, Roxanne. The Motor City Air Hammers!" replies the Priest with a grin from ear to ear.

"Well, you know Lenny and I are still going steady but he doesn't want to get engaged. Did you know that father?"

Father Arnold leans forward in his chair. He puts his elbows down on the desktop while he ponders over just the right words. Finally, he offers.

"You're still a good Catholic girl, Roxanne. You can have a boyfriend."

Roxanne shakes her head and squeezes down on the pillow in her arms. She is starting to feel comfortable and relaxed. A little animated now, she says.

"But what if another guy wants to go out with me, Father?"

Now Father Arnold has the whole picture. There is no reason for him to hesitate.

"What would you want Lenny to say to you if he wanted to go out with someone else?"

Roxanne sighs and her brow wrinkles up in frustration.

"But what if the other guy wants to go out with me like Lenny, but doesn't want to get married?"

Father Arnold leans a little closer into the handset of the telephone. His tone goes severe as he replies.

"The new guy isn't married, is he Roxanne?"

Roxanne shakes her head anxiously as if she were in the confessional booth along with her favorite, her one and only priest.

"No Father Arnold!... It's nothing like that!"

Father Arnold drops his right hand to the desktop. The he lays down the rules.

"If a good Catholic girl wants to date two guys she has to tell both guys it's not serious. Then she can date two guys, Roxanne."

Roxanne feels completely relieved. She has the word from on high.

"When are you coming back to Detroit, Father Arnold?" she asks wistfully of the Priest.

Father Arnold shakes his massive head from side to side. His mind fills with images of the shouting match he had had with the Arch Bishop that led to his transfer from Detroit to Washington.

"When is rock music going to be part of the Mass, Roxanne?"

"So you're never coming back!" Roxanne La Fontaine shakes her head in anguish as she speaks.

"I still love you very much, Father Arnold!" adds the A-10 Pilot.

"Call here any time, Roxanne." says the Priest. Feeling a little wet around the eyes, he reaches for a Kleenex.

"My parents miss you too, Father." says Roxanne, unwilling to bring the conversation to a close.

"Good night Father Arnold." adds Roxanne after struggling with her heart.

"Good night Roxanne, see you soon." says the Priest. While he dabs at the corners of his eyes with the tissue.

With that- the all grown up A-10 Pilot on Grissom Air Force Base, the little girl who sang in the choir led by Father Arnold not so very long ago, lets the telephone handset fall gently back on the hook. In Aspen Hill Maryland, a burly Priest goes through the same routine in slow motion.

Both the pilot and the Priest sit in silence alone and in their separate rooms for a long while. At last, Roxanne goes rummaging about for the channel changer for the television set. After Father Arnold blows his nose in another tissue, he returns to the job of writing his sermon. It is true. Confession is good for the soul, and, there are some things money just can't buy.

Scene 16 Professor Lakhdar Al Khayyami Provides A Physics Lesson

Location: In the desert sands west of Basra, Iraq

The city of Basra, Iraq, is roughly three hundred miles to the south east of Baghdad. Basra, even more so than the capitol city, is a place of great political tension. As the Shi'ite's living in Basra are much more volatile than those who dwell in Baghdad. Particularly in Basra, the Shi'ite people chafe at Saddam Hussein's prohibition against the religious pilgrimage to Karbala. The sacred pilgrimage is a tense ceremony of self-mutilation. During which Shi'ite men slash at their flesh with razors, and thereby mourn the slaying of Hussein, grandson of the prophet Mohammed.

Cutting ones' self on the forehead with a blade that blood will pour down in ones' eyes certainly would seem peculiar to the western mind. To the Muslim soul however, self-mutilation measures a man's humility and the depth of his faith. When a Shi'ite cuts at himself with a knife, he means to say- _'Would that I were the man who died rather than Hussein!'_

The deserts of Iraq, particularly the vast empty spaces to the west of Basra are like deserts anywhere else in the world. Everywhere the eye can see- sparse vegetation, scant animal life, and a dry arid climate. Yet still the desert is a fine place to carry on a war, whether your armies are on the attack or on the defense.

The reason for this, rolling sand dunes provide near perfect vantage points out of which one might mount a surprise assault. Moreover, sand dunes are near perfect places out of which one might defend against an assault. The reality of military logistics is that armor and air squadron commanders want nothing more out of life than a war in the desert. For it is in the desert where armor and air power, come into their own.

In the desert space to the west of Basra, the prevailing winds, the _'Sharqi'_ and the _'Sirocco'_ blow whirlpool clouds of dust and sand towards the city from the southeast. This particular weekday, however, sees a cool breeze, a _'Shamal'_ bringing refreshing air to the city from the northwest.

Still, in spite of the pleasant weather- the windows in the four car Mercedes Benz caravan remain closed, as the vehicles motor west on the two lane highway out of Basra. The first four door Mercedes holds four uniformed soldiers from the 7th Adnan Division of the vaunted Republican Guards. These men armed with Kalashnikov rifles with folding stocks, each rifle loaded with a full clip and a round in the chamber.

The four men in the third Mercedes are just as youthful as the men in the first. These people, however, are obviously graduate students in the Physics Department of Baghdad University. Of this, you may be certain. As, in addition to the youthful and optimistic expressions on their faces, moreover the fact each is dressed in an Arabian Jubba on top of a Dishadasha, each man holds a piece of electronics equipment on his lap.

The last Mercedes in the caravan seats four more infantrymen from the 7th Adnan Division of the Republican Guards. These four just as well armed, just as grim looking as their compatriots in the lead automobile.

The driver of the second four door Mercedes, is Hani Abu Sankaya, an officer in the Iraqi Mukhabarat, the largest of the many intelligence agencies in service to Saddam Hussein. Mister Sankaya grins triumphantly as he motors along with his hands on the ten and two o'clock positions on the steering wheel, moreover, why not?

Sankaya labored for years providing funds, personnel, and encouragement, to his passenger in the front seat beside him, the Chairman of the Physics Department at Baghdad University, Professor Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami. Finally- after years and years of thankless struggle, Sankaya's efforts are about to bear fruit.

The proof of this assertion rests with the fact that the rear seat passengers of the Mercedes piloted by Sankaya. Are both Lieutenant Generals in the Iraqi Republican Guard. Both generals so well placed in the hierarchy of Saddam Hussein's dictatorship each enjoys, a first name relationship with Uday Hussein. Uday, the son of Saddam Hussein, himself the commander of a paramilitary unit called the Fedayee Saddam.

Lieutenant General Abdel Salam Jahrom occupies the leather seat behind Hani Abu Sankaya. Jahrom is a man in his late fifties, his face lined with a sense of duty, his uniformed chest covered with campaign ribbons marking battles won and lost in the recent war with Iran. On the seat next to him, behind Professor Al Khayyami, Lieutenant General Hosni Diyarbaki, Chief of Military Intelligence for the Republican Guards.

As the men motor along, Professor Al Khayyami spies a left hand turn sign reading twenty five kilometers to Zubayr. He bounces up and down in his seat with the excitement. The cloth of his Shora headdress shifts this way and that against the leather shoulders of his bucket seat.

"Next right hand turn, Sankaya!" says Al Khayyami in an animated voice.

"There! There!" adds the elderly Physics Professor while pointing out the windshield with the index finger of his right hand.

Sankaya beeps the horn. When the rear passengers of the Mercedes in front of him turn their heads around at the noise, Sankaya repeatedly jerks his right hand to the right with his thumb extended. Soon the uniformed soldiers in the lead vehicle make a right hand turn off the highway and onto an unmarked dirt road. The remaining three cars in the caravan following close behind.

Lakhdar Al Khayyami glances down at the watch on his left wrist. He smiles and then turns round to face the Lieutenant Generals in the rear passenger compartment.

"We will have the full thirty minutes, gentlemen! Not a single American satellite above from two fifteen until two forty five!"

Both Generals in the back seat nod in response to Al Khayyami's remark. While both realize Al Khayyami is well intentioned, both understand his premise- the skies would soon be clear of American spy satellites, has a root in Soviet Intelligence sources.

"Not a single American satellite the Soviets know about, Professor." counters the beribboned Lieutenant General Abdel Salam Jahrom.

Lakhdar Al Khayyami's shoulders fall as the sharp remark deflates his ego. He purses his lips as if sucking on a bitter fruit. Next, he turns back round in his seat. Just then, the caravan arrives at a rude complex of steel buildings set off by a microwave telephone transmission relay tower. Al Khayyami points to the double set of garage doors on the building closest to the dirt road. He turns his head to face Sankaya and reminds.

"Not in front of the doors, Sankaya!"

Hani Abu Sankaya nods in understanding while keeping his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes focused on the collection of rusted steel buildings. Soon all four cars grind to a halt and the sixteen men clamber out of their vehicles. Before he slams his door shut Sankaya cups his left hand to his mouth and shouts at the soldiers alighting from the first vehicle.

"A thousand meters up with the BRDM, Manujan! In front of the crest!"

Sergeant Manujan quickly turns to face Sankaya as soon as he hears his name. He replies loudly and in high spirits.

"Yes Excellency! .. At once Mister Sankaya!"

Sankaya taps his wristwatch with Sergeant Manujan looking directly at him.

"You have fifteen minutes, Sergeant!" Sergeant Manujan stands stiffly at attention, again he gleefully shouts.

"Yes Excellency!... Yes Sir, Mister Sankaya!"

With that reply, Sergeant Manujan rushes his men to the double set of garage doors on the steel building sitting some twenty meters in front of his automobile. Soon everyone hears the screeching noise of garage doors flung upwards and open.

In contrast to the soldiers in the first and fourth Mercedes Benz, the Baghdad University Graduate Students in the third vehicle require neither orders nor urging from their beloved department chairman, Lakhdar Al Khayyami, PhD. After alighting from their vehicle and slamming the doors shut. These young men pull their Pakols and knit Saudi Kufi caps down on their heads against the wind.

Then, each begins to trek in the direction of the tall steel pipe microwave telephone relay tower to the west of the garage, each young man hefting a somewhat mysterious appearing electronic device in his left or right hand.

Soon after the garage doors swing open. The three uniformed soldiers under the command of Sergeant Manujan climb through two topside hatches of a light armored amphibious reconnaissance vehicle parked inside the garage. A Soviet made BRDM-2, with a rear mounted engine, four-wheel drive, a welded steel hull, and a top mounted turret, armed with a light machine gun.

Meanwhile, the four soldiers in the last vehicle fan out to all points of the compass to take up duty as scouts on a picket line. In all the determined hustle and bustle, Sankaya, Al Khayyami, General Jahrom, and General Diyarbaki, move in a leisurely train just behind the eager pack of graduate students. As the older men stride along, Professor Al Khayyami turns his head round and opens his mouth to explain something to the Republican Guard Generals.

Just then, the engine on the Amphibious Light Armored Personnel Carrier fires up in a roar of a ruptured muffler accompanied by clouds of thick blue smoke. Al Khayyami's eyes twinkle behind his glasses- he closes his mouth and turns back around to face forward. The intelligence officer, the physicist, and the two generals, come to a halt as the armored car rolls out of the garage and across the sand in front of their feet. Soon the lumbering vehicle is a hundred feet distant and the driver lifts his foot off the gas pedal. The noise quiets and Al Khayyami turns full around for a second time.

Lakhdar holds his arms out in front of his chest with both forearms parallel, straight up and down, and about fifteen inches apart. With a triumphant air about him, he explains.

"The American and Canadian telephone towers are twenty five miles apart and forty or so feet in the air."

The Physics Professor brings his forearms closer together and continues to narrate.

"These towers are twenty miles apart and fifty to sixty feet above ground. Just as with machine gun pillboxes. Each tower protects its two neighbors."

Both Generals seemed impressed, so Hani Abu Sankaya chimes in.

"We talked about closer towers and taller too! But this way the Americans are less likely to guess the towers real purpose."

Each man in the party of four cranes his neck to look up at and admire the secret weapon, the _'Golden BB'_ kept hidden from the Americans behind the cloak of everyday microwave telephone relay towers. Each sees four massive columns of thick steel pipes mounted in concrete foundations. The four steel pipe columns each soaring upwards a full sixty feet in the parched air above the desert floor.

At the top of the four corner tower, a rugged steel platform anchors four huge horn antennas. Two antennas facing west, two facing east, each antenna shaped like a wedge of grapefruit, each wedge tuned to the same band in the microwave frequency range.

By this time, the armored vehicle has nearly found its mark. Consequently, the ambient noise level is low enough to allow casual conversation. General Hosni Diyarbaki, Intelligence Chief for the Republican Guards weighs in with an insightful question.

"At that height, Professor, the side lobes will extend for a great many miles. How will the Americans not stumble onto the control transmissions?"

The question makes perfect sense to all the men in the group. But while General Jahrom and Mister Sankaya begin to look discouraged, the professor merely smiles, and nods, and rubs his hands together. Somewhat gleefully, he explains.

"How, General Diyarbaki, will the Americans tell the difference between digital encrypted control packets and digital encrypted telephone conversations?"

Now, Sankaya, Jahrom, and Diyarbaki understand, as Al Khayyami knew from the planning stage. The messages sent to aim and fire the beam weapon might very well stay hidden behind the sheer volume of commercial telephone traffic, passing to and fro from one antenna to the next and back again, ad infinitum.

The four men begin walking again and are soon very nearly at the base of the relay tower. Hani Abu Sankaya peers to the southwest to see how things are going with the armored personnel carrier. He sees the squat vehicle parked sideways and up against a rise. In such a way, the top surface tilts towards the four graduates students clustered around the pipes of the microwave relay tower. Sankaya breaks out into a toothy grin and begins to wave his hand in the air while he shouts.

"Quickly Manujan! Back to the tower!"

Sergeant Manujan waves back at Sankaya to signal he has heard the command. But still, he waits until the last man is out of the top hatch of the vehicle and on the ground, before they begin the trek back to the complex of steel buildings. Soon four graduate students, a professor, an intelligence officer, two generals, and four uniformed soldiers stand in a loose circle about the southwestern pillar of the tower.

One of the graduate students moves to within a foot of the thick pipe at the base of the pillar. Here he tugs at a door on a metal box with his left hand until the door flies wide open. A second student walks up alongside the first young man and hands him a very thick electrical cord that is roughly twelve feet long. The first young man begins to use clockwise motions of both his hands to screw his end of the control cable to a fixture inside the junction box. Meanwhile, the second student deftly plugs his end of the cable into a black plastic box that appears to be a cross between a tiny television set and the control panel of a model airplane.

Professor Lakhdar 'Electronical' Al Khayyami turns to face his audience and begins to lecture.

"Control may be from a central point, by remote control over the airwaves, or, as you see here, off a direct physical connection."

"First we open the doors and bring the weapon out on its rails."

As the Professor's voice fades, the second graduate student pushes a red toggle switch on the heavy control panel in his hands and then holds the box out for Al Khayyami. The professor steps to a comfortable arms distance away from the control panel and begins flipping switches. Then he looks back up at his audience and begins jabbing his arm up in the air, pointing at the antenna horn facing due west.

"Watch now, gentlemen!" exclaims Al Khayyami.

All heads crane upwards towards the clear blue sky. First, the men on the ground hear the groaning sound of fiberglass panels scraping on steel. Then they see saloon style doors swing open out of the mouth of the antenna sixty feet above their heads. Next, the air fills with the whine of electrical motors. As a pair of stainless steel rails inch out from inside the depths of the wedge shaped antenna.

With the parallel rails extended to their limits. Al Khayyami pushes forward on a toggle switch on the panel held out for him by the graduate student. Soon a strange looking device, like an old-fashioned television set with the cover removed rolls slowly out to the ends of the rails. There is a bumping sound as the device comes to a halt against steel stops at the ends of the rails.

"There is really no blind spot. Each antenna horn conceals a beam weapon. Each weapon swivels nearly in all directions." explains Al Khayyami.

With that remark, the professor takes a tiny joystick up in his right hand and begins moving it randomly this way and that. As the men on the ground watch, open mouthed, a long conical sub-assembly high up in the air above their heads, shaped like a death dealing ice cream cone, swiftly and obediently follows the motion of the professor's fingertips.

"Like the swords in the arms above Zaitun Street!" remarks General Jahrom, in a voice filled with admiration for the professor's workmanship.

Hani Abu Sankaya grins and begins waving his fists in the air in front of his chest.

"They will send Apache helicopters intending to punch a hole in our radar perimeter!"

"We will burn every helicopter from the skies and then counterattack!"

"This time the Crusaders will drown in their own blood!"

While everyone smiles at the mental image of a total victory, Al Khayyami glances down at his watch. When he sees it is nearly two thirty, a look of alarm fills his face and he exclaims.

"An American satellite will be above in fifteen minutes!"

By which the professor means that an American ground surveillance satellite, circling miles and miles above the earth, would soon be at a squint angle that would allow it to take clear photographs of the men on the ground and their clandestine exercise. Everyone in the group now stands at attention.

While everyone looks on, hearts pounding, hands clenched, and dry mouthed, Al Khayyami leans over the control panel and begins to align the barrel of the beam weapon with the joystick. Watching the aim point connect up with the light armored personnel carrier parked to their south in a three inch television screen on the control panel. As soon as he has the correct sight picture, he looks up and says.

"General Jahrom! Will you please sir?"

In spite of the fact he is nearing sixty, Lieutenant General Abdel Salam Jahrom walks briskly to the side of the control panel opposite from where the physics professor stands. He glances down at the panel. Where he sees a black and white image of the dull green painted armored personnel carrier. The General looks up to compare the picture on the television screen with the view of the personnel carrier parked a thousand meters distant.

General Jahrom lightly works the joystick, until he feels the vehicle is square in the glowing cross hairs of the beam weapon. He drops his hands to his sides in a deferential gesture. Then he looks up at Al Khayyami and says.

"As you wish, Professor Al Khayyami!"

Khayyami nods and grins, then, he says lightly.

"Please General Jahrom you honor us at this moment!"

The man with all the campaign ribbons on his chest smiles at the physics department chairman. He brings his right hand up and holds it hovering above the control panel. Which button to push? Al Khayyami smiles in return and points with his right index finger.

"The red button, of course! Upper right hand corner."

General Jahrom needs no further instructions. He stabs down with his fingertip. Everyone in the group hears a light clicking sound. Reflexively they turn their heads towards the amphibious personnel carrier parked a thousand meters to their south.

For a brief moment, nothing happens. There is neither roar from the beam weapon above nor an explosion out in the sand. Then suddenly an intense white aura surrounds the armored car which soon grows into a disordered mass of energy resembling ball lightning. As the men watch spellbound- the doors blow off the top of the vehicle and soar a hundred feet up in the air!

The sounds of the explosion are not long traveling the distance from the vehicle to the point where the men stand at the base of the tower. Quickly, without thinking, each man covers his ears with the palms of his hands.

Before the doors fall back to the earth, the turret erupts in a cloud of smoke and a loud ferocious bang! The turret flies up in the air twenty feet or so, coming to rest on the ground at about the same time as the blown hatches. Last, the gasoline tank catches fire with a whoosh. Soon angry flames lick at the huge rubber tires at the four corners of the destroyed vehicle.

No one in the group can resist the temptation to shout and throw his hat, either Pakol, or knit Kufi cap, or Shora headdress, up in the air. The men keep shouting until they are out of breath. While everyone's chest heaves, Professor Al Khayyami adds a postscript to the physics lesson in the sand. Panting now, he exclaims.

"An Apache Helicopter Will Burn Just As Quickly!... An A-10 Fighter Plane Takes About Half The Time!"

Now the men feel stirred in their hearts. They begin to applaud. Hani Abu Sankaya makes a sweeping gesture with his left arm and announces.

"Gentlemen- I give you Professor Lakhdar Al Khayyami!... Electronical Al Khayyami!"

Tears of joy begin to fill Professor Al Khayyami's eyes. He bows slightly from the waist while his audience keeps applauding.

Scene 17 We Don't Want To Be Called Baby Killers!

Location: Quantico Marine Corps base movie theater, Quantico, Virginia

The base movie theater on Quantico offers seating for only five hundred. Consequently, of the 2,000 or so men in the 14th Marine Expeditionary Unit, Lieutenant General Daniel Danziger mustered up only the helicopter pilots and their crewmen, the light infantry Humvee people, and his command staff. Camp Pendleton, way out west in California, is home to the 14th, but the men of the 14th MEU had flown in the previous day for a link up with their Central Intelligence Agency liaison. In addition, to get a first inkling of their duties if the Desert Shield build up, brewed up further into a Desert Storm.

Glancing down on the audience from his lofty command perch on the stage, General Danziger catches an eye full of eager young men, fit, ready, motivated, all dressed in chocolate chip fatigues. His heart swells with pride, and for a brief moment, his mind goes back to 1965, the happiest year for him as a Second Lieutenant in Viet Nam.

Way back then- the war in the jungle played out like a football game- with sweeping victories near Danang and in the Ia Drang Valley. True, more than three hundred men lost their lives in just a few scant months in pitched battles and lightning quick search and destroy missions. Nonetheless, the casualty rates ran ten to one in favor of the Americans, so it seemed a war worth fighting, and worth fighting well.

Daniel Danziger grins as he taps the wooden pointer in his hands on the tops of his thighs. The button microphone on his shirt collar catches the boyish optimism in his voice as he announces.

"Let me sum it all up so we can all get lunch."

Lieutenant General Danziger has been standing square with his audience just behind the podium but now he turns swiftly to his right and marches a few paces to the easel positioned in the center of the stage. He taps the black rubber end of his pointer against a picture of a remotely piloted vehicle- code named Rogue Access Point, and then turns his head back towards the men in their seats.

"In Viet Nam the two most dangerous jobs were Forward Air Controller and Second Lieutenant on point. You had to have a death wish to volunteer."

Danziger nods while he catches his breath, then he continues.

"This time its' gonna be different. This time around you're gonna get remotely piloted air recon vehicles with cameras pointed down at the ground just ahead of your location."

"Televisions screens in the Humvee's are gonna pin point the enemy's location. If you see a small target, you flank it and you take it out yourselves. If you see a big target, you call in ordinance, Super Cobra's... even A-10's... if it's worth the gasoline!"

Danziger's optimism floods the movie theater from the first row of seats to the last. He marches back to the front of the stage and then glances quickly down at his wristwatch. Looking up again he grins and says.

"Ten minutes for questions. Then we break for lunch."

A hand quickly shoots up in the middle of the sixth row on General Danziger's left hand side. The General turns towards a Sergeant Major standing in front of the first row of seats with a radio-microphone in his left hand. Still with an air of confidence, the general waves his pointer and says.

"Sergeant Major Del Campo!"

The Sergeant Major needs no further urging. He walks briskly to the sixth row. As Del Campo switches the microphone to his right hand and leans into the seats. A Lance Corporal rises quickly to his feet and stands at attention. He says.

"Lance Corporal Hollenbeck, General Danziger Sir."

Danziger nods and lets out with a paternal smile.

"Go ahead, Corporal Hollenbeck."

Billy Hollenbeck swallows and goes beet red in the face. He considers returning to his seat for a moment. Then he blusters on in.

"What about friendly fire casualties, General Danziger sir?"

Danziger stiffens slightly. He rolls his big hands back and forth against one another on the wooden pointer. As he opens his mouth to respond to the Lance Corporal's question. A sarcastic voice from one of the darkened rows in the back of the auditorium shouts out for all to hear.

"ARE WE COMING BACK HERE BABY KILLERS!?"

The room holds whisper silent. Then, another heckler, drawing courage from the darkness, chimes in.

"ARE PEOPLE GONNA SPIT ON US LIKE THEY DID ON YOU!?"

Lieutenant General Daniel Danziger's shoulders slump and he sighs, the sigh of a man confronted with a forgotten but still painful memory. For a good long while, he stares down at the floor in front of his highly polished combat boots. He can think of nothing to say.

Finally, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, Commander of The Action Officer's Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency, rises slowly to his feet from his chair behind the table on the podium.

"General Danziger Sir!.... Respectfully.... Lieutenant Colonel Anderson and Major Howell have the remedy!... They Can Explain!"

While Danziger wheels slowly on the heels of his combat boots to come face to face with Colonel Wingate. Looks of surprise and alarm grow on the faces of Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson and Major Andy Howell. As much as an African American is able, Moses Anderson blushes- and his eyes flash behind his silver wire rimmed eyeglasses. Then he swivels back and forth in his chair nervously to his right to make eye contact with Joe Gomez and Andy Howell and then to his left to see his commander, Henry Winston Wingate.

Gomez looks away pointedly from Moses and towards their commander, Colonel Wingate. Meanwhile Danziger moves, shuffles really, in the general direction of the Central Intelligence Agency people. Halfway to the table he halts, while face to face with Colonel Wingate but still with his eyes on the floor, Danziger asks.

"What's that, Colonel Wingate?"

Henry Wingate has no trouble at all standing to full attention out of his chair behind the VIP table, in spite of the fact he is sixty-five years old. The situation demands military bearing rather than anger, and the Second World War Veteran is up to the challenge.

"Talk groups, General Danziger!... Colonel Anderson and Major Howell can explain!"

At last, Moses Anderson and Andy Howell understand what their commander has in mind. Moses breathes a sigh of relief through pursed lips. As he sits back in his hard wooden chair, he feels waves of relief flowing through his body.

Danziger glances back and forth between Colonel Wingate and Lieutenant Colonel Anderson. Still hurting inside, he shakes his head and with an incredulous tone in his voice queries.

"Lieutenant Colonel Anderson, Major Howell?"

Moses sits up at attention- while he knows what Wingate is talking about, he is still not certain of what Wingate expects of him. Colonel Wingate breaks the pregnant silence with his deep commanding voice.

"The podium, Colonel Anderson! Explain talk groups to the men!"

Moses looks up at Wingate and quickly nods. Then he works the gold latches on the leather briefcase on the table before him and lifts up the lid. When his right hand re-appears, it holds an object about the size of an electric razor painted flat black. Moses passes the device into Andy Howell's waiting hand. Then his hand reaches back inside his briefcase for a second rectangular device.

Under the paternal eye of Colonel Wingate, Andy and Moses rise to their feet from their chairs behind the VIP table in front of the curtains covering the movie theater screen. Andy strides quickly and purposefully to a corner position behind the podium. Moses trails seconds behind- as he takes the time to close his briefcase and fasten the gold latches on the lid. It was a fastidious kind of a gesture, so completely typical of Moses Anderson. Moses is a cautious man who always thinks situations through completely before taking any action whatsoever.

From their left and right hand corner positions at the podium Andy and Moses exchange glances. Moses nods and gestures for Andy to begin the impromptu briefing. Andy centers himself behind the podium in a parade-rest style posture. He works the gooseneck microphone until it comes up even with his lips and then begins to speak.

"My name is Major Andrew George Howell. I'm an Action Officer in the Central Intelligence Agency."

Andy then raises his right hand above his head so that everyone in the auditorium can see the clam shell, style cell phone resting at the edge of his fingertips.

"This is what we should have had in Viet Nam for communications."

The audience grows pin drop quiet, Andy can almost sense the men moving to the edges of their seats driven by curiosity in the gloomy darkness of the theater.

"Back in the sixties, radios were bread box size VHF UHF multibanders with ten or twenty channels and free space for out of channel comms."

Then he slowly lowers the hand held radio to his side.

"To get security we had to change channels and bands all the time and we never got it right."

"The guys in the back are right about civilian and friendly fire casualties. But we weren't stupid or all drugged up in the Nam. It just wasn't possible to keep ahead of the signals intelligence people in the Chinese Army and keep our own people informed about changes in unit and command level channels and frequencies."

Andy Howell pauses and takes a deep breath. There is a look of regret and bitterness at the corners of his eyes.

"Another thing was skip. Somebody in headquarters would assign a channel to a tank battalion in Khesanh way up north at the DMZ, and the same channel to a recon platoon way down south in Pleiku. Every once in a while, depending on weather conditions, the units would end up talking to one another without knowing what was going on. So a lot of shells got lobbed in on the wrong target."

Andy glances around to see if he is holding up his side of the briefing according to plan. First off, he catches a look of complete satisfaction on his commanders' face- Colonel Henry Winston Wingate. Then, with a sense of relief flooding through his body, he realizes General Daniel Danziger is on the mend from the unexpected punch to his solar plexus.

The General stands there, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, thoughtfully bouncing his pointer on the tops of his thighs. Danziger is not yet, ready to make eye contact with his men, but obviously relieved to hear someone speaking the truth. Twenty-five years and more after the fact, the words "BABY KILLER" still hurt like hell.

Major Howell turns his head back towards the audience. He raises the radio in his right hand above his head for a second time.

"You weren't supposed to get this until we got to Saudi Arabia. But Colonel Anderson's going to fill you in briefly on the capabilities of this hand held."

Andy drops his hand to his side once again and steps back from the podium. His beet red complexion, the look of relief on his face, speaks mutely for the fact he was not at all comfortable in the lime light.

Moses Anderson moves to the space vacated by Andy Howell. For a few moments, he too fiddles with the microphone. The he clears his voice and raises his clamshell, style hand held up to head height with his elbow down at his side.

"When we get overseas your communications people will be passing these things out down to the fire team level."

"Each hand held _will_ be secured with a separate password. Each SIM card in each hand held programmed with separate talk groups. If you are supposed to be able to talk to someone in another unit, you _will_ be able to talk to him. If you are not supposed to talk to another unit, you _will not_ be able to. Period. No Exceptions."

Lieutenant Colonel Anderson waits a few moments for his words to sink in.

"Another couple of good features is nets and networks. Your command tent will have a web site. A bulletin board really. You can check your units' web site at will for strategic information."

Moses sees a number of puzzled looks in the audience, so he decides to elaborate.

"Networks have to do with communications protocols. The various forms of digital packet transmission are completely incompatible with one another. So there is no chance of skip, no chance of stepping on another units' transmission."

All the men on the podium realize the silence in the audience speaks for a sense of relief and a gain in confidence in the mission amongst the men sitting in the upholstered seats. The "Baby Killer" remark found a complete remedy in the workings of a digital electronics device. The older men in the audience, the Viet Nam veterans, feel their burning wounds, their freshly opened sores, bathed in a soothing balm. In sharp contrast to the moments following the catcalls, the younger men are now looking at the older men, the Viet Nam Veterans, with understanding and renewed confidence in their youth full eyes.

Andy Howell grins and shakes his head up and down. Next he presses a few keys on the key pad of his hand held and then squeezes down on the transmit button. Bare seconds later the screen on Moses' hand held lights up and the speaker gives out with a purposeful chirping sound.

Moses raises his arm above his head that everyone in the audience can see the glowing screen and hear the chirping sound. In a firm proud voice, he remarks.

"Hand held on the ground to satellite in outer space. Digital security all the way."

"There won't be any civilian or friendly fire casualties.... Not in this war, not ever again."

Once again, the auditorium grows whisper silent as Moses' Anderson's words sink in. Behind him at the VIP table, Colonel Wingate's face takes on a philosophical cast. Henry Winston Wingate nods his distinguished head up and down. With his fingertips firm on the table before him, he mutters.

"A Victory With Honor! With The Grace Of God!"

Scene 18 Rope and Boiling Water! I Will Have The Truth From Craypool!

Location: Washington, DC, Offices of the Information Officer, Embassy of the middle east nation of Iraq

The Iraqi embassy information officer, Mister Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, swivels back and forth in the chair behind his large executive desk. From the smile on his face, the relaxed back and forth motions of his hands above the ink blotter. It is obvious he enjoys his work. Furthermore, that he feels in complete control of the situation dropped in his lap by Hani Abu Sankaya, his boss in Baghdad. Mister Hasakah smiles- and in the tone of a district sales manager, he explains.

"A simple termination leads nowhere, Gentlemen."

"We _must_ know what this Craypool person knows, and we _must_ know what he has conveyed to his superiors."

Three men, fresh from Baghdad, Iraq, sit in chairs without arms on the other side of the desk from Mister Hasakah. At Hasakah's left- Naadi Baspinar, the thirty eight year old untenured associate professor of physics at Baghdad University. At Baspinar's left- Hani Abu Sankaya's _'personal assistant',_ his body-guard, the, muscle bound young man named- Kamel Abu Kamal.

Last, at Kamal's left the slight man in his early forties. Known only to everyone in the room as _'Hassan'_ the man who had offered to break the neck of Stanley Craypool. After he stepped out of the shadows in the bedroom converted to a study and private office in Lakhdar Al Khayyami's home. At the Saturday physics department faculty party not so very long ago....

Of the four men in the room, Naadi Baspinar, the physics professor, is the least comfortable with the task at hand. Much more so than the other men, Naadi realizes the situation might soon be turned about. And that he might become the prey of a Central Intelligence Agency assassination team, rather than Stanley Craypool the unwitting victim to be of assassins newly arrived from Iraq.

Still, this is the only path to a tenured faculty appointment for the thirty eight year old former _'wonder boy'_ of the Arabic academic physics community. Baspinar swallows, as a grim smile grows on his face. He leans forward into the conversation, intending to make the best of an awkward situation.

"I am nearly the first in Baghdad to possess Windows 3.0. The file construct holds no secrets from me, Mister Hasakah."

While Mister Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah smiles at Baspinar, _'Hassan'_ shakes his head vigorously in the negative and rushes headlong into the carefully paced conversation.

"What if his password is not scotch taped on the underside of the keyboard, Baspinar?"

With all eyes upon him, Baspinar nods his head triumphantly. He waits for a moment to build the tension in the room and then explains.

"There is a cheat code few know about- _'Hassan'_. I need only press down on three keys during the system boot."

The stolid bodyguard in the center chair opposite from Mister Hasakah has a difficult time following the conversation. For his part, it seems the real issue is to seize Craypool and take him to a safe house where he may be interrogated at pleasure. Somewhat off topic, Kamel Abu Kamal asks.

"Is the safe house in Maryland?... It would be better if we took him to Virginia. Would it not, Mister Hasakah?"

The embassy information officer, Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, brings his right hand up off the top of his desk and begins scraping the cleft in his chin with his thumbnail. Then he replies.

"The last thing we want is a hostage situation, Kamel. Even the C.I.A. would not be so stupid as to miss the implications of a kidnapping."

Baspinar nods vigorously and turns his head towards the two men in the chairs at his left hand side.

"If Craypool disappears before _we_ have his papers, Kamel. _They_ will find his papers!"

' _Hassan'_ frowns and bobs his head up and down. Then he says.

"I _still_ think we should take him at his home. A few pieces of rope, boil water on the stove, I will have the truth from him in no time!"

Having spoken his piece _'Hassan'_ leans back in his chair and shakes his head in a world weary manner. It pains him the other men simply do not see the one true path. Hasakah, meanwhile, drops his right hand from his chin back down to the desktop and picks up the thread of the conversation. While looking directly at Naadi Baspinar the information officer brings another pressing detail to the floor.

"Seizing manuscripts and notes. It is doubtful Craypool's superiors will notice one or two missing file folders out of many.... What about the hard disc, Baspinar?"

Naadi Baspinar sighs at the insightful and well-timed question. He nods introspectively and then replies.

"Taking the hard disc is out of the question, Mister Hasakah. That they will check first!"

"There might be time to reformat and re-install the operating system, there might not be time."

Mister Hasakah smiles wryly and says.

"What if there is no time?"

Naadi sighs again and twists his head from side to side as is natural for a man on the horns of a dilemma.

"The graphical interface allows for file deletion. But the files remain on the disc!"

Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah makes a tent out of his fingertips and forearms. With his elbows spread at shoulders distance from one another on the ink blotter on the top of his desk. After tapping his fingertips together for a few moments, he says.

"The first step, Gentlemen, is to clean out Craypool's office at the Grand Corporation."

"Next, you seize the man and persuade him to reveal what he may have at his residence."

"Whether you neutralize him or take him to the safe house. Depends upon what you discover.... I expect to be kept informed."

The thing seems quite complicated to the bodyguard who has no understanding of the scientific issues setting the ground rules for the pending operation. Were it up to Kamel Abu Kamal, they would simply run Craypool over with an automobile in the parking lot of the Grand Corporation! And then flee back to Iraq through Canada and Pakistan.

"How does three Arab's with Pakistani passports gain entry to the Grand Corporation?"

queries, the sturdy Kamal, barely concealing the contempt in his voice.

The information officer sitting behind the desk blinks in the silence following the timely question. Then he pulls out the side drawer on his desk. Hasakah's hand disappears inside the drawer. The three men opposite the desk hear a light scuffling sound. Then they see Hasakah's hand reappear and move towards them across the desktop.

Hasakah leans forward over the desktop as far as he is able. He passes Grand Corporation identification badges into the hands of his three visitors. As the three men move the badges this way and that in their hands, Hasakah grins while he explains.

"Arab janitors are the most natural thing in the world in Washington, my friends."

Hasakah's remark brings the planning session to an end. He stands to his feet and walks out the door in the direction of his receptionist's desk.

Soon he returns, followed by a beautiful Iraqi female who appears to be in her early twenties. Although the woman wears a conservatively tailored Moroccan Abaya, and her hair is concealed beneath a Georgette Shawl. Still, there is no doubt, whatsoever she has a perfect figure and beautiful eyes. Smiling now- with the pride of a doting uncle, Hasakah waves his hand and says,

"My lovely niece, gentlemen, Parisoula Ar Raqqah!"

From there it is down to the embassy basement on the elevator, where the three men sit for passport size photographs. That will soon grace the hard plastic front surfaces of each of the three stolen Grand Corporation identification badges. Turns out, Miss Parisoula Ar Raqqah is, in addition to being her uncles' receptionist, a skilled photographer in her own right.

Scene 19 Infinite Series and Base Ten and Base Sixty Systems Of Numeration

Location: After dark in the Grand Corporation Building Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Late at night, two days after the planning session at the information officer's offices in the Iraqi embassy building. The main elevator doors at the Grand Corporation Headquarters in Washington DC open wide on the sixth floor. The elevator car contains, Naadi Baspinar, Kamel Abu Kamal, and the somewhat mysterious man known only to Naadi and Kamel by the name- _'Hassan'._ Each man identically dressed in the light grey cotton shirt and trouser uniform worn by maintenance crews at the Grand Corporation. Each with a fresh forged picture identification badge clipped to his shirt pocket.

Neither of the three Iraqi national's has a wallet in his pocket, nor do they carry firearms. As an alternative, Kamal has a set of lock picking tools hidden under the elastic of his left sock. _'Hassan'_ bears a sheath knife with a large sparkling blade in the small of his back. While the elevator bell lightly chimes, Kamal and _'Hassan'_ push aluminum janitor's carts on caster wheels across the threshold and into the wide sixth floor corridor.

As luck would have it, they turn to the right rather than the left. With Naadi flicking the switches to the fluorescent lights in the corridor ceiling as soon as he is off the elevator. After a bit, the three men encounter a set of double doors marking the reception area of the offices of Clifford Peter Strawbottom. Naadi Baspinar reads Strawbottom's name aloud and says.

"This is our first stop."

With that- Kamal bends down on one knee to retrieve his lock picking tools from underneath his left trouser leg. Yet the much older and world-weary _'Hassan'_ is too fast for his younger and more muscle bound colleague.

With Kamal still kneeling, and fumbling for his tools, _'Hassan'_ whips out his deadly knife. After working the blade in the space between the tapered bolt of the lock and the cavity in the doorjamb both doors open wide with little effort.

All three men walk into the reception area. Once again, Baspinar flicks on the light switches as soon as he is in the room. Then, with his partners waiting respectfully, the untenured professor of physics at Baghdad University walks up to and behind the receptionist's desk. Baspinar reaches for a corporate phone directory and thumbs the book open to the letter C. While running his finger down the pages he says softly,

"Cavanaugh, Cohen, Crandall,..... Craypool,...... Stanley Warren Craypool, room 6421."

Baspinar looks up from the phone directory and smiles a toothy smile. This part of the assignment is very much to his liking.

"Should be just three or four doors further down the hall, gentlemen."

While Naadi lowers the book in his hands to the desktop, an entry scrawled on the calendar blotter atop the desk catches his eye. He stiffens slightly out of surprise and says.

"What's this?" then Baspinar brings his left index finger down to the calendar blotter and points at an entry for the coming week. While he reads aloud for the benefit of his compatriots.

"Call Mister Craypool's father, Elmer Vincent Craypool – speak with Doctor Coolidge about tests!"

Naadi Baspinar looks up again from the desk, a quizzical expression across his face. It is _'Hassan'_ who provides a plausible explanation for the somewhat cryptic remark.

"Must be an insurance physical, Baspinar." offers _'Hassan'_ in a dry voice.

Of course, the three men have no way of knowing that Doctor Coolidge is a Psychiatrist. Nor would they have any reason to imagine Stanley Craypool will soon be a patient at Saint Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital under the written orders of Coolidge. Consequently, _'Hassan's'_ faulty hypothesis rings true. Naadi Baspinar nods his head up and down. He begins the walk from behind the desk back to the company of his two companions.

Kamel Abu Kamal wants desperately to use his lock picking tools. So he wheels swiftly and begins a brisk march down the corridor, pulling his janitors cart behind him with his left hand. The bodyguard comes to a halt at room 6421.

Then he goes right to work on the deadbolt lock holding the door closed. Soon the three men are on the inside of Stanley Warren Craypool's office at the Grand Corporation.

Once inside Craypool's tiny cramped office _'Hassan'_ grimaces and shakes his head.

"What a mess this place is!... Look how cheap is the furniture!"

Naadi Baspinar can identify with sparse circumstances. As he walks to the computer atop Craypool's tiny desk, he explains.

"Craypool must be a genius, _'Hassan'_. The administrators treat him like a mongrel!"

Under _'Hassan'_ and Kamel's watchful eye, Baspinar lifts the slide rule he finds doing duty as a bookmark in an encyclopedia size text. Glancing down, Baspinar sees a familiar name on the title page of a paper in a mathematics compendium.

"Of all that is HOLY!" says Naadi, his eyes wide open with surprise and alarm.

Kamel Abu Kamal and _'Hassan'_ both flinch and then inch towards Naadi Baspinar. Baspinar glances up at the two men and then jabs at the open pages of the book on Stanley's desk with his index finger. He hoarsely exclaims.

"The paper Al Khayyami wrote in 1978. The Lindblad series in base sixty!"

While the excitement in Baspinar's voice is infectious, the fact remains neither Kamal nor _'Hassan'_ hold doctoral degrees in either mathematics or physics. _'Hassan'_ snorts impatiently and chides his learned colleague.

"Speak plainly, Baspinar!... What are you saying?"

Naadi Baspinar realizes it is time to slow down. He drops his arms to his sides and begins a patient narrative.

"Professor Al Khayyami got his PhD in Berlin during the Second World War. That was his first effort at beam weapons. At that time there were no computers to speak of, so the research fell in on itself."

"Because we are, at root, Chaldean's, Al Khayyami saw the answer in base sixty but could not produce it until 1980 when Baghdad University got its' first computer!"

"What is this base sixty, Professor Baspinar?" asks the bodyguard, Kamel Abu Kamal.

Naadi Baspinar sits down in Stanley Craypool's rickety chair and sighs, the sigh of a man who had just completed a long journey.

"The Christian world, Kamel counts in base ten. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, and so on and so forth. Before the time of Christ, we began with base sixty- as the circle has three hundred and sixty degrees. Certain of the most ancient of formulas make perfect sense- they have solutions in base sixty. But they make no sense, they have no solutions whatsoever in base ten."

"The subject matter should be beyond the Christian mind. But here we have a man in the United States who sees as far as Professor Al Khayyami."

A worried pregnant silence fills the small room. Will Craypool win the coming war?

"So we wait for him to arrive in the morning, Professor Baspinar. We kill him when he walks through the door." says _'Hassan'_ in a flat matter of fact voice.

Naadi Baspinar shakes his head very vigorously in the negative.

"What will you tell Sankaya, Hassan?... How far have, the American's gone with this?" counters Naadi Baspinar to his more action minded colleagues.

The tall muscle bound bodyguard nods in silence and then walks to the filing cabinet sitting a few paces distant from the desk. He opens the top drawer and then turns back to face Baspinar and receive detailed instructions. Baspinar says.

"Anything you see under the words, Al Khayyami, beam weapon, Lindblad series, QUANTA CALCULATICA, base sixty!... Understand Kamel?"

The bodyguard nods and after turning back towards the filing cabinet begins rummaging around in the top drawer. Next Naadi Baspinar presses the boot button on the desktop computer and the power button on the black and white monitor. He arches his fingers above the keyboard, ready to type in a cheat code as the operating system boots.

Just then, _'Hassan'_ turns the keyboard over. Both men see a tiny scrap of paper taped to the underside of the keyboard. _'Hassan'_ reads the word printed on the paper aloud.

"amanhasgottoknowhislimitations" _'Hassan'_ grimaces and shakes his head. He softly says.

"Crack pot genius, the password makes no sense at all." Baspinar shakes his head and smiles, while looking up at _'Hassan'_ he explains.

"Your English is not good enough, Hassan. Craypool ran some words together. A Man Has Got To Know His Limitations."

Baspinar now turns the keyboard right side up and enters the run together words into the password entry box on the screen. Soon, the two Iraqi nationals are looking at the welcome screen for Windows 3.0. After a few deft motions with the mouse Naadi and _'Hassan'_ find themselves staring at a 'my documents' list.

"There is that word QUANTA CALCULATICA you mentioned. What is that?" asks _'Hassan'_ of the seated physics professor. Without turning his gaze away from the screen, Baspinar replies succinctly.

"Open source software in differential equations, Hassan. The very fact Craypool has a copy means Al Khayyami is correct in his worries!"

The bodyguard places several thick file folders on top of the filing cabinet. Then he slides the top door closed and opens the next door down. While Kamel Abu Kamal continues to rummage about, Naadi Baspinar and _'Hassan'_ stare at the computer monitor screen as if in a trance.

Baspinar bounces the tip of his index finger against the glass of the screen as he reads the titles of the files and the folders one by one. He sighs, shakes his head, and mutters.

"Could be hiding the whole thing in a folder marked- letters to my father!"

' _Hassan'_ nods and lets out with a wry, ironic smile. Then, as his eyes move back and forth, he jumps up slightly. As a folder title strikes a responsive chord in his heart.

"There! There! Baspinar, the folder marked Base Sixty QuantaCalc!"

Naadi Baspinar screws his head up as his eyes come to focus on the folder _'Hassan'_ points at with a trembling fingertip.

"You may have something, _'Hassan'."_ concedes, the physics professor to the mysterious man with only one name. Then he speedily opens the folder with some swift motions on the keyboard.

The folder holds a dozen items. Nine notepads, which are equations solved in the QUANTA CALCULATICA format. Three essays entitled: (1) Are Beam Weapons Feasible? (2) Convergence in Base Sixty, and, (3) Continuous Fractions / Al Khayyami.

As Baspinar reads the titles of the essays stored on the hard disk aloud, all three men in the room come to attention. The untenured physics professor blows air out of his lungs through his mouth. Then he opens the first document and begins to narrate off Stanley's notes.

" _While beam weapons were dreamed of by the likes of Edward Teller and R. V. Jones during the Second World War, no progress was made in this direction. The stumbling block, quite simply that the integral for the energy term could not be made to converge with the ballistics computers in the navy department."....._

" _When the 80386 processor was introduced just recently computer power became equal to the task. Consequently this investigator began a review of the integrals suggested by Doctors Teller and Jones to the defense department in 1951."_

Naadi Baspinar stops reading off the screen and leans back in his chair. Then he raises his voice that everyone in the room might hear him.

"We have enough gentlemen. Craypool has the whole thing figured out!"

Naadi Baspinar works the mouse and the keys on the keyboard and soon the dot matrix printer next to the desktop begins to creak and groan. As Al Khayyami's protégé rises to his feet, Kamel Abu Kamal walks towards him with a single sheet of paper in his outstretched hand. Baspinar's eyebrows flick up as he sees the handwriting on the page.

"That particular continuous fraction gives the width of the beam with distance, Kamel."

' _Hassan'_ makes an involuntary cackle while rubbing his trembling hands against one another.

"Please Professor." says _'Hassan'_ in a polite but insistent voice. "I will remain until the morning and solve the whole problem by myself."

Naadi Baspinar sighs and draws himself to his full seated adult height. He shakes his head and explains.

"Al Khayyami and Sankaya, _'Hassan'._ First I discuss our findings with Al Khayyami. He and Sankaya must decide what to do."

' _Hassan's'_ shoulders fall in frustration but his eyes grow wary and obedient at the mention of Hani Abu Sankaya's name. Just then, the printer stops printing and so Baspinar tears the sheets off at their lines of perforation. Baspinar methodically adds the printed pages to the sheet of paper placed in his hands by Kamel Abu Kamal. The physics professor turns the computer monitor and desktop computer off. The bodyguard whirls round and slides the middle door of the beat up old filing cabinet shut.

As the three men prepare to leave the offices of Stanley Craypool their eyes light on the photograph of R. V. Jones Mister Craypool keeps in an inexpensive plastic frame on the wall next to his desk. While Naadi Baspinar recognizes the image, the picture has no meaning to either Kamel Abu Kamal or _'Hassan'._

These two assume it is a photograph of Stanley Craypool's father taken some time during the Second World War. Rather than a picture of the English Physicist who fought and won a Wizard War in the skies above northern Europe during the nineteen forties.

Baspinar is the last man out of Craypool's office. Again, he turns out the lights with the flick of a switch. As he softly closes the door, he says.

"We can have breakfast with Mister Hasakah at the Embassy. Then I will make the call to Professor Al Khayyami."

Scene 20 Morrie Tietelbaum Upstages Stanley At The Monthly GENSA Meeting

Location: Professor Benjamin Poore's residence in Colesville, Maryland, USA

It is the second Friday in July 1990, time for the monthly GENSA meeting on the grounds of Professor Benjamin Poore's residence in Colesville, Maryland. Poore and his wife had purchased the spacious home in the late sixties, just at the time he took on a Full Professorship in the Physics Department of the University of Maryland, in College Park.

These days the kids were long gone, all grown up and with children of their own. Worse, for Professor Poore, his wife had divorced him in 1985. Consequently, away from the Chairman's Office in the physics department, and his part time office at the GRAND CORPORATION, he rattled about in the five-bedroom, four-bath, ranch, style split-level in complete, as opposed to splendid isolation.

The monthly GENSA meetings were a real source of joy for Benjamin Poore. He never heard from his ex wife, worse, his children rarely called. So the fifty or sixty egg-heads, who made an appearance once a month at seven in the evening, filled his empty heart with a deep sense of parental satisfaction. Not surprising, Poore loved flipping burgers on his charcoal grill for his brainy guests. It was a chance for him to rub elbows with other geniuses, and talk about both the future and the good old days. Moreover, he loved dressing up in a white stove pipe chef's hat and a white linen apron with the words 'WORLD'S GREATEST PHYSICIST' stenciled in red ink on the chest.

This particular evening finds the card-carrying members of the Washington D.C. region GENSA chapter milling about Poore's front lawn and in and out of his three-car garage. Both the heat and the humidity are mild by Washington standards for the month of July. Accordingly, high-spirited teams of male and female players are literally swarming around the three-foosball tables perched just under the electric garage doors.

At the foosball table nearest the brick barbecue grill, Stanley Craypool and Elizabeth Maxwell are dueling, it out with Demetrius Culpepper and his date, Showanda Johnson. Elizabeth works with Showanda at the National Security Agency. They are both employed as linguists. Demetrius has some kind of a civilian job dealing with electronics on Andrews Air Force Base, about which he usually has very, very, little to say.

One of the charming features an observer is bound to notice about this High IQ foursome. Is that while Stanley and Elizabeth are Caucasians- and Demetrius, and Showanda African Americans- both couples nearly always dress alike- in orthodox GENSA garb. On any given day, Demetrius is just as likely to wear a bow tie and sport a white plastic pocket liner filled with ball point-pens in his dress shirt as is his friend Stanley.

Better still, Showanda is just as prone to wear her hair in a bun as her office mate Elizabeth Maxwell. Like Elizabeth, Showanda favors glasses with white plastic frames and embedded rhinestones for eveningwear.

At just a few minutes past eight in the evening, the score between the two-foosball teams held to eleven points each. This is the third game, the tie-breaker, consequently, neither Stanley, Demetrius, Elizabeth, nor Showanda, notices the quiet arrival of a light tan, late model minivan. The shiny polished automobile coming to a rolling stop on the lawn fifty or so paces away from the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

In sharp contrast to the self-absorbed foosball players, Physics Department Chairman Benjamin Poore notices the car. Under Poore's watchful, nearly vigilant gaze, a portly man alights from the vehicle and then quickly slams the driver's door shut with an air of optimism and confidence. As soon as Poore recognizes the driver of the minivan, his aging eyes begin to sparkle behind tortoise shell eyeglasses.

While the heavy-set man ambles along the edge of the road back towards the house, Poore swiftly raises his right arm in the air, wiggles his hand, and shouts.

"Morris!... Over here, young man!"

Mister Morris Tietelbaum comes to a sharp halt at the mention of his name. He begins to move his head this way and that in an effort to locate the friendly voice. Soon his eyes follow the waving hand near the barbecue grill down to the beaming face of Benjamin Poore.

The portly gentleman standing in the new mown grass at the edge of the road, breaks out into a wide smile at the sight of his mentor. While holding stock still, Morris Tietelbaum cups his left hand to his mouth and shouts.

"Professor Poore!" Then Morris raises his right hand above his head to display a model airplane. The balsa wood plane with the shapely lines of a futuristic glider, spars and planks covered with silk, and with a wingspan of about four feet.

"Over Here, Morris, Over Here!" repeats Poore, in a voice brimming with pride.

"I'm Already There Professor!" shouts Morris in reply.

As soon as Poore is certain Morris can find him in the crowd of invited guests. He wheels on his heels and taps on the shoulder of a man facing away from him, the man wearing a light summer weight wool red plaid jacket.

"Clifford!... Clifford!... Tietelbaum is here!"

The man in the plaid jacket, Clifford Peter Strawbottom, had been deep in a conversation with a comely female in her late forties. Consequently, he loathed the interruption, in fact, any interruption at all, even by his best friend and confidante. In point of fact this was the third GENSA meeting Strawbottom had plied the woman in question with Champaign, an expensive enterprise, by anyone's measure.

As while the burgers were free, courtesy of Poore's largesse, the liquor came off a cash bar tended by a service person who quite reasonably expected generous tips.

After a second round of persistent shoulder tapping, Strawbottom turns slowly and grudgingly around to face Poore. As Strawbottom and Poore come, eye-to-eye, Poore notices a half empty tulip glass of French Champaign in the fingertips of Strawbottom's right hand, and a look of irritation spread wide and deep all over his wrinkled face.

"I'm _very_ busy, Benjamin." exclaims Strawbottom to Poore in a sharp voice.

"Tietelbaum, Clifford, Tietelbaum is here!" explains Poore without a moments' hesitation.

"Why didn't you say so!" answers Strawbottom sharply.

Strawbottom's head cranes to-and-fro. He chortles with joy at the site of the young Tietelbaum. Then the elderly gentleman raises his left hand and exclaims.

"Right over here, young man!... Right over here!"

While Morris Tietelbaum closes the distance between himself and his mentors near the barbecue grill. Clifford Peter Strawbottom turns back around and worms himself into the perfume-tainted aura surrounding his glamorous female companion. Leering, his head bobbing up and down, he hisses.

"I'll just be a moment, _Darling_!"

The lady in question is actually quite uncomfortable in the presence of her decrepit old suitor. Unfortunately, for her she has not been able to think of a polite way of discouraging his interests. With a look of studied neutrality on her face and a polite tone in her voice, she replies.

"Take all the time you need, _Mister_ Strawbottom."

Before Strawbottom can reply- the middle age chanteuse turns away to join a conversation in progress with a man and a woman her own age. Mouth agape, and with the Champaign glass held tight in fingertips trembling with the anger of rejection. Strawbottom turns round slowly, to join Benjamin Poore's one-man reception party for Morris Tietelbaum.

As soon as Morris Tietelbaum arrives at the barbecue grill, Poore hurriedly places his shiny chrome spatula down on the sidebar, and then cups his hand on Morris's shoulder in a gesture of avuncular pride and affection.

Clifford Peter Strawbottom stands there with his elbows out and his fists in the hollow spaces above his hipbones. He bends forward at the waist and bobs his head up and down.

"Did you get it, Morrie?" queries Strawbottom of Morris Tietelbaum.

Morris Tietelbaum grins from ear to ear. Without a moment's hesitation, he answers.

"All seventy five million dollars, Mister Strawbottom!"

Straightaway, Clifford Peter Strawbottom thrusts his right hand forward for a congratulatory handshake. Morrie quickly shifts the model airplane to his left hand so as-to accommodate his boss. Then, while extending his right hand out to Strawbottom, he raises the airplane above his head by the fuselage under the cockpit, and begins waving it like a victory flag.

"Wonderful, my boy, just wonderful!" exclaims Benjamin Poore as he continues to shake Tietelbaum by the shoulder.

"Let's tell the folks, Benjamin!" exclaims Strawbottom to Poore while still pumping Morris's right hand up and down.

Benjamin Poore nods at Clifford Peter Strawbottom. He drops his hand from Morris's shoulder and turns back towards his barbecue grill. In a brief moment, Poore's left hand holds a shiny chrome triangle dangling by a leather thong. With the fingers of his right hand wrapped about a shiny chrome baton. Poore raises the triangle above his head and begins striking it sharply and incessantly with the baton.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!... Ladies and Gentlemen!" cries Strawbottom.

The clanging noise from the triangle and Strawbottom's shouts soon catch the attention of the majority of the people at the GENSA meeting.

Although Stanley Craypool wants to ignore Professor Poore and Strawbottom and keep on playing foosball, Demetrius Culpepper scoops the flying ping-pong ball up in his right hand and deftly tosses it to Showanda.

With nearly all eyes upon him, Benjamin Poore lowers the triangle and baton to his waist and exclaims.

"It's a victory celebration!... A victory for GENSA and a victory for the GRAND CORPORATION!"

Clifford Peter Strawbottom sees he had the attention of every one of the members of GENSA. He puts his right hand on Morrie Tietelbaum's right shoulder and spins him towards the audience. The motion is so fast and direct Morrie rocks left and right and nearly looses his grip on his model airplane. Strawbottom cups his left hand to his mouth and shouts.

"Morris Tietelbaum, Ladies And Gentlemen!... Morris Tietelbaum!"

"Tell em Morrie!... Tell em what you did!" exclaims Poore with flashing eyes.

Morris Tietelbaum lowers the model airplane to his chest and clears his throat. Red in the face- flustered yet pleased by all the attention, he says loudly.

"A seventy five million dollar federal contract for the GRAND CORPORATION!"

"Two years in the making!... A remotely piloted airplane with a seeing eye camera and two Hell Fire missiles under the wings!"... My balsa wood baby!... "Rogue Access Point!"

As Morris swings his plane back up above his head, for everyone to admire, Elizabeth glances across the foosball table at Stanley and asks.

"How could he get a real live missile on a model airplane?"

Stanley frowns. He is about to reply, but Demetrius gets there before him.

"That's just the demo. The plane he sold to the Defense Department is maybe twenty feet from wingtip to wingtip."

"Big phreaking deal." grumbles Stanley to no one in particular.

"How bout a big round of applause for our hero!" exclaims Clifford Strawbottom.

Obediently, and with unrestrained admiration, the guests at Benjamin Poore's GENSA garden party begin clapping their hands. The scene is too much for Stanley Craypool. As the applause dies away, he shouts.

"They'll Knock It Out Of The Sky With Beam Weapons!"

Morrie Tietelbaum lowers the airplane in his left hand to head height and shouts an angry reply to Stanley Craypool.

"Nobody's Gonna Fund Your Anti Beam Weapon Crapolla, Craypool!"

Stanley's face turns beet red and he begins to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet. With his hands balled up into fists, he yells.

"Nobody But Me Has The Brains To Figure Out A Beam Weapon, Tietelbaum!" screams Stanley Craypool to his rival at the GRAND CORPORATION.

It was not only the wrong thing to say, it was the wrong time to say it. The crowd parts under Benjamin Poore's angry glare. The man wearing an apron with the phrase "WORLD'S GREATEST PHYSICIST" balls his bony fists and marches half the distance between his barbecue grill and the foosball table occupied by Stanley Craypool and his friends.

A pace or two away from the foosball table and Poore comes to a screeching halt in tan suede leather shoes. He bends forward at the waist and raises his right arm to shake his index finger at Stanley.

"R. V. Jones Couldn't Invent A Beam Weapon!... Edward Teller Couldn't Invent A Beam Weapon!... I Couldn't Invent A Beam Weapon!" shouts Poore at Craypool at the top of his lungs.

Both Elizabeth and Showanda bring their fingertips up to their mouths and slowly shake their heads left and right. The two NSA linguists have a hard time restraining their laughter at the chagrin of the older man. To their eyes, Poore looks quite the fool. Due to the fact while Poore shouts at his younger adversary, his starch white stovepipe chef's hat wobbles precariously to-and fro, and then falls to the ground at his feet.

Stanley Craypool is not in the least dissuaded, by the rage in the voice of his immediate supervisor. While Poore bends over to retrieve his festive hat and then struggles without a mirror to return the hat to its correct position, on his balding head, Stanley throws his slight shoulders back and loudly replies.

"Al Khayyami is all over the code in QUANTA CALCULATICA!"

"That can only mean one thing!"

Now it is Morrie Tietelbaum's turn to join into the spirited debate. He too, takes a step forward, coming up parallel with Benjamin Poore facing towards Stanley and exclaims.

"Al Khayyami – Big Salami!... Muslim Physics Is Two Sticks And A Stone, Craypool!"

Showanda Johnson smiles and shakes her head. She and Elizabeth exchange glances. Nearly laughing Showanda looks up at her date Demetrius and asks.

"What are they talking about, Demetrius?"

While Demetrius Culpepper clears his throat and makes ready to speak, the combatants in the fierce debate hold stiff as statues. Then Clifford Strawbottom strides stiffly forward to join the line of departure for the assault on Stanley. Most of the GENSA crowd turns towards Culpepper for enlightenment. As they are just as much in the dark as is Showanda Johnson.

"Stanley ran ' _list'_ on some of the code in QUANTA CALCULATICA, Showanda." explains Demetrius to his girl friend in a matter of fact tone of voice.

At first, Demetrius thinks he should address his answer to his date in a low voice as in a private conversation. But then, after glancing about, he realizes all eyes are upon him. Feeling self-conscious, but still willing to clarify, he raises his voice so all can hear- and continues.

"Craypool says Al Khayyami always substitutes the penny sign for the dollar sign whenever he writes string variable code. It's a trade mark- like Clint Eastwood with a skinny cigar."

Stanley Craypool begins to blink and his mouth falls, half-open. He had not expected anyone to come to his defense. With his courage buoyed up, he quickly seizes the moment and adds.

"The whole section on electron conduction in QUANTA CALCULATICA is smeared with penny characters."

Of course, the problem with Stanley Craypool is that while he is fluent in the writings of Isaac Newton, Jean Bernoulli, and Max Planck. Few people in his intellectual circle, even fewer in the world at large, have even the slightest inkling of where on-earth he gets his ideas.

Worse, Stanley's opinions challenge Professor Poore to the bottom of his very aged and world-weary soul. Poore had tried in vain on any number of occasions during and since the Second World War to invent a working beam weapon. But he failed miserably with every effort.

Clifford Strawbottom too, is just as offended by Stanley's remarks as his friend Benjamin Poore. The crux of the situation is- the GRAND CORPORATION sorely needs Tietelbaum's seventy five million dollar federal grant. Sad but true, Stanley Craypool cannot talk a foundation endowed to the tune of trillions out of a ballpoint pen.

The bald fact is Morris Tietelbaum is a grant getter. The kind of a scientist who keeps it so simple the least able foundation executive can follow his train of thought. Stanley Craypool, on the other hand, solves problems way up in the clouds. At an altitude where his colleagues wings simply will not nor cannot carry them. Consequently- right or wrong, the prize will always go to Tietelbaum and the fools cap to Craypool.

Odds are, a hundred years from now someone will rediscover Stanley Craypool's manuscripts and herald him the Archimedes of the twentieth century. While Tietelbaum's work will gradually grow first quaint and then completely forgotten. But for now, its life above a garage for Stanley- and split level, wall to wall comforts for Morris.

Clifford Peter Strawbottom marches right on up to Stanley Craypool. Strawbottom wraps his spindly arms in a knot on the top of his chest. Like a bear awakened from hibernation the physics professor growls.

"You get in the way of Morris's government grant, and I'll have your guts for garters!"

"I'll ram your birth certificate right down my paper shredder!"

Stanley Craypool can think of nothing to say. After a pause, with his mouth half open. He reaches up and with the fingertips of his right hand, pushes his eyeglasses back up to the top of the bridge on his sweaty nose. Elizabeth Maxwell, meanwhile, bites down hard on her lower lip.

Scene 21 What to Do About Craypool? An Informal Breakfast Conference

Location: Washington DC, Offices of The Information Officer, Embassy Of The Nation Of Iraq

The morning after the break in at the Grand Corporation Headquarters finds Naadi Baspinar and his team members re-assembled in the Iraqi embassy offices of the Information Officer, Mister Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah. Yawning, rubbing his eyes with his hands, Naadi is back in the chair opposite the desk occupied by a fresh looking Hasakah. Moreover, the man with only one name _'Hassan'_ sits bleary-eyed one chair removed from Naadi.

Just as Hasakah is about to speak, the door to his office opens wide and the doorway fills with the bulky frame of Hani Abu Sankaya's bodyguard- Kamel Abu Kamal. Kamal's left hand holds four bags of food from a fast food restaurant. In his right hand, he balances a cardboard tray burdened down with four large paper cups filled with coffee. As Kamal distributes the food bags and coffee cups the air in the office fills with the aromas of fresh baked pastries, eggs, and strong coffee. Hasakah twists the lid off his coffee cup. He sips lightly from the steamy brew and leans back in his chair. Then he says.

"Darby's breakfast's are far above Mc Dougal's! It is the difference between Halal (lawful food) and Haram (unlawful food), the difference between beef and pork!"

Kamel Abu Kamal takes the middle seat between Naadi Baspinar and _'Hassan'_ in the line of three chairs opposite Hasakah's desk. He rummages about in his food bag and is soon gnawing away at a breakfast croissant. Naadi Baspinar sits with a cup of coffee in his right hand and a croissant in his left, both his elbows down at his sides. He takes a large bite from the breakfast sandwich. After chewing and swallowing, the associate professor of physics at Baghdad University, looks directly at Hasakah and says.

"It hit me like a thunderbolt! Right on the top of the infidel's desk, the paper Al Khayyami wrote in 1978!"

Hasakah, the administrator knows nothing of higher mathematics. Yet he has no trouble picking up on the unbridled enthusiasm in Baspinar's voice. After nodding and smiling at Naadi Baspinar, the information officer turns in his swivel chair to come eye to eye with _'Hassan'_ and says.

"In this country a genius would have a pig sty for an office, _'Hassan'._ "

' _Hassan'_ nods his head in agreement with Hasakah while he nibbles away at breakfast. Then he begins to speak out of a mouth still filled with food.

"The pig sty proves him a genius. But how much does the genius know?"

On that pointed and well-timed interrogative, all heads turn towards Naadi Baspinar, the perennial associate professor of physics at Baghdad University. Baspinar smiles brightly and then launches into a narrative. Quite obviously, he loves to lecture.

"Seems to me this Craypool found the right manuscripts. He names R. V. Jones, Edward Teller, and Al Khayyami, in his feasibility study. So, indeed he knows the major players."

While Naadi Baspinar speaks, Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah makes up his mind. First, he throws his now empty food wrapper into the white paper bag atop his desk. Next, he fastidiously wipes his fingers with a paper napkin.

Then following, he lifts his telephone handset off the hook of the five line base unit and presses the handset down firmly into an acoustic coupler. The three men seated in the line of chairs opposite the desk see parallel cables connecting the acoustic coupler to yet another handset and base combination.

Hasakah pulls the second handset off its base and casually touches the speaker end of the handset to his left ear. He opens a leather bound telephone directory with the thumb and fingers of his right hand, and soon dials an overseas number on the key pad of the second telephone. There is a pause while the phone rings at the other end of the line. Then Hasakah plants the handset in the business position on his face.

"Mister Hasakah for Professor Al Khayyami, please."

Hasakah's expression is that of the worried business executive, but then he smiles, his eyes light up and he answers.

"She did quite well on the SAT test, Professor!" responding to a personal question from Al Khayyami about his teen-aged daughter.

Hasakah smiles as he waits for an opening in the conversation. When his turn to speak comes, he says.

"It would be better if you spoke to Professor Baspinar, Professor Al Khayyami."

With that deferential remark as punctuation, Hasakah rises up off the seat of his executive chair and passes the handset transmitting encrypted voice into the waiting and eager hands of Naadi Baspinar.

"Quite well, thank you, Professor Al Khayyami!" answers Naadi Baspinar with a very deferential tone in his tired up all night voice.

"Your paper from 1978 on the Lindblad series, Professor! Right on the top of his desk!"

Baspinar's face screws up. From his hunched over posture it appears Al Khayyami has well thought out objections to Naadi's assumption that Craypool is hot on the trail of their secret beam weapon.

Naadi brings his right hand up and wraps his thumb and first finger round the edge of the handset microphone for leverage. Then he answers a question with a question.

"How would the names Al Khayyami, R. V. Jones, and Edward Teller, all appear in the same paragraph if the paragraph were not about high energy weapons?"

Baspinar holds stock still for a long moment while he listens to the words of his department chairman coming to him over an encrypted phone line from the University of Baghdad in Iraq. While nodding silently he lifts himself off his seat and begins rummaging in the file folder at the edge of Hasakah's desk.

Soon Baspinar pulls out a sheet of paper. The very sheet Kamel Abu Kamal stole from the papers in the file folders in Stanley Craypool's beat up filing cabinet. He says levelly into the microphone.

"Kamal found a continuous fraction among Craypool's papers. A Fresnel kind of a formula giving the width of the beam. But in base sixty, not decimal notation."

The room goes quiet as Baspinar bears down under a scolding from his department chairman. The untenured physics professor glares hotly at the other men in the office. Quite obviously, Professor Al Khayyami is skeptical of his younger associate's claims.

Finally, open mouthed, Naadi Baspinar waves the paper in the air as if to prove it exists. In a defensive voice, filled with frustration he exclaims.

"I can fax it to you, Professor!" there is a pause and then Baspinar adds.

"It is in his handwriting!" there is another pause and then Baspinar states.

"Sankaya's bodyguard. _'Hassan'_ and I did the computer."

Naadi Baspinar covers the mouthpiece on the telephone handset with the palm of his hand. He swivels to his left to come eye to eye with Kamel Abu Kamal.

"It is your turn, Kamel." As Baspinar hands the phone to Kamel Abu Kamal, he swivels in his chair to report directly to the man behind the desk, Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah.

"Kamel checked the file folders by himself, Mister Hasakah. I don't know about grant applications."

Hani Abu Sankaya's bodyguard, Kamel Abu Kamal goes beet red in the face as he reluctantly accepts the handset pressed upon him by the untenured physics professor. Kamel hunches over the phone and listens intently. Then he replies.

"I did not find any." After a bit, Kamel adds.

"There were three folders with grant applications. All applications rejected."

"But his papers for the Zurich meeting were in the folder! If he is not hiding those papers why would he hide a grant application?"

"Mister Hasakah is right here, Professor." says Kamel. Then he reaches forward to pass the telephone handset back to Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah.

Hasakah is actually quite pleased Lakhdar Al Khayyami 'Electronical Al Khayyami' seems unsettled with the report on Craypool's progress given to him by Naadi Baspinar and Kamel Abu Kamal. As a lifelong bureaucrat, Hasakah realizes Al Khayyami's ire keeps him in the loop. In a position of authority over the three men seated in the sparse chairs on the opposite side of his luxurious desk.

With a look of triumph in his eyes and an aristocratic tone in his voice, Hasakah says.

"I will have the men investigate the place this Craypool dwells, Professor." Then after a long polite pause, Hasakah brings his side of the conversation to an end.

"And you too Professor Al Khayyami. Thank you sir, Good Day."

Hasakah returns the second handset to the hook on its base unit, thereby bringing to a close the encrypted phone conversation between Washington DC and Baghdad Iraq. Then he pulls the first handset out of the acoustic coupler and returns it to its base. The information officer sits with both forearms on the desktop, fingers entwined, and a condescending smile on his face.

"I can give you permission to search Craypool's residence. The three of you have done well. But you have not done enough!"

The tired men in the three chairs opposite the fresh faced information officer slump in their seats. Naadi Baspinar groans aloud. With desperate gestures, he picks up the paper Kamel stole from Craypool's office. Baspinar holds it up as if it were a proclamation of belief, a page from the sacred text of the Koran. Then he stabs at the writing on the paper with his index finger.

"How Can A Man Who Writes Out The Continuous Fraction of Al-Khwarizmi Be More Than Four Equations Away From Al Khayyami's Beam Weapon?!"

Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah does not enjoy being upstaged in his own office in the Iraqi Embassy in Washington DC. He glares at the upstart Baspinar for a moment, and then turns to speak to _'Hassan'._

"How are your rooms at the Sheraton, _'Hassan'_?"

On that remark, the after action briefing on the Craypool case comes to an end. The meeting is adjourned.

Scene 22 Stanley Craypool Needs A Piece of 'Open Source' Computer Code

Location: The Stanley Craypool garage loft residence in Silver Springs, Maryland

Elizabeth Maxwell and Showanda Johnson sit on the lumpy couch separating the kitchen area from the living room dining area. Of the garage loft apartment, Elizabeth shares with her boyfriend, Stanley Craypool. On the cocktail table in front of their knees, a large size pizza box lays with the lid yawning wide open. Elizabeth holds a diet Pepsi in her right hand. Showanda needs both hands to support the slab of thin crust cheese and sausage pizza she daintily nibbles. While enjoying their drink and meal, the two female National Security Agency employees listen in on the conversation between their boyfriends seated just a few feet away from the couch.

There is a lighted pole lamp at the end of the couch and a lighted lamp atop Stanley's computer station. As the ceiling lights are extinguished, most of the loft area is hidden from view in the darkness of the evening. Consequently, while one can see a collection of old used television sets both on the floor and stacked up against the steeply sloping walls of the loft. It is difficult to be certain just how many used television sets Stanley has in his eclectic collection.

Stanley Craypool and Demetrius Culpepper rest in kitchen chairs in front of a long folding table. The table is strewn with Stanley Craypool's computer equipment, a collection of tape recorders, scanner and short wave radios, and tools like an oscilloscope, a voltmeter, a soldering iron and needle nose pliers. The computer monitor is lighted. Consequently, everyone can see Stanley has a new copy of Windows 3.0 for his operating system. Quite clearly, the graphical users' interface of 3.0 is a long step above the interface used by the old-fashioned DOS, or Disk Operating System.

Stanley's right hand hovers, not over the keyboard as one might expect, but rather a portable tape recorder about the size of a shoebox. With his left hand, he lowers his pizza slice to a paper towel on the table next to his mouse. Then he cranes his head to make eye contact with Elizabeth and Showanda.

"This is what I get at night on my shortwave radio at exactly 11:20." says Stanley. Then he presses down on the play button on the tape recorder.

Stanley's friends hear a recording of a man's voice. The voice speaks in a dull monotone. The man repeats words that sound like "jahar" and "sheeeshs" over and over. After a bit, Stanley presses down on the stop button and goes eye to eye with Showanda Johnson. The National Security Agency Linguist lowers her slice of pizza to the paper towel on her lap and says.

"He's speaking Farsi, but with a Russian accent."

Stanley opens his mouth to add something but Elizabeth chimes in.

"I told you so, Stanley, I told you it was Farsi!"

"Big deal, Craypool!" adds Demetrius Culpepper, "You buried a long wire antenna in the yard and dug a Soviet Numbers Station out of the air."

Stanley Craypool takes a sip from his can of soda and then nods his head at Demetrius.

"It would be no big deal, Culpepper. But twenty minute later after the Russian guy, I get an ALE transmission from the east. And twenty minute after that the exact same ALE but coming from due south."

Mister Culpepper shrugs his shoulders. He is obviously not impressed. Showanda Johnson glances back and forth between her boyfriend and Stanley. She decides to take sides with Demetrius.

"Stanley, embassies repeat their transmissions all the time. It doesn't prove anything."

Stanley Craypool replies hurriedly through a mouth half filled with pizza.

"The first transmission comes from the east, Showanda. The second transmission from due south."

Expressions of doubt and confusion cloud the faces of Showanda and Demetrius. Elizabeth Maxwell speaks out in support of her boyfriend Stanley.

"Stanley says the first message is from Iraq. He thinks the second is a repeat. A relay out of a secret numbers radio station in Cuba."

With Elizabeth's comment in the air Showanda and Demetrius appear less certain of themselves. Stanley sips from his can of soda and then summarizes his collection of _'known facts'_.

"The guy reading numbers is a Russian. The first message is always twenty minutes later out of the east. The repeat is always twenty minutes after the first, but from Cuba. How could it not be anything but commies and Iraqi's?"

Demetrius Culpepper rocks back and forth in his chair. He nods at Stanley and says,

"I could talk to some people on Andrews about this, Stan.... But what if it's not ALE? What if it's just Picollo?"

A look of complete mastery and triumph fills Stanley's face. It is obvious he had hoped Demetrius would hit upon this critical issue spontaneously, without any coaxing.

Stanley slides forward on his kitchen chair to press down on the red play button on his tape recorder for a second time. In an excited voice he says,

"This is the last one I caught from Iraq and then Cuba."

While everyone sits in rapt attention, a squealing noise that sounds like a gobbling electronic turkey comes out of the speaker on the tape recorder.

With the transmission complete, Stanley presses down on the stop button on the portable tape recorder. Demetrius then shakes his head back and forth.

"I don't know Craypool- that might just be picollo."

Stanley sits with both hands on his knees and his elbows and shoulders out. He smiles at his friend in the chair opposite his and replies.

"Hold on big guy. The next sound byte really is picollo."

Stanley reaches over his table and presses the red start button on the tape recorder.

Soon the air in the loft fills with a sound quite similar to what the group of four listened to a minute or so ago. Yet while this sample is nearly identical to the ALE sample part of the time. There are passages where it sounds exactly like an electronic picollo rather than pure turkey gobbling ALE. Stanley hits the stop button again. Then he nods up and down and grins.

"See! When you play them back to back it comes right out at you!"

While everyone now agrees Stanley has his clandestine signals sorted out correctly, Showanda feels a need for further clarification.

"What difference does it make if they send an encrypted message in either ALE or picollo, Stanley?"

Stanley is in his element. He cups his hands around his right knee. Then he pulls his knee up towards his chest while rocking back and forth.

"The message doesn't come in ALE, Showanda. Embassies use automatic link establishment to pick the best frequency. Like the way a cordless phone hunts for a free channel when you take the handset off the hook."

"Once they find a static free frequency, they broadcast in an encrypted teletype protocol like Pactor."

The word encryption causes Demetrius to sit up at attention. He bites his lower lip and asks.

"What about QUANTA CALCULATICA?"

Stanley Craypool shakes his head from side to side. He pats the top of his desktop computer affectionately with his right hand and then answers.

"I've got the processor speed I need with this baby. But none of the modules in QUANTA CALCULATICA will break encrypted Pactor."

Stanley shakes his head in disappointment and frustration and then adds.

"QUANTA CALCULATICA works some of the time. Cause when I feed an encrypted Pactor wave file on a floppy into the software. I get jumbled letters in the Cyrillic alphabet on the monitor."

"Close, but no cigar!" concludes Stanley with a sigh.

Demetrius Culpepper folds his arms over his chest.

"So write a decryption algorithm, Stanley, go after it brute force, maybe...."

Stanley nods his head but his lips wrinkle up in disgust.

"With what I know about number theory it would take a hundred years."

Now Demetrius taps at his cheek with the tips of the fingers of his right hand.

"The timing part is useful. Even if you can't break the code. If you keep the radio on, the number of messages is bound to go way up before they attack. That would tell us a lot."

Stanley waits for his friends comment to sink in, especially the part about how an increase in traffic volume. Might give warning to the United States of an impending attack by Saddam Hussein's troops. Then he cranes his head to look directly at Elizabeth, still sitting on the couch.

"There would have to be a Pactor decryption module on a floppy somewhere at the National Security Agency."

Elizabeth and Showanda sit bolt upright on the couch and their eyes widen at Stanley's remark. Stanley Craypool is talking treason! Showanda replies swiftly.

"National Security Agency Software isn't open source like QUANTA CALCULATICA, Stanley. It's all top secret!"

Stanley nods his head to concede the point, but then continues probing the ladies seated frozen and white faced on his lumpy second hand couch.

"How hard is it to hide a floppy disk in a woman's purse, Showanda?"

Showanda's hand goes to her mouth, Elizabeth's mouth falls wide open. Then Elizabeth says in a frightened voice.

"Do we look like Mata Hari?!"

Demetrius slides round on his kitchen chair. Both men begin staring pointedly and in silence at the women seated on the couch. It was kind of a high school boy's against girl's situation. Only with millions of lives at stake, and, unfortunately, with no way to predict how things will work out in the end!

Scene 23 Major Benjamin Hazeva Has a Collection Of Surveillance Photographs

Location: Action Officer's Station, Building C Suite 202, Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA

Benjamin Hazeva, Major in the Israeli Army and a reservist in the Israeli intelligence agency, the Mossad, walks briskly through the double doors marking the perimeter of the Action Officer's Suite at the Central Intelligence Agency. He appears dressed for the library. As he wears- a light tan short sleeve shirt, with a dark brown tie, and brown poplin trousers, over brown lace up shoes. In his left hand, Major Hazeva carries a manila file folder.

Once across the threshold, Benny Hazeva sees Bill Hespara and Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson working head down at their desks in the outer office. The light noise of Hazeva's entrance brings both men out of their paper work. Soon both Action Officers make eye contact with their primary liaison in the Mossad.

"Photographs, Gentlemen!... Photographs!" says Major Hazeva as he brings the folder in his left hand up to head height and waves it around.

Moses Anderson places his ballpoint pen down on the blotter on his desktop and rises to his feet. Bill Hespara follows suit. Moses points with his left hand towards Colonel Wingate's office and says.

"Andy is back with the Colonel, Major Hazeva."

Hazeva smiles in invitation to both Hespara and Anderson.

"You're all going to want to see these, gentlemen!"

With Moses leading the way, the three men walk deeper into the suite towards Colonel Wingate's private space. Just at the open doorway, the three look into Wingate's cramped office. Where, first off, they see Donna Hespara seated in front of her desktop computer. Andy Howell, they notice next, stands in front of the Colonel's desk. And last, Henry Winston Wingate sits behind his desk with both hands palms down on the blotter.

Everyone realizes Hazeva's arrival heralds a useful piece of fresh intelligence, a new piece of the puzzle leading to a deeper understanding of Saddam Hussein's intentions in the middle-east. Consequently, the room grows completely silent as the Mossad Agent enters the room. After Andy Howell turns round to face the new arrivals, Hazeva beams at him and says.

"Major Howell!... Remember what your wife said about French Restaurants?"

Andy's brow knits up and he blinks. Then he answers.

"The hats were wrong so the restaurant was in Iraq, not France."

"Then Coolidge stormed in to sell us his latest invention, drugs on wheels!"

Everyone struggles to keep from laughing at Andy's wry reference to the most recent episode of buffoonery of the Chief Psychiatrist in the Central Intelligence Agency. Colonel Wingate thinks it prudent to change the subject back away from the antics of Doctor Coolidge. He quickly interjects.

"As Miss Maxwell pointed out, Major Hazeva. The man's hat was a Pakol. Not a Beret. Placing the scene in Baghdad rather than Paris."

"Exactly correct!" says Hazeva with a triumphant nod to his head. Then the Israeli Mossad agent pulls three eight by ten inch color photographs, cropped head and shoulder views of three men who are obviously at an airport passport control station, out of the folder in his left hand. The major lowers all three pictures to the top of Colonel Wingate's desk one by one. Then he stands tall, and happily exclaims.

"Montreal International Airport.... I just got these from passport control!"

Hazeva looks back and forth among the member of his audience. Then he picks the center photograph up and displays it to the group.

"This one sounded the alarm. A known terrorist. Hit man in the Iraqi Mukhabarat."

As soon as everyone begins to peer intently at the photograph in Hazeva's hand, he adds.

"Goes by the alias of _'Hassan'_. We've tried for years to figure out his real name."

Hazeva purses his lips in frustration. Then he lowers the eight by ten to the desktop and picks the other two photos up, one in either hand. Benny wiggles the picture in his left hand up and down. Then he explains.

"Kamel Abu Kamal. Bodyguard to Hani Abu Sankaya. Sankaya is a very senior person in the Mukhabarat."

Major Hazeva wiggles the photo in his right hand and adds.

"This is the one that worries me. Professor of Physics at Baghdad University. Naadi Baspinar."

A look of skepticism fills Bill Hespara's face. He shakes his head and remarks.

"They wouldn't be foolish enough to sit together on an airplane."

Benny Hazeva's face brightens at the insightful challenge to his work.

"NO, of course not!" Hazeva replies tersely. "But they were foolish enough to buy all three tickets on Kamal's master card!"

During the discussion, Andy Howell leans his backside against the right hand corner of Colonel Wingate's desk. Though he finds the photo's intriguing. Though he admires Hazeva's handiwork, still he doubts the evidence has anything to do with the war with Iraq looming just over the horizon. After Hazeva makes his last remark, Andy stands to his full height in front of the desk. He flatly comments.

"What if it's something low ball?... What if it's just industrial espionage, Benny?"

Benjamin Hazeva nods and grins. He goes back in the file folder for another clutch of three photographs. While arranging the pictures for effect, he turns towards Andy Howell and says.

"What your wife said, Andy. Usually I delete surveillance tapes. This time I made prints of the men in the Al-Jadriyah restaurant."

Now the Mossad Officer holds up a head and shoulders photograph of one of the men in the restaurant. This man appearing to be in his late thirties- dressed in a medium brown Arabian Jubba over a light khaki Dishadasha. Hazeva says.

"Unknown male in the Al-Jadriyah restaurant."

Then Hazeva brings up the photograph of one of the men taken in the Montreal airport.

"Physics Professor Naadi Baspinar proven by passport photograph."

Now Hazeva brings the restaurant photograph back up in his other hand.

"Naadi Baspinar in the Al-Jadriyah restaurant, agreed?"

For a few moments the men and one woman in the audience peer at the photographs. Until they too, are convinced the man in the airport photo dressed in a suit and tie is the same as the man in the restaurant dressed in traditional Arabic garb. Hazeva decides the silence in Wingate's office signals agreement with his thesis. Accordingly, he exchanges the photos in his hands for another picture from the folder.

This shot shows Naadi Baspinar in the Al-Jadriyah restaurant leaning towards and speaking to an older man with a third man listening in. It is not possible to see the face of the third man as his features are concealed behind an Arabian Head Dress, a _'Shora'._

"Naadi Baspinar having lunch with Hani Abu Sankaya. Senior Officer in the Mukhabarat." explains Benny Hazeva while jabbing at the image of Sankaya with his right index finger.

"I vote with Andy." opines Moses Anderson to the room at large. "A Muslim hat doesn't make a Physics Professor Osama bin Laden's baby brother."

Hazeva sighs. While he has a hole card, still he wishes his friends in the Central Intelligence Agency were a little bit less skeptical. The Mossad Officer lowers the photograph in his hand to the desk. Then he displays a new photograph the people in the room have not seen before. The room holds silent, so Donna Hespara decides it might be her turn to comment.

"I see the same restaurant. The same table. But now you can see the face of the man with the scarf along with the first two."

A little weary now, Hazeva nods his head. Then he points to the man with the Shora atop his head and says.

"The third gentlemen is- Lakhdar Al Khayyami. Chairman of the Baghdad University Physics Department."

Andy Howell decides to summarize the findings of the photo intelligence meeting.

"Two physics professors. A senior person in the Mukhabarat with a bodyguard. A probable drug dealer slash hit man."

Benny Hazeva nods his head stolidly and points again like a bulldog at the photo of the man in the head dress. Then he adds.

"Lakhdar Al Khayyami did his PhD in Berlin during the Second World War. There are people in Tel Aviv who suspect he has been working on beam weapons since then."

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, Commander of the Action Officer's Unit leans forward over his desk and says.

"There might well be a problem, then."

Benjamin Hazeva nods his head for the last time. He says flatly.

"There _is_ a problem, Colonel Wingate. My people have located Naadi Baspinar, the Physics Professor, Kamal Abu Kamel, the bodyguard, and _'Hassan'_ the hit man to a Sheraton hotel here in Bethesda, Maryland."

CHAPTER 3 STANLEY'S FIRST INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT

A-10 Gatling Guns Can Fire up to 4,200 30 mm

Rounds Per Minute

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Scene 24 Elmer Orders Laverne To make A Phone Call

Location: The Elmer Craypool residence in Baltimore, Maryland

Laverne Mostowski sits on the end of the lumpy couch at the back of the living room in the one bedroom apartment she shares with Elmer Craypool. Her makeup is too thick, and her hair shows the effects of too much hair spray. Moreover, she is unsuccessfully hiding a good thirty pounds of excess body fat under a light grey sweatshirt and matching sweat pants.

Just at the moment, however, the aging process and obesity are the least of her problems. Laverne glances nervously between the bay windows several paces in front of her, and Elmer Vincent Craypool, hovering over her from his command perch at her feet. Laverne sighs. Her eyes dart feverishly from side to side. In her heart, she wishes she was anywhere at all in the world but in this apartment.

Elmer, her live in boyfriend, stands facing her at her immediate right hand side. He is dressed in grey trousers, a sleeveless white t-shirt, and narrow dark grey suspenders. Mister Craypool glares down at his girl friend. His wrinkled shoulder and bicep muscles flex in anger and his trembling hands ball up into fists. Elmer's lower lip protrudes in a gesture of pure truculence. There is a business card held clamped between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

The bay windows are half-open, traffic noise is light. A smoldering cigarette with lipstick on the filter tip rests in a glass ashtray on top of the end table at Laverne's right hand. Just behind the ashtray, and in front of the art deco lamp, sits a black plastic telephone with a rotary dial pad.

Elmer Craypool thrusts the business card forward, right under Laverne's heavily powdered nose.

"Make the call, Laverne!"

Laverne gasps and glances over her shoulder where her eyes come to rest on the empty quart beer bottles strewn on the top of the dining room table. Her head turns back and she forces herself to look up and meet Elmer's messianic gaze.

"What did Stanley ever do to you?" pleads Laverne.

"It's bigger than that kidoo!... That punk kid is screwing the whole country!" barks Stanley to Laverne, while insistently waving the business card up and down.

"Elmer!... Stanley is your son!" says Laverne in a motherly tone of voice.

"Make the call, kidoo!"... "Get it over with!" says Elmer Craypool.

Laverne sighs. She reaches for the cigarette in the ashtray but then catches sight of the anger and rage in Elmer Craypool's expression. Her hand comes to a halt, her shoulders slump, and with obvious reluctance, she moves her hand back and lifts the phone off the end table and places it on her lap.

The aging, heavy-set woman picks up the handset, pulls the hair back off the left side of her face with her right hand, and places the speaker end of the handset on her left ear. Looking up she sees the rage has departed from Elmer's eyes. Laverne sighs to regain her composure and reaches for her cigarette for a second time, and takes a long drag. Then she returns the cigarette to the ashtray. While blowing smoke out of her nostrils she gingerly pulls the business card out of Elmer's clenched fingers and places it next to the phone on her lap.

Laverne dials one and then the area code for the Washington D.C. community, and last, a seven digit number. The phone rings twice and then Laverne hears a polite female voice on the line.

"What?" says Laverne in a voice raspy from the effects of cigarettes and beer.

There is a pause while Laverne picks the business card up off her lap and brings it near to her blood shot eyes. Then she responds.

"Mister Clifford P. Strawbottom."

"What?" says Laverne for a second time into the mouthpiece of the black handset of the telephone. Next, she moves her thumb off the lower right hand corner of the card so she can read the office extension and says.

"Extension 7862."

Scene 25 Doctor Coolidge Assembles His- 'Evidence'

Location: Clifford Peter Strawbottom's outer office, the Grand Corporation, Washington, DC

It was, as the saying goes, ' _standing room only'_ in the outer office of Clifford Peter Strawbottom. Senior Human Resources Specialist, the Grand Corporation, in Washington, D.C. Mister Strawbottom's guests were almost too numerous to count. First off, standing next to Strawbottom so he could look in on the documents on the clipboard held in Strawbottom's hands. There was Doctor Edgar D. Coolidge, MD, Chief Psychiatrist, for the entire Central Intelligence Agency.

As with Strawbottom, Coolidge grasped important looking documents in his hands, and like Strawbottom, there was an air of agitation in the Psychiatrist's demeanor. Could they pull off the big one without a hitch?

Coolidge had arrived a half-hour or so previously, with an entourage of four male attendants from Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in tow. These muscle bound males dressed alike in operating room tops and trousers, manhandling a portable gurney cart through the too narrow doorway of Strawbottom's reception area. Just now, the gurney stood on end, tucked in the rooms' eastern corner, with the four male attendants standing guard in front of the transporter. One gentleman puffing idly on a cigarette, two with their mouths shut and their arms folded across their burly chests. The last attendant sat lounging on the couch, idly turning pages of a hunting magazine to while away the time.

In addition to Coolidge and his staffers, Lieutenant Colonel William Norman was there with a military team composed of a middle-aged Staff Sergeant and two very youthful Lance Corporals. Compared to the hospital orderlies, these four men looked even more out of place in a human resources office. Dressed as they are in black urban style combat fatigues, flak jackets, and heavy coal scuttle helmets, with black plastic face shields. Moreover, each man hefting an M-16 rifle and sporting a set of tear gas canisters and a bayonet on a black nylon web belt around his waist.

Clifford Peter Strawbottom's secretary, sitting behind her desk on a task chair, feels especially uncomfortable with the preening and posturing gestures made by Lieutenant Colonel William "Wild Bill" Norman. Since his arrival, he has worked the action on his weapon more times, than she could count. Moreover, every few minute he lowers the plastic shield on his helmet down over his eyes then raises his rifle up to his shoulder and take a sight picture at a tree outside the windows behind her desk. It was not, a dramatic situation she was caught up in, it was the scariest event in her young life.

"What's The Hold Up?" growls Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman to the room at large.

Clifford Peter Strawbottom looks up from the papers on his clipboard and does his level best to meet the steely-eyed glare fixed on Norman's face. Then he turns his head back towards the psychiatrist and says.

"Doctor Coolidge?"

Edgar David Coolidge, MD, Chief Psychiatrist for the Central Intelligence Agency with admitting privileges at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital, in Washington DC, jerks his head up and down in a gesture of finality. He brings the papers at his side up to chest height and explains.

"Malpractice! Colonel Norman! Malpractice!"

"What?" grumbles Bill Norman in reply.

"Consent, Colonel Norman, Consent!" explains Doctor Coolidge in an impatient voice.

Bill Norman, never the sharpest knife in the drawer, stands there looking blank, angry, and skeptical, all rolled up into one. Strawbottom glances back and forth between his partners in the exercise, then, with a nod, he decides to weigh in to the conversation.

"Craypool's father, Colonel Norman. With his testimony, we have parental consent. The roads a lot safer with parental consent.... Lawsuits, you know!"

Bill Norman sighs and shakes his head. He brings his rifle up tight against the thick and heavy flack-vest on his chest and while grumbling, counts out on his fingers.

"You got make believe beam weapons!...You got rag heads sending Craphole secret messages on his brain waves!...You got penny keys on a computer and there ain't no penny key on a computer!"..."Never has, Never will be!... What don't you got?!"

Strawbottom nods his head and grins from ear to ear. He responds with sympathy.

"A man of action would see it that way, Colonel!... But admin is a rules and regs game!... Rules and regs!"

Coolidge glances down at his watch and opens his mouth to speak. Just then, the phone on the receptionist's desk begins to chime and clamor. The lady in the chair behind the desk jumps up as if she had been touched with an electric cattle prod. When she sits down in her seat, she sees her boss, Mister Strawbottom, pointing an outstretched hand right at the tip of her nose.

"Get that young lady!"

The receptionist moves her slender manicured hand to the handset of the phone on her desk and soon speaks into the mouthpiece.

"Human Resources Executive, Mister Strawbottom's Office."

There is a pause and then the receptionist says.

"Yes ma'am, this is his office."

Mister Strawbottom rubs his hands together in shylock fashion as he shuffles towards the desk. Halfway to his destination he cranes his head around and triumphantly remarks.

"What did I tell you, Edgar!...What did I tell you!"

Coolidge nods, his posture relaxes and he drops the papers in his hand down to his side. This causes Strawbottom to swivel his head back to the face forward position and shuffle ever more quickly in the direction of the telephone.

The receptionist leans forward over her desk and stretches out her arm as if radioactive plutonium contaminates the phone in her hand. Strawbottom snatches the handset up eagerly, careful not to touch his receptionists hand. He hates physical contact with other people, and is actually quite uncomfortable using another person's telephone.

"Yes, yes, Mister Craypool!...Strawbottom, Clifford Peter Strawbottom!"

Speaks Mister Strawbottom into the microphone, while holding the mouthpiece as far away from his lips as is humanly possible. Once Clifford Peter Strawbottom is certain the voice on the other end belongs to Elmer Vincent Craypool. He stands to his full height triumphantly, and turns to face his guests. Then he gives out with a start and twists his head back to bark an order at the receptionist.

"Speakerphone young lady! Speakerphone please!"

The receptionist presses a button on the base of the telephone and soon the room fills with the hollow echoing boom of Elmer Vincent Craypool.

"Can I speak to the psychiatrist?" rasps the elder Craypool over the speakerphone.

"Coolidge." responds Mister Strawbottom. "Edgar David Coolidge, MD."

Clifford Strawbottom bends down, shuffles forward, and tries to reach the record button of a portable tape recorder, resting on a magazine table in front of the couch against the far wall of the reception area.

Unfortunately, the distances are too vast for the length of the phone cords. Consequently, Strawbottom gives out with a harrumph and then snaps his fingers at the hospital orderly reading a magazine while seated on the couch.

"Get that for me please." barks Strawbottom to the orderly.

The orderly looks up and blinks but he is too late. Bill Norman reaches down and stabs at the red record button with the tip of his thumb. Soon the wheels on the tape recorder began to revolve round and-round.

"Got your back, Professor." says Norman in a swaggering tone to Strawbottom.

Doctor Coolidge reaches out his hand towards Strawbottom for the telephone handset but the human relations specialist motions him towards the receptionists' desk. As the telephone base includes a microphone as well as a powerful speaker.

"Am I speaking with Elmer Vincent Craypool, biological father of Stanley Warren Craypool?" asks Doctor Coolidge with a scholarly glance down at the papers in his hands.

"Is this Doctor Coolidge?" comes the worried reply over the speakerphone.

"This is Doctor Coolidge, Mister Craypool." responds the Psychiatrist.

"This is Elmer Vincent Craypool, father of Stanley Craypool." says Elmer.

His voice more relaxed than in the first exchange. Mister Craypool does not have to be coaxed. Everyone in Strawbottom's office hears the sound of a heavy smoker clearing his throat over the speakerphone. Then Elmer Vincent Craypool's voice fills the room.

"I want to testify for his own good. Let's get that clear. It's for the kids own good. I'm doing this for him. Got That Down?"

"Mister Craypool." says the psychiatrist in reply. "Do we have your permission to record this call?"

There was a long pause- Elmer Craypool's voice fills the room, louder than before, nearly bursting with pride. His moment of glory has arrived!

"Everything I have to say is on the up and up.... "Do what you gotta do!"

Doctor Coolidge jerks his head up and down.

"When was the last time you heard from your son, Mister Craypool?"

"Thursday last, might have been a Friday. But it was the Fourth of July like he always does."...For sure it was him!" volunteered the man living in Baltimore in a one bedroom apartment above a corner pharmacy.

"And how did that _interaction_ go?" asks Doctor Coolidge, doing his level best to sound detached and professional.

"WHHAAAK!" Responds Elmer Craypool; his throat congested with spittle. "Says to me he was a secret agent. A double oh seven whatayacallit with a license to kill!...I got witnesses to it!...Want to hear it from a witness?"

It was more than anyone in the Grand Corporation office had hoped. Strawbottom, his receptionist, Coolidge and his team of hospital orderlies, Norman and the three enlisted men in flak jackets, they all begin to lean in the direction of the speakerphone.

"That won't be necessary, Mister Craypool." says Doctor Coolidge "Anything specific in your son's childhood?"

There is a lengthy pause. Everyone realizes Mister Craypool is struggling with the problem of where to begin. Rather than whether or not there were any incidents, he wishes to include on the psychiatric evaluation and court order.

"Childhood!.. One time he showed up and stripped his pants down!.. Right in front of Lovvie!... Thirty five year old man pulling his trousers down in front of his father!... Thirty five years old!"

The psychiatrist and his _'witnesses for record'_ stand and sit there open mouthed. INDECENT EXPOSURE! Then they hear a shrill woman's voice replace Mister Craypool's voice on the speaker.

"I am _not_ involved in this!... I did _not_ see anything!... This is Laverne Mostowski!... No relation whatsoever to the Craypool's!... I want to go on record I didn't see anything!"

As the frightened female voice fades away, Doctor Coolidge whips out a ballpoint pen and scribbles something on his sheaf of papers. The he starts to speak.

"Yes ma'am...." but before he can finish his sentence Elmer Craypool comes back on line,... louder and more insistent than before.

"The military stuff gets me!... Lying about the military ought to get him put away!"

Mister Craypool's last remark strikes a very responsive chord with Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman. Norman bobs his black helmeted head up and down and mutters.

"That ought to be enough. What with the delucinations and everything!"

"Edgar?" queries Clifford Strawbottom of Doctor Coolidge.

"I think we have enough." responds the Psychiatrist.

There is another pause and then Elmer Craypool's voice returns to the speakerphone. This time he sounds relaxed and composed, as if a great weight just lifted off his shoulders.

"On the record. Its water over the bridge between me and my boy. Good afternoon to you gentlemen."

Now the room fills with the sound of a dial tone, indicating Elmer Vincent Craypool had hung up the phone on his end of the line. The sound causes Clifford Peter Strawbottom to shuffle hurriedly to his receptionist's desk and place the handset of the phone onto the base.

Strawbottom returns to the center of the room, glances down at his watch, and begins to speak to Bill Norman and Edgar Coolidge.

"The subject goes to lunch like clockwork at 11:30. Should be in his office for sure for the next thirty minutes. Room 6421. Just down the hall on the right hand side."

Bill Norman thrusts his jaw forward as he takes in all the information. He swivels to look Doctor Coolidge square in the eye and asks.

"Permission to launch, Doctor Coolidge?"

Doctor Coolidge brings his sheaf of papers up and begins checking at items with his ballpoint pen as if he were working on a shopping list. After a bit, the psychiatrist says proudly.

"Best Parental Consent I ever got. Twenty-five years plus in practice. Best parental consent I ever got."

Bill Norman leans down and turns the power button off on the tape recorder. He is satisfied he has the authority to proceed with both the dynamic entry and the restraining order of the involuntary commitment.

"Exposing himself in front of his father!" says Colonel Norman, while shaking his head.

The men in Marine Corps uniforms with rifles and flak jackets, and the hospital orderlies do not have to be told, to stand at attention. After they rise to their feet, Norman pulls his clear plastic visor down over his face and says firmly.

"Fix bayonets, ready one tear gas canister, safeties on, follow me."

Suddenly the room grows noisy with the sound of bayonets sliding out of sheaths to be secured to metal flanges at the muzzle ends of four M-16 rifles. Then there is the ripping sound of four men pulling Velcro tabs to gain access to one of three cans of tear gas hanging on rings on their web waist belts.

The last thing the receptionist sees of the restraint team is a portable gurney rolling through the doorway on rubber caster wheels, a burly man with tattooed arms guiding it on its path. When she looks up quizzically at her boss, Clifford Peter Strawbottom, he nods sagely and says.

"It's for the boy's own best interests, young lady."

Scene 26 "Drop The Slide Rule, Craypool!"

Location: Stanley Craypool's office (6421) at the Grand Corporation Headquarters in Washington, DC

This particular mid morning of this particular day, finds Stanley Craypool seated at his desk in his office in the Washington DC headquarters of the GRAND CORPORATION. Although his computer is turned off, he has his programmable calculator switched on and resting on the center of the ink blotter of his desk. Moreover, his old college slide rule lays at the ready in his hands. And too, there is a compendium of classical mathematics papers resting just above the calculator. The pages of the book held open to a manuscript dating from way, way, back in the eighteenth century.

For weeks now, Stanley has been poring over the subject of transcendental series, as with the infinite expansion of the number π. Hoping- against hope he might find something in the literature. His supervisor Benjamin Poore will accept as proof Saddam Hussein really does have beam weapons at his disposal. To this point Poore has dismissed his proposals as ridiculous, nevertheless, Stanley carries on. Spurred both by rumors from the U2 people about unexplained cockpit fires and the intelligence Hussein was about to send troops cross the border into Kuwait.

Stanley keeps a black and white photograph of R. V. Jones in an inexpensive plastic frame on the wall next to his computer desktop. Jones, a British Physicist during the Second World War had rather single handedly defeated many of the German radar technologies with counter technologies of his own invention. Consequently, Jones' brand of warfare is just the kind of warfare Stanley craves at the bottom of his heart.

Decisive victories based on technological advances with the smallest possible numbers of casualties on both sides. This is the goal propelling Stanley throughout his peripatetic career.

The title of the book penned by Jones after the war, when the secret victories went unclassified was- THE WIZARD WAR. Well sir, by Stanley's light, Wizard War was what the Second World War was, indeed! And Wizard Warrior was what Stanley Warren Craypool hoped someday to become.

Stanley lets most of the air out of his lungs in a sigh, and glances up at the clock on the wall. It is too early to break for lunch, so next our intrepid engineer's eyes go for inspiration to the framed photograph of Professor Reginald V. Jones. It is then his mathematical reverie goes lost, in the crashing, ramming, wood splintering sounds of four M-16 rifle butts smashing repeatedly into the flimsy wooden door guarding his tiny office! Stanley looks up towards the door and blinks. Then he mumbles.

"What in the heck is going on!"

The door is unlocked, of course. Nevertheless while Stanley Craypool blinks, and his Adams apple bobs up and down nervously. Four men in fatigues beat down the unlocked door and storm into the room. They whirl about Stanley's desk. And while he sits there motionless, still with the slide rule in his fingertips, they each bring the bayonet tip of their rifles to within an inch of his head.

"Involuntary Commitment, Craypool!... Drop the slide rule!... Stand Up!... Hands Where I can See Em!"

Stanley is terrified. He looks nervously back and forth between the four faces behind the clear plastic face shields and under the black coalscuttle helmets. Then he swallows and in a quiet voice asks.

"Norman?... Is that you?"

"DROP THE SLIDE RULE, CRAYPOOL!" growls Norman for a second time.

Stanley Craypool sits there openmouthed. It is a stalemate of sorts, one nerdy genius against four armed and dangerous SWAT team members. Norman growls. Then he slides his hand off the pistol grip of his M-16 and goes for the stun gun tucked in yet another Velcro pocket on his web belt.

Soon a bolt of dangerous electric current crackles within an inch of Stanley's eyeglasses. With his heart pounding out of control, Stanley Craypool does as he is ordered. He drops the slide rule.

"On Your Feet- Nut Case!"

Stanley raises his hands above his head and gets to his feet. Slowly, as the four bayonets and the stun gun are bare inches away from his unprotected head.

"On the wall Craypool, assume the position." barks Wild Bill Norman at Stanley Craypool.

Still with his hands above his head, Stanley goes to the wall and leans forward. With four bayonet tips pressing against his back, Stanley dares not turn around. Instead he speaks directly into the wall, saying.

"What is this all about, Norman?"

Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman ignores Stanley and instead turns and growls at the Lance Corporal.

"Wallet, Lance Corporal. We're Looking For A Phony Air Force I. D. Card!"

One of the two Lance Corporals soon has Stanley's wallet in his hands and begins rifling through its contents. After a bit, the young man smiles behind his clear plastic face shield, and says.

"Bingo Air Force I.D. Card!" Then the Lance Corporal passes a red and white Air Force Identification Card into Colonel Norman's eager hands.

Bill Norman takes the card up in his fingertips and grins widely at the sight of Stanley Craypool's black and white full-face photograph. By this time, the medical team has entered the room and they do not need instructions. With practiced motions, they roll the collapsible gurney cart up behind the slender electrical engineer. Then they lift him up and place him in the face up position along the length of the cart.

Stanley is at first nervous enough to stutter. But when the men in the operating room shirts and trousers begin wrapping his arms, legs, and torso, with thick leather belts he becomes terrified. With his body restrained and his head swiveling from side to side, he screams.

"Norman! An I.D. Card Is Like Buying Beer Underage!"

Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman makes a harrumphing sound. He barks in triumph. Next, he issues an order.

"Let's get him to Saint Elizabeth's." then Norman glances down at his bound prisoner and with an air of self-righteousness explains.

"The phony I.D. Card is the least of your troubles, Craypool. The least."

The psych orderlies lead the way out of the office, wheeling Stanley Craypool along, and with the SWAT team following close behind. Clifford Peter Strawbottom and Edgar David Coolidge stand in Strawbottom's office doorway as Stanley rolls past on the gurney. When Stanley Craypool catches sight of Strawbottom, he shivers from head to toe. At last, he knows exactly what is going on. At the top of his voice, he shouts.

"I'M FOUR EQUATIONS AWAY FROM AL KHAYYAMI'S BEAM WEAPON!!"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE DOING, STRAWBOTTOM??!!"

Clifford Peter Strawbottom purses his lips and moves his head from side to side. In his considered opinion, Craypool is a hopeless pile of trash, lowest of the low. Doctor Edgar David Coolidge has the last word. To all the members of the team he observes.

"When a personality disorder has a fixed delusion."

"A personality disorder has a _fixed delusion_."

That was it. The next sound everyone hears is the alert bell for the elevator. Stanley opens his mouth to speak in his own defense. He wants to cry out about the dangers of beam weapons. But he closes his jaws abruptly as he sees one of the orderlies about to ram a gag between his teeth.

Scene 27 Iraqi Intelligence Operatives Pay A Visit To The Stanley Craypool Garage Loft Apartment

Location: The Stanley Craypool Residence, Silver Springs, Maryland, USA

Mister Hubert Spangler and his wife, his _'better half'_ , Dot, are seated at the kitchen table in their three-bedroom home. Located just across a white picket fence from the above the garage residence of Mister Stanley Craypool. Mister Spangler has his half moon bifocals on. He holds a newspaper up in the air with both hands as he works his way carefully through the classified ads. Mrs. Spangler, Dot, busies herself with a pair of scissors, cutting coupons out of a Sunday newspaper supplement.

Suddenly, a strange noise breaks Hubert Spangler's focus on his efforts at locating a new pair of water skies for his daughter- Misty. As he reflexively raises his head, the family dog, Fluffy, a Pekingese, begins to bark. Hubert lowers the newspaper and sees a four door late model automobile rolling slowly up the driveway of his neighbors' house, in the direction of the back yard garage loft apartment.

Peering, this way and that, Hubert can make out three men through the tinted glass in the unfamiliar vehicle. When the strange car comes to a halt next to the wooden stairs leading up to Stanley Craypool's above the garage apartment. Hubert's head jumps up slightly in a startle gesture. Then he pulls his bifocals off with a sweeping motion and says.

"You don't think they let four eyes out?... Do you Dot!?"

With twenty-two years of married life between them, Dot Spangler realizes at once her husband can only be referring to their eccentric neighbor, Stanley Warren Craypool. Without looking up from her mother hen job of clipping coupons, she mutters.

"You should call the police, Hubert. Make them warn us when he gets loose."

Hubert lowers the newspaper to the top of the kitchen table and rises to his feet. He walks over to the kitchen window above the sink and pulls back on the lace curtains. Now he can clearly see three men dressed in well-tailored suits, climbing out of the automobile on the other side of the picket fence.

"I better get out there Dot!... Looks like the F. B. I. is come a calling!"

On that remark, Dot Spangler rises to her feet and walks in floppy slippers to the kitchen window. Simultaneously, her husband drops the curtain and starts to make his way out the kitchen door and into the back yard. Halfway through the back door Hubert pulls his summer weight straw hat off a brass hook in the wall. Then he slams the hat on the top of his head with the flat of his right hand, and closes the screen door behind him.

Dot takes up the curtain and begins peering out the window in his stead. Fluffy, meanwhile, has stopped barking. As he realizes his humans are responding properly to his unexpected visitor alarm.

' _Hassan'_ sits business like behind the steering wheel of a rented brand new four door maroon Buick sedan rolling down a quiet residential street in Silver Springs, Maryland. Next to him in the passenger seat Kamel Abu Kamal, Hani Abu Sankaya's bodyguard, and behind Kamal in the rear seat, Naadi Baspinar, the physics professor from Baghdad University.

' _Hassan'_ the Mukhabarat assassin, has only to pilot the vehicle- as Kamel Abu Kamal has a detailed street map of Silver Springs on his right knee and a sheet of paper with Stanley Craypool's address and some other personal information on his left knee. In the rear seat, Naadi Baspinar points with his right index finger as he reads off the numbers on the homes on both sides of the street.

"Should be two more houses down on the left hand side, _'Hassan'_." says Naadi Baspinar in _'Hassan's'_ right ear.

"Twenty One One Two." says Kamel Abu Kamal, in a studious voice with his eyes down on the paper perched on his left knee. Then the bodyguard looks up, peers around, and says quickly.

"Left turn, _'Hassan'._ Right in there."

' _Hassan'_ rolls the steering wheel over to the left with his right hand and soon the automobile comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Stanley Craypool garage loft residence. _'Hassan'_ shifts the gear lever into park and turns off the ignition with the key in the steering column. All three men are reluctant to leave the air conditioned comfort of their rented automobile, especially as their eyes come to focus on the dilapidated character of the Stanley Warren Craypool residence.

' _Hassan'_ shakes his head back and forth and purses his lips.

"No wonder the American's have never had a mathematician! Look where this Craypool lives!"

Naadi Baspinar nods his head in complete agreement with the man behind the steering wheel. Looking out the tinted windows of the rented car, the three Iraqi's see unpainted wooden steps. A garbage can with the lid lying akimbo on the ground, and an unlocked and rusted mailbox filled to overflowing with envelopes and advertising circulars.

"Worse than a Kurd in Suleimaniyah!" mutters Naadi Baspinar, in reference to the poverty stricken city off highway three between Baghdad to the south and Mosul to the north.

' _Hassan'_ pulls up on his door latch with his left hand and twists in his leather bucket seat to alight from the vehicle.

Glancing out his window, he sees a paunchy middle age man. The man leans against a white picket fence, dressed in a straw hat, white tank top t-shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts and with white socks inside of a pair of old tennis shoes. _'Hassan'_ swiftly turns his head around and hisses.

"We are security people from the Grand Corporation!" then he turns his head back and steps out of the car with a sincere smile painted on his face.

Hubert Spangler waits and watches patiently as the three suited visitors assemble up into a group by the driver's side front fender of their vehicle. When he sees that the tall muscle bound fellow has a sheaf of papers and a map in his left hand. Hubert jumps up and waves his right hand above his head. Then he shouts.

"A Marine Corps Colonel and a Lance Corporal went all through the place yesterday! Couldn't find anything, fellas!"

The three Iraqi nationals turn round and then walk carefully in the direction of the strident voice emanating from the paunchy man with both hands resting atop the fence line. From his posture they realize he stands as a self appointed guard behind the white picket-fence which runs up and down the length of his property. _'Hassan',_ Kamel, and Naadi, each understand the inquisitive neighbor must be mollified before they can proceed with their efforts on behalf of the Iraqi secret police.

At the fence line _'Hassan'_ pulls the Grand Corporation identification card given to him by the Iraqi Embassy information officer, Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, out of the inside pocket of his suit coat. _'Hassan'_ dutifully passes the card over the fence into the hands of Mister Spangler and asks.

"This is the Stanley Craypool residence, is it not sir?" while jerking his head back towards the apartment above the two car garage.

Hubert Spangler stares intently at the photograph on the identification card and then at the slender man on the other side of the fence. In a moment, he is satisfied with the authenticity of all three men dressed in suits. As he returns the Grand Corporation identification card to _'Hassan'_ he shakes his head vigorously left and right and answers.

"They booby hatched Craypool yesterday!... Legal court order signed by a Psychiatrist!"

Blank expressions grow on the faces of the three Iraqi nationals. Neither _'Hassan'_ nor Kamel Abu Kamal, nor Naadi Baspinar, has any familiarity with American idioms. Naadi Baspinar shrugs his shoulders and says.

"I'm sorry sir, booby hatch?"

Hubert Spangler nods and thrusts his chin forward with both hands spread on the top of the white picket fence.

"Hubert Spangler is the name!... Saint Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital is where they took Craypool!... You fellas need directions?"

Naadi Baspinar understands English better than _'Hassan'_ or Kamel so he is the first to put together Mister Spangler's disjointed remarks. The physics professor takes the lead in the conversation.

"Of course, Mister Spangler, Sir. The involuntary commitment, exactly so!"

As soon as Naadi senses Mister Spangler is convinced of their authenticity he adds.

"Actually, we are just here to pick up Mister Craypool's mail. There is a forwarding order to the hospital but we thought it would be best to check his mailbox."

Hubert Spangler nods in agreement with the plausible alibi coming from the smooth talking man on the other side of the fence. He says.

"The Colonel took the keys, gentlemen. I'd let you in if I could, but the Colonel has the keys."

' _Hassan'_ nods and smiles at Hubert Spangler. At last, he realizes his prey is completely out of reach, at least for the time being. Then he adds.

"It all depends on what the doctors decide, Mister Spangler. We might need to search his apartment. We might not. When the doctors make up their minds we might return with a search warrant."

Hubert Spangler's eyes light up at the wisdom in _'Hassan's'_ cautionary remark. He nods and then adds.

"You got a point there! Even a head case like Craphole has got himself civil rights!"

With Hubert Spangler standing there, shaking his head left and right. The three Iraqi's break away and head back for their rented automobile. Kamel Abu Kamal takes the mail out of Stanley Craypool's mailbox. Then the bodyguard leans over to pick up the news papers lying on the grass, before he opens the passenger side front door.

With the three men seated and the engine running, Kamel hands the mail over the seat to Naadi Baspinar.

" _Hassan'_ puts the transmission lever in reverse and begins to inch back out of the driveway. He waves at Hubert Spangler with a disarming smile spread on his face. Mister Spangler waves in return, and then storms back into his house through the kitchen door.

Hubert rushes to the kitchen table where he collects a ballpoint pen and a small pad of paper. On his hurried way into the living-room, he shouts over his left shoulder at his wife.

"That was the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dot!"

Dot Spangler sits bolt upright in her kitchen chair at the mention of the F. B. I. She rushes to her feet and trails her husband into the living room. All the while Mrs. Spangler carries a Sunday newspaper coupon supplement in her left hand. In the living room, Hubert leans over the back of his overstuffed reclining chair and pulls the curtains back from the window.

As the maroon Buick backs out onto the street, Mister Spangler jots down the license plate number and the make and color of the car. Then he holds the curtain wide so his wife can see the vehicle and says,

"They gave me a _'Grand Corporation'_ rigmarole, Dot! But it's the F. B. I. for sure! Or my name ain't Hubert Charles Spangler!"

Dot Spangler turns her head slowly from side to side. Then she says.

"You think you know your neighbors!... People these days!"

Hubert Spangler nods in complete agreement with his wife. Then he holds the tiny notebook up in the air at a little less than head height and waves it lightly back and forth, as if it were a winning lottery ticket.

"I know somebody in the know, little lady!... We're gonna get to the bottom of this!"

Out on the street, the Buick backs out to the west, halts, and then begins moving towards the east. As the three Iraqi nationals start to motor away from the Craypool residence in their rented automobile, Kamel Abu Kamal turns round in the passenger side front seat and places his left forearm up on the backrest. He comes eye to eye with Naadi Baspinar and asks.

"Are we going back to Baghdad, Professor Baspinar?"

Baspinar's eyes go wide in alarm as he shakes his head vigorously from side to side.

"Craypool is a bigger danger to us in a hospital than out on the street. Now it is certain intelligence officers will search his papers and his hard disk!"
Scene 28 Memo For Record On The 'Known Facts' Of The Situation

Location: Action Officer's Station, Building C Suite 202, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate likes to reserve Monday afternoons and Fridays for bureaucratic duties. Moreover, in his mind, having put in literally decades at the conference table in the service of his country, Monday afternoons were for that particular set of bureaucratic duties with an air of the distasteful about them. Friday afternoons, on the other hand, he reserved for awards ceremonies, as these led naturally to a round of toasts at the officers club over in the main building, and sometimes tennis or golf on Saturday morning.

On Mondays, in sharp contrast to Fridays, he would, with great reluctance, transfer people, reduce them in grade- deny security clearances, and generally take on all these unpleasant tasks accompanied by tersely written memos for record. Copies of which went speedily into his _'Pearl Harbor'_ file.

This particular Monday found Colonel Wingate very truly- on the _'Horns Of A_ _Dilemma'_. Some days ago, Doctor Edgar Coolidge, Chief Psychiatrist for the Central Intelligence Agency, had written orders committing an Electrical Engineer working at the Grand Corporation to the high security psychiatric ward at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital across the Potomac River from Langley, on the southeast side of Washington, DC. All Wingate really knew about the incident was that the engineer, named Stanley Craypool. Had been arguing for some weeks that Saddam Hussein had an armamentarium of working beam weapons, and now Coolidge had him in leather restraints and under a suicide watch- for an indefinite period of-time.

Wingate had no interest whatsoever in whether or no Stanley Craypool was actually mentally ill. Nor was he concerned with whether or no the young man presented a danger, either to himself or those around him. The Colonel had been around long enough to realize that psychiatric testimony was far from an exact science. He knew, perhaps more than most, the opinions of psychiatrists flowed with the prevailing winds. Indeed, in his experience, psychiatric testimony was something you paid for with coin of the realm, the larger the coin, the greater the certainty of the diagnosis.

The problem here for the agency, and it was a _very_ acute problem, as Wingate perceived it, came down to whether or no Craypool was correct. In his intuitions about the military capabilities of the dictator ruling over a sizeable portion of the oil rich sands of the Middle East. Did Hussein indeed have beam weapons? Was Hussein luring the United States into an armed conflict that he might use his beam weapons against us?

Given the gravity of the situation, the potential for unnecessary casualties, the chance the United States might suffer a catastrophic defeat. Wingate had sent written requests to the people he deemed essential elements of a fact finding and decision making committee. Moreover, he ordered Andy Howell and Moses Anderson to skip lunch this particular Monday. To help him transfer Donna Hespara's computer from her tiny workspace in his cubicle to the large conference table in the main room.

Thus, it was that at one in the afternoon, Donna Hespara sat in her customary seat at the right hand side of the head of the long Formica topped conference table. Not with a pencil, steno pad, and a tape recorder, as per usual, but rather with a desktop computer and printer perched at her right hand side. Moreover, a solicitous Andy Howell lowering her monitor to the desktop in front of her eyes, while she sat there demurely with elegantly manicured fingertips poised above her computer keyboard.

After Moses Anderson finished connecting the serial and parallel cables between the various devices on the table, he plugged in the power cord. Then Andy Howell pressed the start or _'boot'_ button in front of the tower, causing the system to come to life accompanied by those _'R2D2'_ sounds so typical of the computer age. The printer making groaning sounds as it shook hands with the operating system, and the button lights on the keyboard beginning to glow.

As soon as Donna saw the welcome screen on the monitor before her eyes, she entered her password. With a few more soft clacking keystrokes, she quickly found herself starting a new document in the word processing software package. All the while Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, seated at Donnas' left at the head of the table, busied himself with a stack of file folders. Struggling manfully, to make head or tails out of the sparse _'known_ facts' of the situation.

As if on cue, invited guests begin to work their reluctant way through the double doors and into the main room of the Action Officer's Suite. Colonel Wingate rises to his feet as he sees Senator Gilbert Blaney, the senior senator from the state of Texas, and the Israeli Mossad Officer, Benjamin Hazeva, walking together, deep in conversation on a topic of mutual interest. Then following Lieutenant Colonel William 'Wild Bill' Norman makes his entrance, along with Bill Hespara, Donnas' husband. These two obviously at loggerheads just to the extent Blaney and Hazeva were forging a long lasting relationship.

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate remains standing as the committee members take seats round the table. In a world-weary-voice, he trumpets.

"Subject beam weapons, gentlemen. Are they possible, do the Iraqis have them?"

Then he turns his head to look down into Donnas' eyes and remarks.

"Careful note of times, dates, places, and names, Mrs. Hespara."

While Donna Hespara begins to work away at the keyboard before her, Colonel Wingate glances about the room. It seems to him Bill Hespara, Donna's husband, wants to be the first to speak so he offers.

"Mister Hespara?"

Bill Hespara nods dutifully and begins to narrate.

"I got in touch with the U2 people at Beale. Major Perkola tells me one of their pilots, a Captain Lapeer, Randy Lapeer, reported a cockpit fire and glowing lights in a flight over Mosul."

"Was there follow up, Mister Hespara?" queries Colonel Wingate.

Bill Hespara's face takes on an uneasy edge. He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts and then carefully replies.

"Professor Poore showed up at Beale with Strawbottom. The Human Resources Chief at the GRAND CORPORATION. Poore fired Lapeer while he was sitting in the cockpit. Perkola never got the chance to do an after action debrief."

"Craypool was a key player down in Bogota, Colonel Wingate." offers Andy Howell to the group at large. "Without Craypool's communications work, we never would have located Nayari. Not in a million years."

"The issue here is beam weapons, Major Howell." replies the Colonel, now seated in his chair at the head of the table. "Do they exist?... Does Saddam Hussein have them?"

"With all that oil money, the Iraqi's could be ahead of us." remarks Major Hazeva.

"Our technical people are turning out powerful lasers, Colonel. The Iraqi's just have to be on generation three or four while we're back on generation one." adds Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson, while looking directly into Colonel Wingate's eyes.

Lieutenant Colonel William Norman shakes his head in the negative and counters.

"If the rag heads could do Buck Roger they could make tanks. All they have for tanks is second hand junk they got from the commies."

"Besides, Craypool is a nut case open and shut. It shows on his MMPI."

Suddenly a light begins to blink on the telephone on the table placed strategically between Colonel Wingate and Donna Hespara. Donna goes for the handset with her left hand and in a moment says softly.

"Yes, thank you for calling." A pause ensues and all eyes at the table came to focus in on Donna. Donna drops the microphone end of the handset away from her mouth, turns to look at Colonel Wingate and explains.

"He has time to speak to you now, Colonel Wingate, Sir."

The world-weary look on Colonel Wingate's face soon falls away, replaced by an air of bureaucratic triumph. He announces.

"Expert testimony, Gentlemen!... Professor Edward Teller no less!... At the Lawrenceville Laboratories in San Jose!"

With that remark, the Colonel's face brightens noticeably. His right hand goes swiftly for the record button on the office tape recorder. After he accepts the telephone handset from Donna, he presses down decisively on the speakerphone button.

Donna notices the Colonel now looks pleased, relieved, and humble, all in the same instant. It is obvious to her, and everyone in the room, the conference has arrived at a signal moment, a turning point.

Whichever way Professor Teller's testimony might lean, it is now perfectly clear. The Action Officer's Unit has taken the steps necessary to secure a delicate situation. From this moment onward, there can be no blame, no fault laid on the shoulders of Colonel Wingate and his men. 'Proactive Damage Control' is the operative phrase.

"Professor Teller Sir, we've an interrogative for you from Senator Blaney."

"Yes, yes, of course, Colonel Wingate, go ahead please." Professor Teller's deep basso reverberates out to all the corners of the room.

Gilbert Blaney has served on the Senate Intelligence Committee from his very first term. Consequently, he knows exactly how precarious the situation is confronting the group. It takes him a moment to clear his throat. Then on a dry mouth, he inquires.

"Professor Teller, theoretically, are beam weapons practical? Are they even possible?"

"Yes, yes, exactly!" replies Professor Teller. "We were held back during the Second World War by a lack of computer power. Many of us, myself, Oppenheimer, even Uhlenbeck, wanted to pursue beam weapons."

"I can assure you, gentlemen, beam weapons are now practical off a lap top computer!"

"There's no paper trail!" exclaims Bill Norman in a voice suggesting he is in a room full of idiots. Then he adds.

"We can follow every gram of yellow Cake Uranium anywhere in the world. Hussein can't be hiding anything. Period. End of story."

"Yes, yes, Senator Blaney?" Colonel Wingate realizes Norman's interjection has thrown Professor Teller off topic so he speaks out in clarification.

"Professor Teller!... That was Marine Corps Colonel William Norman speaking, not Senator Blaney."

"I See!... I See!" replies the voice out of an office on the Lawrenceville Laboratories in San Jose, California.

Gilbert Blaney has one more question, this a good deal more ticklish than the first.

"Professor Teller, why so much opposition from Professor Poore?"

The room goes silent as Professor Teller collects his thoughts, finally he replies.

"There were go arounds between Professor Poore and Professor Jones. Until the day Jones passed away."

The silence in the room is soon interrupted by the sound of chair legs scraping harshly on the floor as Bill Norman rushes to his feet. Everyone looks up in alarm at the expression of contempt on the Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel's face. It seems to one and-all he is going to rush the speakerphone and begin one of his shouting tirades into the microphone and by extension, Professor Teller's ear. Much to the surprise of the people seated round the table, however, Norman stomps to a point immediately behind and at Donna Hespara's right hand.

Next, the stocky Lieutenant Colonel reaches down and without either permission or warning, scoops Donna Hespara's computer keyboard up in the air. With the keys held facing out towards his captive audience, he launches an angry tirade.

"If Craypool was telling the truth!... If Craypool wasn't a nut case!...

There Would Be A Penny Key On This Keyboard!!"

"BUT THERE AIN'T NO **PENNY KEY** THE SAME WAY THERE AIN'T NO **ANY KEY**!!... THAT FOUR EYED CLOWN IS A LIAR!!"

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate sits stock still in his seat. He glances about- hopeful someone has an answer. Finally, Major Hazeva chimes in.

"Colonel Wingate Sir?"

"Yes Major Hazeva?" replies Wingate to the Israeli Intelligence Officer seated across the table from Senator Blaney.

"With your permission, Colonel." and with that Benjamin Hazeva rises to his feet.

"Certainly Major Hazeva!" answers Colonel Wingate, great full for a way out of the awkward stalemate, a shouting match, really, brewing up in his offices.

With Colonel Wingate's permission, secured, Major Hazeva makes his way speedily to a position behind and on the opposite side of Donna Hespara. He looks up into Norman's angry eyes and says evenly.

"May I have the keyboard please, Colonel Norman?"

Norman scowls, then, grudgingly passes the keyboard into the waiting hands of Major Hazeva.

Hazeva takes the keyboard and lowers it to the table. He looks up and then announces.

"It depends on the version of your operating system, of course!"

"The cent sign, penny sign if you prefer- should be a macro item!"

With that, Major Hazeva goes to work on Donna Hespara's keyboard. First he presses down on the 'ALT' key, then he taps the '-' key followed by the numbers 0162. Soon, a cent sign **¢** appears onto the white page showing on the monitor.

Next Major Hazeva pulls down the file menu and presses down on radio buttons with the mouse pointer until the printer begins to squeal and hum. Last, he swivels the monitor around that Colonel Wingate can see the cent sign on the screen. Wingate smiles wryly and said.

"Let's share that with the audience, Major Hazeva!"

Hazeva smiles back and without another word, turns the monitor around towards the rest of the men in the room. Everyone rises- moves towards the screen, and gazes for a few moments at the penny or cent sign showing up plainly in black on white.

By this time, the printed sheet with the penny or cent sign drops into the hopper off the printer heads of Donna's dot matrix printer. Hazeva tears the page at its perforations and scoops up the sheet with a flourish. He passes it into Norman's hands and with an ear-to-ear grin says.

"Memo for record, Colonel Norman Sir!"

Colonel Wingate's barrel shaped chest heaves up and down as he suppresses a mirthful laugh. Quite cheerful now, he says.

"Indeed Major Hazeva!... Memo for record Indeed!"

Senator Gilbert Blaney gets, caught up in the mirth surrounding Colonel Norman's misplaced anger. He adds.

"I'd like a copy of that, Mrs. Hespara."

Donna Hespara looks up and smiles at the Senator.

"Certainly, Senator Blaney!" she brightly replies. Then Colonel Wingate adds.

"Let's send a copy out to Professor Teller as well, dear lady, now that we have all this modern day computer power!"

Professor Teller hears his name- but with the distances involved has no idea as to the fresh and optimistic turn of the conversation. With a somewhat worried tone, his voice comes back over the speakerphone.

"Yes?... Colonel Wingate Sir?... Is there a problem?"

Everyone in the room begins laughing. Not so much at Bill Norman and his embarrassing faux pas, but rather out of relief Major Benjamin 'Benny' Hazeva has so neatly vindicated his friend Stanley Craypool. The eight ball it seemed- will soon be out of the corner pocket- and back up on the table. Stanley Craypool might be dead wrong about his 'beam weapon' thesis. Yet now there was a certain proof he had lied to no one.

"No problem at all, Professor Teller!" replies Gilbert Blaney.

Then everyone in the room, excepting of course, the red-faced Marine Corps Colonel William 'Wild Bill' Norman goes on laughing.

Scene 29 Stanley Craypool Assembles a Covert Listening Post In Silver Springs, Maryland

Location: Front door of the National Security Agency, Washington DC

It is nearly five in the afternoon on a bristling hot day in the early summer of 1990. Demetrius Culpepper takes his foot off the gas pedal and presses down on the brake. Bringing, his four door automobile to a dignified halt at the front doors of the National Security Agency building. Stanley Craypool sits beside him in the passenger's seat.

While it is true, Stanley has been released from the psychiatric hospital and is no longer at risk for an involuntary commitment. His position with the Grand Corporation, security clearances and all, remains up in the air. Technically speaking, Stanley is on administrative leave. However, as he and Demetrius both realize. If Stanley were to set one foot on Grand Corporation property, he will be speedily arrested as a common trespasser, maybe worse.

Stanley spies Elizabeth Maxwell and Showanda Johnson making their way from the building lobby, to the curb through a revolving plate glass door. He presses down on the electric window button in the passenger side door. Obediently, the tinted glass window begins to lower itself into the door cavity.

"Over here, ladies!" says Stanley as he makes a scooping motion with his right arm hanging out the window.

Both Stanley and Demetrius can see clearly that Elizabeth and Showanda look extremely self-conscious. As the two female National Security Agency linguists, make their way across the sidewalk they peer to the left and right, eyes wide and with trembling mouths. In a moment, Elizabeth and Showanda stand nervously within an arms length of the rear passenger side door of Demetrius' four-door automobile.

Stanley twists full around in his seat and works the latch to the passenger side rear door. Showanda climbs into the car with her purse dangling off her right forearm and takes the seat behind her boyfriend, Demetrius. Elizabeth lowers herself into the seat behind Stanley. As Elizabeth pulls her door shut, Demetrius works the gear-shift lever into drive and rolls away from the curb. Soon, both Showanda and Elizabeth are latched into their seat belts.

"I don't know, Stanley." says Showanda with a scared expression on her face.

"What don't you know?" counters Stanley to Demetrius' girl friend.

"We think we got the right floppy, Stanley. We think we did!" adds Elizabeth.

While Demetrius motors past the guard station at the parking lot entrance and exit, Stanley turns round in his shoulder and seat belt harness and says.

"The floppy should have had the word "Pactor" and either "Encryption" or "Algorithm" on it."

Showanda nods her head without smiling.

"Today was the first day in a week they all went to lunch together!"

Elizabeth lets the air out of her lungs and then groans.

"There aren't a whole lot of reasons for two Linguists to be in the National Security Agency crypto room all by themselves, Stanley!" to which Showanda adds.

"We didn't see any surveillance cameras, but that doesn't prove there weren't any!"

Stanley Craypool has had a long and rewarding experience with telephone hacking and computer cracking. Consequently, he finds it difficult to understand the sense of fear and alarm hovering over the heads of the two females in the back seat. If it were up to Stanley Warren Craypool, computer software would be free for the asking. As by his light science and math would move forward all the faster. Without cash and carry barriers holding things back.

"Software could be free, ladies!" says Stanley in an effort to calm down his two accomplices in crime.

Stanley's remark causes Demetrius to take his eyes off the traffic and turn his head to the right. The African American behind the wheel says levelly.

"I might be able to come up with a story about needing the Pactor algorithm for my own use on Andrews, Craypool."

"But you won't have a pot if Poore or Strawbottom finds out!"

Stanley lets out with a sigh. He feels as if the whole weight of the world is upon his shoulders. After a bit, Stanley turns his head to look at Demetrius in profile.

"What are the chances the NSA signal geeks buried a long wire antenna, Culpepper?"

"Are they smart enough to do that?"

While Elizabeth Maxwell knows enough about signal propagation on the short wave bands to realize her boyfriend has a leg up on the antenna people in the defense department. Still she kens Stanley's superior attitude is the real problem. Elizabeth leans forward in her seat and speaks directly towards Stanley's ear, fully intending to deflate his ego.

"Is anyone willing to work with you if you do get secret messages, Stanley?"

Stanley nods his head as a grim and determined expression covers his face. He has been in this situation before, more times than he cares to remember.

"I'm not going through Poore and Strawbottom this time, little lady!"

"This one's going to Wingate through Andy and Moses!"

With that rejoinder, Stanley jerks his head up and down to emphasize his point.

Just then, Demetrius Culpepper brings his automobile to a halt at a traffic light. The car interior holds silent for a moment. Then Showanda says.

"Is anyone else beside me hungry?... How about Chinese?"

Scene 30 See What You Can Do With A Media Player And A Sound Card!

Location: Stanley Craypool's garage loft apartment in Silver Springs Maryland, USA

After dinner at a Chinese Restaurant in Silver Springs, the group of four make their way back to Stanley's above garage apartment in Demetrius' automobile. As soon as Demetrius pulls his ignition key out of the lock on the shaft of the steering wheel. Stanley is quickly out of his seat belt harness and seat. Then he is the first up the wooden stairs to his front door. A few quick motions with his key in the door lock and he swings the door wide open to welcome his friends.

"Right this way ladies and gentlemen! Signals Intelligence 101!"

Infected somewhat by Stanley's boyish enthusiasm, Demetrius, Showanda, and Elizabeth, circle round the computer table and remain standing, rather than taking their familiar seats. As soon as the Electrical Engineer on administrative leave from the Grand Corporation has everyone's attention, he pats the top of his desktop computer and says.

"The August nineteen ninety version of Windows 3.0 comes with a media player that sees my sound card!"

Stanley nods his head for emphasis. Then he puts both hands on a metal box about eighteen inches long by eighteen inches wide by about four inches deep. The young man lifts the box up that everyone in the room can see all the buttons and dials on the faceplate of the teletype demodulator. He says proudly.

"Five hundred dollars worth of boat anchor!"

Stanley moves towards the garbage can next to the sink with the hefty demodulator in his hands but Demetrius interjects.

"I can get two hundred for it, Stanley." Demetrius' remark brings Craypool up short.

Instead of dumping the teletype decoder in the trash, he places it atop the drainage board on the sink. Then he steps back to the table. With a wide grin on his face, Stanley taps his fingertips on the top of the case of one of the shortwave radios resting on his work-table.

"This little baby gets the signal off the antenna I buried in the yard."

Then Stanley reaches with his fingertips for a cable connecting the radio to a tape recorder.

"Next I cable up my radio to the tape recorder."

Stanley drops the first cable and reaches for a second, longer wire.

"Then it's a serial cable from the tape recorder to a serial com port on my desktop."

"Now I have the dots and dashes from the transmitter in Iraq running across the sound card."

As Showanda listens to Stanley's off, off, Broadway theater-chatter. She stands there with her right elbow in her left hand, and her right hand tapping her chin. When Stanley pauses to catch his breath, she says warily.

"Did you bury the antenna to hide it, Stanley?"

Mister Craypool shakes his head in the negative but before he can answer, Demetrius Culpepper chimes in.

"A rain storm will short out a buried antenna, Showanda. But a little dampness and the water molecules absorb static electricity and destructive harmonics."

Stanley nods his head and adds another illuminating remark.

"The whole thing is a trade off, Miss Johnson. A tall antenna gets a stronger signal but it also gets more interference. The voltage in a buried antenna is a lot less. But you even things out with a sensitive pre-amplifier."

Elizabeth Maxwell feels a little playful. She shrugs her shoulders and says impishly.

"Tell us something we don't already know, Stanley."

Stanley purses his lips as his shoulder fall.

"I get that all the time." he says in a wry voice. Then he starts in again on his lecture.

"The soundcard runs the dots and dashes on the tape recorder through a decoder. If I set things right, like mode, and baud rate, letters and numbers show up on my monitor."

Now Stanley begins the process of booting his desktop computer. He presses a few buttons and when the Windows logo appears on the screen. He enters his password on the keyboard beneath the monitor. Showanda Johnson has another question.

"What is a mode, Stanley?"

Stanley taps a few keys on his keyboard to bring up his open source software defined radio. While waiting for the device to go resident in the random access memory of the computer, he turns to Showanda and answers.

"Mode is like AM and FM on a kitchen radio. But in Diplomatic traffic, the mode sends dots and dashes in a format that represents all the keys on a keyboard."

Demetrius nods his head and then contributes a useful bit of information.

"Sometimes instead of letters you want to transmit a picture. Like a satellite picture of an airplane parked on the ground."

Stanley moves to a point where he can hover, his hand over the tape recorder. He reminds his friends of their last get together.

"Before they locked me up for the crime of being ambidextrous I played you guys Automatic Link Establishment and Picollo. Picollo is not what I want to pull out of the air. Because Picollo is used mostly by British diplomatic stations. What the Iraqi's use is Pactor."

Stanley presses down on the red play key on the tape recorder. The open reel tape wheels start to turn. After a few seconds of silence everyone in the room hears a high pitched- regularly spaced- beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, sound, in which the individual beeps have a slight but clearly discernible warble to them.

"That, ladies and gentlemen is Pactor!"

Stanley turns the tape recorder off and looks up at Elizabeth and Showanda. He says.

"Now all we need is a floppy disc with two files. A Pactor demodulator, and an encrypt decrypt file."

Elizabeth and Showanda exchange guarded glances. After biting her lower lip, Showanda reaches into her purse. To gingerly retrieve the floppy disc copy she made in the crypto offices at the National Security Agency. As Showanda passes the floppy into Stanley's eager grasp Elizabeth quips.

"Are we accessories now?" Demetrius shakes his head and decides to try to keep the humor in Elizabeth's remark up in the air.

"You two can plead entrapment. Craypool and I will do the hard time."

Stanley slides the floppy disc into the read-write head slot on his desktop computer. Then with a few strokes at the keyboard, he opens a command prompt on the screen and enters some lines of DOS code. That should, hopefully, and with any luck at all, transfer the files on the floppy into the modules of his software-defined radio.

"I know I can decode ACARS." says Stanley, referring to a transmission mode used between Air Traffic Controllers and Commercial Air Crew members (Aircraft Communication and reporting System).

"Now were gonna see if I can read Pactor."

Stanley quickly takes a seat in the chair in front of his monitor and keyboard. He moves the mouse to and fro with his right hand, while he left and right clicks the buttons on the top of the device from time to time. Then he types for a bit longer on the keyboard. At last, he leans back in the chair. With a theatrical flourish, he presses down on the start button on his tape recorder, looks up and explains.

"This should be traffic from the Algerian embassy station in Ankara, Turkey."

Everyone in the room hears another brief – beeeep, beeeep- sound byte. Which they now realize is a Pactor mode message transmission, broadcast over the high frequency bands from Ankara to Washington, DC. A few seconds after the tape recorder quiets to the hiss of rolling blank tape. Stanley Warren Craypool grins from ear to ear. He jabs at the screen to call attention to the letters and numbers gradually filling the empty space in an applet window and says proudly.

"You can't make sense out of the code groups. But look at the message header."

Stanley's friends crowd round the monitor. Stanley points at the top of the document in the screen and says.

"See, the _from_ slot says "Algeria", the _to_ slot "444", that's a substation someplace, and the _subject_ slot reads "3975 / CP / SUB"!.... Whatever "3975 / CP / SUB" means!"

While Stanley still has everyone's rapt attention, he starts pecking away at the keyboard. Soon the message screen melts away to be replaced by another applet labeled "SIGNAL CLASSIFIER, Version 2.2, Build 6". Now his audience can see a saw tooth edge sine wave tracing extending from left to right across a rectangular screen. Stanley explains.

"The signal we just looked at as a demodulated message. Now it's a time domain modulated sine wave."

Demetrius notes there are dotted boxes neatly surrounding each of the many peaks in the signal and a list of center frequencies under the tracing. The African American lets out with a whistle and in a voice filled with respect says.

"I can't even do that at Andrews, Craypool. And we have _everything_ at Andrews."

By this time, Elizabeth and Showanda feel a little more scared than impressed. Stanley can see from their eyes they are worried he might have a lot more software in his possession than he has any legal or proper right to own. More _'borrowed'_ software than even they know about or helped him obtain. Stanley sees the anxious looks in the eyes of his female guests. He quickly says.

"Cross my heart, ladies, its all open source QUANTA CALCULATICA."

"Last year when I went to Zurich for the Al Khayyami lectures. They had a floppy disc flea market."

"It's all strictly legit."

Demetrius stands up straight, and soon Showanda and Elizabeth follow suit. Demetrius summarizes the feelings running through the group like an ocean tide.

"Even if the crypto module works, Craypool. The Jacobi algorithm uses a twelve-character alpha-numeric key. Your processor will never hack the key by brute force."

Stanley crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. With an air of regal serenity about him, he explains.

"That's why I've been walking the dog in front of the Iraqi Embassy!"

Elizabeth and Showanda go open mouthed and wide eyed at the implications in Stanley's last remark. Showanda says abruptly.

"Don't even think about it, Stanley!" to which Elizabeth adds.

"Copying a floppy is bad enough! We're not breaking into an embassy building!"

"You can stick that where the sun don't shine!"

Then finally, Demetrius glances down at the top of Stanley's head and says.

"Embassies shred encrypted traffic, Stan, then, they burn it!"

In spite of the withering ripostes, Stanley maintains an air of the prophet about him.

"Sometimes, ladies and gentlemen. Sometimes embassy people talk things over in a coffee shop. Sometimes embassy people put old papers in the trash can at a coffee shop."

Stanley Craypool nods his head while his game plan sinks into the minds of his best friends. Elizabeth, Showanda, and Demetrius exchange knowing glances. Then they stand stock still, waiting in silence for the denouement. Finally, the electrical engineer recently released from Saint Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital off an involuntary commitment says.

"The Tigris and Euphrates restaurant has two dumpsters, ladies and gentlemen. One for food garbage. Another for recyclables like paper."

Demetrius Culpepper speaks out for the rest of the people in the tiny above the garage loft apartment.

"You know, Stan. The problem with hanging around with you. Is that after a while you're crazy ideas start to make sense."

Stanley says nothing in return but his eyes begin to blink. As he lowers the front legs of his chair to the floor, his pet dog, Sam the Saluki hound makes his way into the group. Sam comes to a halt. Then he pulls back on his haunches to stretch the muscles in his front legs and shoulders. Quite obviously, Sam wants to go for a walk in the yard.

Scene 31 There's Nothing In Your Obstetrical Record, Mrs. Norman

Location: Office Of United States Naval Psychiatrist, Steven Garnett, MD Quantico Marine Corps Base, Quantico, Virginia

The United States Navy Psychiatrist, Doctor Steven Garnett, MD, sits at his desk in a completely comfortable pose. Domestic problems are his specialty and he is very good at resolving them. Consequently, he has a sincere smile for the reluctant family of three in his office. Moreover, nothing but optimistic remarks and gestures as he works both ends of a ballpoint pen with his fingertips, in two small counter rotating circles while resting his elbows on the desktop.

"So what is an MMPI, Doctor Garnett?" queries Janet Norman, long suffering wife of Lieutenant Colonel William 'Wild Bill' Norman. The housewife and mother of one leans forward slightly in her seat, out of curiosity, as she speaks. Her uncomfortable visitors chair placed on the opposite side of the desk from the Navy Psychiatrist.

"Its' an association test, Mrs. Norman. Minnesota Multi-phasic Personality Inventory. You take the answers off a multiple choice preference test and correlate them with something like occupation."

"Say, like, if salesmen always check the same preferences on questions ten through twenty. Then, if the patient gives the same answers on questions ten through twenty as the salesmen. He might be happy as a salesman."

"And is the kid here happy at _anything_?" asks Lieutenant Colonel William Norman, barely able to either conceal his sarcasm or control his anger.

The psychiatrist has no trouble at all picking up-on Colonel Norman's feelings. The Marine Corps Regular Officer sits there with his fists clenched on the tops of his knees and a scowl painted across his face.

His body language is unmistakable. One wrong word, Doctor Garnett realizes, and the morning session will no doubt dissolve into a husband and wife-shouting match. Worse, the Psychiatrist guesses it will be a good six months, if ever, until he might dare address the _'Colonel'_ by his first name.

"Your son would be abnormal if he _wasn't_ challenging his father, Colonel Norman." responds the Psychiatrist in an even voice.

"YEAH!... barks Colonel Norman. But it could be weight lifting.... WHY IS IT DRUG DEALING!?"

William Norman Junior, 'Billy' to his mother and father, squirms in his seat. He had been looking directly at the psychiatrist- but now Billy turns in his seat towards his mother and begins to shout.

"MA!... Everybody Tries Drugs!... I Was Just Trying Something!"

Janet Norman opens her mouth to speak but her husband abruptly cuts her off.

"YOU WERE CAUGHT DEALING, PUNK!... NOT WITH DRUGS IN YOUR SCHOOL BAG!" shouts Colonel Norman while bending forward at the waist and twisting his head to his left.

Billy turns red in the face and swivels back in his chair to avoid the glare in his father's eyes. Doctor Garnett finds himself in an uncomfortable position- but one with which he is perfectly well trained to deal with. The challenge now, he realizes, is to keep the whole family in therapy. Moreover, not give the father an excuse to break off relationships, as Colonel Norman had already so obviously accomplished time after time in the past with his teen-age son.

"All this takes is a year of family counseling, and blood tests and urine screens on Billy. We can have his record expunged when it's all over." offers Doctor Garnett to the Norman family.

"Yeah!" observes Bill Norman in a bitter voice. " _His_ _record_ is gonna to be clear! But _my record_ is gonna show I lost my base housing privileges."

Janet Norman eyes her husband nervously. In addition to the embarrassment of having to move off base on executive order, there is another issue pressing in on her heart. Her fingers squeeze down on the purse on her lap and she softly asks.

"What about when I was carrying Billy, Doctor Garnett?... Does the record show anything?"

The Psychiatrist breaks out in a smile. He puts his pen down on the blotter on his desk and then pulls forward a little bit in his chair. While looking directly into Mrs. Normans worried eyes he answers.

"I went over the whole nine months, Mrs. Norman. No medications. No complications. Healthy term delivery. Your sons' problem simply can't be organic, it can't be."

As Doctor Garnett speaks, he picks Mrs. Norman's hospital record up off his desktop with his right hand and holds it suspended flat in the air.

"But his grades, Doctor," counters Janet in a forlorn tone "they want him to repeat algebra one and all his science and English courses in summer school."

Before Doctor Garnet can reply, Colonel Norman breaks in.

"He always fought me. Like he's somebody else's kid. When he was little, it was just me. Now its _me and_ his teachers."

Doctor Garnett lowers Mrs. Norman's chart back to the desktop. Then he offers.

"All this takes is a year of family counseling, Colonel. Lab tests every month."

"What family doesn't have problems?"

As he speaks, Doctor Garnett shrugs his shoulders. Even Billy Norman has enough intuition to realize it was a _'take it or leave it'_ situation. The Norman family will either cooperate with the base Judge Advocate General's Office or separate from the Marine Corps "For The Good Of The Service".

The psychiatrist glances back and forth from one member of the Norman family to the next. He realizes from the lack of eye contact with the teenager at his right, that Billy Norman's contrite expression is a complete sham. Mrs. Norman, on the other hand, has just the right _'worried mother hen'_ look in her eyes. If the whole thing were in her lap, thinks the psychiatrist, no doubt there would be a happy-ending.

What of Colonel William 'Wild Bill' Norman, seated in the chair at the Psychiatrists left hand? Well, the look in Norman's eyes has Doctor Garnett worried. From the tension in Colonel Norman's posture and the sense of preoccupation in his tight lips – it appears to the psychiatrist the good Colonel might be planning something. Maybe something everyone in the room would come to regret.

Colonel Norman rises rapidly to his feet. Just as if he read the psychiatrist's mind. Norman stands in front of the psychiatrists' desk with balled fists and a jaw thrust forward.

"Do we get the blood test today?" queries the Colonel is a sullen tone.

The psychiatrist feels a little bit rushed by the Colonel's question. Yet still he realizes Colonel Norman is, in the least- offering to cooperate with the system. Thus, it is that Doctor Garnett picks up the laboratory requisition slips off the blotter on his desk and holds them out within the Colonel's reach, all the while with a wary look in his eyes.

Bill Norman snatches the slips a little too quickly for the comfort of everyone in the room. Reluctantly, Billy and Janet rise to their feet, both with postures driven stiff by the tension in the air of the counseling office.

"Call my secretary next week, and we'll get started, Mrs. Norman, Colonel Norman, sir." says the Psychiatrist, after he stands up behind his desk.

Mrs. Norman is about to answer. Her mouth opens up but before she can say anything, her husband interjects.

"I can take her record back." says Colonel Norman tersely.

Then, without waiting for permission from the psychiatrist, Colonel Bill Norman scoops his wife's inpatient chart up and off the desk. While Bill Norman's aggressive gestures seem a bit out of the ordinary. Both the Psychiatrist and Mrs. Norman decide, somewhat charitably, the Colonel is trying to make the best out of an awkward situation. Consequently, it seems to them strategic not to comment on his overly forward behavior.

Right now, getting him in the office on a weekly basis is the real-challenge. Exploring his feelings and motivations will have to wait for a time when the Colonel will be comfortable taking advice in front of his wife and son from another man, a man who is a complete stranger to the Norman family.

"What day next week, Doctor Garnett?" queries Janet Norman.

"Thursday or Wednesday, Mrs. Norman." answers the psychiatrist.

Just then, Colonel Norman turns to left face with an air of grim military precision.

"Lets get going, troopers." orders the Colonel to his son and his wife.

Then the Colonel marches in front of his wife and son to the psychiatrist's door, and thrusts it wide open. With the door agape, Bill Norman turns around, and with one hand on the doorknob glares at both his son and his wife.

That was the end of the preliminary interview. The Norman family, Billy, Janet, and William, march single file out of the psychiatrist's office with Billy in the lead. As the door closes behind Colonel Norman. Doctor Steven Garnett crosses his arms and began to stroke his right ear with his right thumb and forefinger.

"This one is fifty-fifty." mutters the good Doctor to an empty office, after the door closes with a decisive click of the latch from the outside.

Scene 32 Billy Norman Has His Blood Drawn

Location: Laboratory of the Quantico Marine Corps Base Hospital, Quantico, Virginia

Billy Norman sits in the blood-drawing chair, left arm out- with his sleeve rolled up above his elbow. There is a soft plastic tourniquet wrapped around his bicep. The hollow space in his elbow glistening wet from the recent application of an alcohol pad. The phlebotomist hovering above him dressed in a freshly starched white uniform- vacuum tube and needle holder held at the ready in his hands.

Janet Norman stands behind the bent at the waist Phlebotomist, her husband even further behind her. Billy looks more and more terrified as the cover comes off the needle and the needle moves closer and closer to his arm. Janet has an expression of sympathy and concern on her face. Her husband's brow, knitted up like that of a man on a mission.

"Make a tight fist." says the phlebotomist to Billy Norman.

Billy's eyes go wild- he shakes his head left and right repeatedly.

"Do as your told, Billy." says Mrs. Norman to her son, in a firm tone.

Colonel Norman grumbles a bit, but his mind is clearly somewhere else. While all eyes came to focus in on his son, Norman holds his wife's medical record up to conceal his actions.

If there had been another person standing in the cubicle behind the Colonel he would have seen Colonel Norman covertly using a ballpoint pen. To check off additional boxes on his sons requisition slips. Thereby order blood tests not specifically asked for by the psychiatrist, Doctor Steven Garnett.

"OOOOWWWWW!!" cries Billy as the needle goes through his skin and into a bulging vein.

Tears of shame and compassion well up in Janet's eyes. She feels the room spinning about her, her hands go tight at the purse in her grasp. Quite to the contrary, her husband looks even more grim and determined.

"That ain't the half of it, kid." mutters the Colonel, his vowels obscured by the cap of the ballpoint pen held grinding between his teeth.

As the phlebotomist exchanges a full tube of blood in the needle holder for an empty tube, Colonel Norman works his feverish way through his wife's inpatient medical record. At last, he hits upon the correct page in the obstetrical section. Now his eyes widen as he sees the data necessary for his surreptitious plans.

After filling three red top tubes, the phlebotomist pulls the needle out of Billy's arm and presses on the puncture site with a gauze pad. With all eyes still upon Billy, the Colonel bites down hard on his pen top, and hurriedly writes something onto the pages of a small notepad. What on earth, is he up to?

CHAPTER 4 STANLEY DUELS WITH THE MUKHABARAT

Take Off From Andrews Air Force Base

Quote from af.mil: "Information presented on Airforce Link is considered public information and may be distributed or copied. Use of appropriate byline photo image credits is requested." ... "Picture prepared for www.af.mil/photos by Airman First Class Perry Aston. ... This image or file is a work of a U.S. Air Force Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal government, the image or file is in the public domain."

Scene 33 "It's A Guy Thing, Stanley! Why Don't You Go By Your Self?"

Location: Intersection of Nebraska and Wisconsin Avenues in Washington, DC

Demetrius Culpepper parks his car facing north on a side street parallel to Nebraska Avenue. Just to the south of the intersection with Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC. As per usual, Stanley Craypool sits beside Demetrius. The back seat occupied by Showanda Johnson, sitting behind her boyfriend Demetrius, and, Elizabeth Maxwell in the rear seat next to Showanda.

Sam the Saluki hound, sits with his rump against Stanley's left thigh, tongue wagging, head turning to and fro, the friendly and intelligent sight hound peering through the passenger side windshield at the pedestrian traffic. Well to do Washingtonians strolling- this way and that, on the scalding hot summer sidewalk.

Stanley pats his dog on the head with his left hand and then plays lovingly with the soft hair on the purebred animal's ears. With his right hand, he reaches forward and opens the glove compartment. A moment later and his right hand holds' a brick size radio, which soon rests atop the dashboard in front of the steering wheel.

"Stay right here until I beep the hand held, Culpepper."

"Then drive down Wisconsin south till you see the three of us."

Demetrius Culpepper purses his lips. He turns his head to come eye to eye with Stanley and in a sarcastic tone, he replies.

"Think you can remember channel twenty five this time, secret agent-man?"

"Have we ever been busted?" answers Stanley, with a question of his own.

Elizabeth Maxwell groans aloud in the rear seat. She has no wish whatsoever to be a party to her boyfriends' latest scheme. The young lady in black plastic rimmed eye glasses reaches forward from her perch on the rear seat in the car and places her hand on Stanley's shoulder. Then she says.

"It's totally a guy thing, Stanley! Why don't you go by yourself?"

Stanley turns round in his seat. His eyeglasses are the male gender equivalent of Elizabeth's eyeglasses so the two look like a perfectly matched couple. Stanley says.

"I can hide a citizen's band radio in your purse.... I can't hide a citizen's band radio in my pocket."

Showanda Johnson sighs. Then she grimaces and while looking directly at Stanley replies.

"Stick the radio under your shirt, Stan. I want to go home!"

Stanley needs but an instant to think up a telling response.

"Do I hide both flashlights in my ears, Showanda?"

Showanda's posture stiffens. She mutters an answer in such a low voice all anyone in the automobile can hear is the phrase- "sun don't shine."

Stanley responds to Showanda with a bit of sarcasm of his own.

"So I got high fives from the whole team!... Time to let er rip!"

With that, Stanley turns round in his seat and works the latch on the passenger side front door. With the door wide open, he climbs out onto the hot sidewalk. A moment later and his dog Sam stands next to him on a short leather leash. The leash attached to a collar around the dog's neck. Stanley raises his hand to lead Sam towards the rear passenger side door. He opens the door. After a brief delay, Elizabeth climbs out of the car with a reluctant expression on her face.

"Dumpster diving is what I do, babes!" says Stanley to Elizabeth. In a voice tuned to resonate with the soul of a professional dare devil.

Elizabeth groans aloud. Then she fusses with the unfamiliar heft of her canvas shoulder bag. Finally, she says.

"Let's get this over with. I want to go home!"

Scene 34 The Iraqi Embassy People Take a Lunch

Location: The best outdoor table in the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC

Kamel Abu Kamel, Hani Abu Sankaya's muscle bound bodyguard, passes a tray heaped with Muslim breads into the waiting hands of Parisoula Ar Raqqah. Parisoula is the personal secretary of Mister Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, information officer at the Iraqi embassy. Kamel first laid eyes on Parisoula when she used an instant camera to take the photographs of Kamel, _'Hassan',_ and Naadi Baspinar, which were soon taped to the front of the identification badges stolen from the maintenance offices of the Grand Corporation. Kamel was instantly smitten by Parisoula. He has been trying to get a date with her ever since.

Next to Parisoula, on the side opposite from Kamel, sits Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah. The Iraqi embassy information officer, Hasakah, has his eyes not on his secretary Parisoula, but rather on _'Hassan'_ who sits next to him and is now poring intently over the wine menu. Hasakah nods his head at _'Hassan'_ and says.

"The California wines are _just_ bearable, _'Hassan'_."

' _Hassan'_ lowers the wine menu slightly that he can make eye contact with Mister Hasakah.

"The Zinfandel, you think, Mister Hasakah?" suggests _'Hassan'_ with a wide smile.

"Excellent choice, dear boy!" replies the information officer to the Mukhabarat assassin.

' _Hassan'_ hands the wine menu over his left shoulder to the wine steward and says.

"Today we will enjoy the Zinfandel!... Three bottles, please!"

The wine steward bites her lower lip and works her pencil on a menu pad held in her left hand. Then she looks up to make eye contact with _'Hassan'_ and answers,

"Very good sir, three bottles of the Zinfandel!"

With that, the wine steward wheels on rubber soled shoes and rushes back into the restaurant through the front door.

The five Iraqi nationals are about to dine under a colorful umbrella with alternating red and white stripe panes. At a sidewalk table just outside the brass and oak front door of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant. While the heat reminds them of Baghdad, the humidity seems higher than anything they ever encountered in Iraq. Even in the southern port city of Al Basrah.

Naadi Baspinar dabs at his moist forehead with his cloth napkin. Then slowly lowers it to the space beside his plate on the round table. Next, he begins talking in a polite general way to all the people in the circle round the table.

"It doesn't surprise me they locked this Craypool person into an insane asylum."

"American's can barely read and write. Let alone comprehend base sixty mathematics."

"That is why they made an evil spirit out of him, Naadi." adds _'Hassan'_ while nodding his head up and down.

Kamel Abu Kamal decides this is the moment to impress Parisoula with his strength and courage. While looking back and forth between the beautiful young lady and the Iraqi Embassy Information Officer for approval he says.

"What is to stop us from killing Craypool in the hospital, Mister Hasakah?"

Both _'Hassan'_ and Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, go wide-eyed in response to the reckless suggestion from the young man with too many muscles on his bones and too much hormones in his blood stream.

' _Hassan'_ cocks his head warily towards Parisoula and then looks pointedly at Hasakah. The warmth drains from Parisoula's face and is soon replaced by an expression of steely reserve. Quiet clearly _'Hassan'_ has reservations about the loyalties of the lovely young lady. Hasakah nods his head and leans over the table in the direction of _'Hassan'._ The information officer explains.

"Parisoula can pass for a Palestinian, but she is from Tikrit!"

The beautiful young lady in the Georgette shawl and Salwar Kameez realizes _'Hassan'_ has doubts about her fealty to the Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein. Were it not for the presence of Hasakah she would have replied to _'Hassan'_ in a huff. Instead, she politely reminds everyone at the table.

"I am a first cousin to Uday and Qusay Hussein, _Mister_ _'Hassan'."_

Naadi Baspinar chuckles as he sees the hidden humor in Parisoula's remark. He quips.

"Stay a _distant cousin_ to Uday, Parisoula. He likes his women fourteen years of age!"

Everyone at the round table under the red and white canvass umbrella smiles and laughs at Baspinar's timely remark. Even Parisoula can see the joke. The Baghdad University Physics Professor, Naadi Baspinar, draws courage from the warmth radiating towards him from his audience.

He reaches behind his shoulder to a serving table and soon offers a maza platter to Kamel Abu Kamal, seated at his right hand side.

Kamel uses his salad fork to harvest some kalamata olives and a dolma off the appetizer tray. Then he takes the tray from Naadi's hands and offers it to Parisoula. Parisoula smiles up at Kamel and reaches with a spoon for some tomato chunks and pickled beets. Then she in turn, holds the tray that Mister Hasakah can select at his pleasure. As the embassy information officer slides two dolma's onto his plate with unconcealed gusto, Naadi Baspinar quips.

"The longer this Craypool spends in the asylum, the more we dine!"

This second humorous remark draws more smiles from the men and one woman seated round the table. With a wide grin on his face, Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah receives the maza platter from Parisoula and turns to pass it on to _'Hassan'._ Just then, Parisoula notices something out of the corner of her eye.

Glancing up towards the north on Wisconsin Avenue, she spies a black and tan Saluki hound. Prancing towards her like an Arabian Stallion on a short leash between the legs of two North Americans. Parisoula's eyes light up and she softly cries.

"Such a beautiful Saluki!"

Saluki hounds are, of course, a native Arabian breed, so the young woman's exclamation brings all the heads at the table about, glancing north up Wisconsin Avenue. Soon everyone smiles in admiration at the graceful motions of the dog gamboling down the sidewalk in their direction.

Quickly now the man and woman walking the dog move ever closer to the restaurant tables out on the sidewalk. Parisoula's attention shifts naturally from the dog to his masters. The man holding the leash is, to her mind, an ordinary looking fellow. With arms and legs that are too slender, and a pair of heavy black framed eyeglasses with lenses that are too thick.

In spite of herself, Parisoula admires the beauty of the man's female companion. Though she too wears thick eyeglasses with black plastic frames, the woman born in the city of Tikrit Iraq cannot help but acknowledge the woman born in America has long and beautiful blond hair.

While Parisoula watches- the attractive woman takes the arm of the too studious looking man. The motion draws Parisoula's eyes to the young man's face for a closer look. Suddenly she gives out with a jolt and a slight gasp.

"It cannot be, Mister Hasakah!" cries the secretary to the information officer.

Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah turns his head around to see what is causing the stir. By this time, the man and the woman walking the dog are less than fifty feet distant from the table. Unfortunately for Stanley Craypool- Hasakah was part of the counter surveillance team that photographed Stanley in front of the embassy building, and then determined Craypool's identity, by the simple expedient of following him home and to work at the Grand Corporation.

In Hasakah's mind, accordingly, there is no doubt. No doubt whatsoever. He knows this infidel on a person to person basis. Not merely from surveillance photographs held under his nose by Hani Abu Sankaya.

"It is Craypool!... He is apparently released!" says Hasakah in an excited voice after swiftly turning his head back to address _'Hassan',_ Kamel, and, Naadi.

As it happens, _'Hassan'_ , Kamel Abu Kamal, and, too Naadi Baspinar, have only seen photographs of the mild mannered electrical engineer who threatens the success of the invasion of Kuwait by Saddam Hussein's armies. Consequently, while Hasakah turns away from Stanley, these three-twist in their chairs towards the man and peer at him intently. All the while struggling to give the impression their attention comes to focus on the dog.

"There is no doubt, gentlemen!" says Hasakah in a voice meant to carry only the distance across the dining table, while shaking his head anxiously left and right.

"I took the photographs Sankaya showed you three!"

Naadi Baspinar reaches for his water glass in an effort to appear casual and disinterested. He moves the glass towards his lips but before taking a drink turns to look at Hasakah and suggests.

"Perhaps Kamel and I should get the automobile?"

Hasakah sits there open mouthed, at a loss for words. _'Hassan'_ leans over the table towards Baspinar with a fork laden with Hoummus in his right hand. He hisses.

"If you drive up on the sidewalk to kill him- will it look like an accident?"

' _Hassan'_ pushes the Hoummus into his mouth and chews. An expression of consternation fills Naadi Baspinar's face. He can think of no reply. Everyone else at the table is at a loss for words. After _'Hassan'_ swallows his food, he dabs at his lips with his napkin. Then he turns towards Hasakah and says decisively.

"I have my blade. With the purse and the wallet gone it will appear a clumsy robbery."

Scene 35 Stanley and Elizabeth Take Sam for A Walk Down Wisconsin Avenue

Location: Wisconsin Avenue, downtown Washington DC

Out of the car and ten or so paces down the sidewalk, Stanley spins around at the waist to deliver a _'thumbs up'_ gesture to Demetrius Culpepper. As might be expected, Demetrius looks a little annoyed. He might have returned a _'thumbs up'_ to Stanley. Instead, the African American behind the steering wheel waves his right hand forward in the air as if to say- let's get this thing over with.

Stanley twists back at the waist. As he twirls about his eyes take in a full view of Elizabeth in profile. In spite of the fact her IQ qualifies her for membership in GENSA Elizabeth is, in Stanley's words, nothing less than a _'hot tomato'_.

For starters, while Elizabeth may not be the most endowed female in the world, her breasts are among the most beautiful. Better still- her long slender legs are so attractive she has no need whatsoever of panty hose to get the attention of every male in the room. Dressed in a hot pink halter-top over white shorts and open toe sandals with sling back one inch heels, Stanley cannot help but mutter.

"WOW!" as he drinks in the National Security Agency Linguist from top to bottom.

Elizabeth appreciates the wolf like compliment. So much, in fact, she turns away coyly from her boyfriend, and starts playing with her beautiful long blond hair.

With Sam the Saluki hound leading the way, Stanley and Elizabeth are soon near enough to the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant. That Elizabeth can make out the expressions on the faces of the patrons seated at the umbrella tables on the sidewalk. Elizabeth comes to an abrupt halt and takes Stanley's right arm. Then she suggests.

"Maybe we ought to cross the street, Stanley."

Stanley shakes his head in the negative and purses his lips. He replies.

"I was all over the Iraqi Embassy the whole month of June. They never once made me."

Under Stanley's urging, the two GENSA members move along the street for a few moments longer. Then Stanley steers his team to the plate glass window of an electronics store. With Sam the Saluki moving nervously round in a tight circle on the end of his leash, Stanley says.

"They're still coming here!" Elizabeth is not certain what Stanley means. She asks.

"What, I'm sorry?" Stanley Craypool grins from ear to ear. He replies.

"Don't look too hard, babes."

"The older guy in the green shirt." Obedient to her boyfriend, Elizabeth hazards a quick glance down the street. Here her eyes fall upon Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah, dressed in a green short sleeve knit shirt with all three white buttons buttoned. She queries.

"At the table closest to the parking meters?" Stanley nods vigorously with his eyes glued to a portable cassette player on sale inside the window. He says proudly.

"The green shirt is the Iraqi embassy information officer. I made him off a cell phone call."

Elizabeth can see the men and one woman at the round table are paying her and Stanley no more attention than she deems usual. Consequently, her confidence grows by leaps and bounds, and she soon decides it is time to tease her boyfriend.

"Did you get his double-o-seven number, Stanley?"

Stanley pulls back and away from Elizabeth. He ponders for a bit- but once he decides Elizabeth is trying to be funny, he snaps.

"Women's liberation!" then he shakes his head in mock exasperation.

After a short pause, Stanley whispers to Elizabeth in a truly conspiratorial tone.

"Do you see a briefcase, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth makes eye contact with Stanley's reflection in the plate glass window of the electronics appliance store. Then she turns her head to study the four men and one woman at the table.

"They're on appetizers and wine, Stanley. The woman in the scarf has a purse. I don't see a briefcase."

Stanley nods his head and looks directly at Elizabeth's reflection in the window.

"No briefcase means no dumpster deposit today. That's a good sign, because they eat lunch here almost every day. We don't have to wait till they take off."

With that, Stanley turns away from the window and begins again strolling down the boulevard in the direction of the front door of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant. Elizabeth Maxwell follows reluctantly at his side. Somewhat mysteriously, he says,

"In phase two we hand Sam over to Demetrius. Then, we go diving."

A scant minute later and Stanley, Sam, and Elizabeth, are past the front door of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant, and through the gauntlet of the Iraqi embassy people. Stanley leads his team halfway up the block in silence. Then he turns towards Elizabeth.

"I told you Babes, they have no idea who I am!"

Elizabeth glances over her shoulder. She sees that the men and one woman at the table are speaking among themselves. No one, it seems, is looking in their direction. After letting out with a sigh of relief, she turns to Stanley.

"Are we there, yet?"

Stanley takes Elizabeth further down Wisconsin Avenue and then around a corner onto a side street. Once they are out of sight of the people at the outdoor table, Stanley says.

"Hand me the brick." Elizabeth blinks, she cannot figure out what Stanley means by the word brick. Stanley smiles- he gets a lot of enjoyment out of teasing his girlfriend. He explains.

"Brick is guy talk for a radio, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's delicate right hand goes into her shoulder bag. She retrieves the hand held citizens band radio and passes it over to Stanley. The electrical engineer pulls out on the telescoping antenna. Then he pushes down on the power switch on the radio and brings the unit up to his face. Elizabeth says.

"Channel twenty five, Stanley." Stanley ignores Elizabeth. He presses down on the push to talk button and says.

"Tac one to base, come in base." A few seconds later, the two can hear Demetrius Culpepper's voice, made slightly grainy by the amplitude modulation of the radio.

"Base to tac one. Say your location, tac one." Stanley looks up and around the neighborhood.

All he sees is expensive family homes and late model automobiles, parked end to end at the curbs on both sides of the one-way street. He replies.

"Around the corner one block south your twenty, base." Then Elizabeth and Stanley hear Demetrius promise.

"Light turning green, tac one. On your twenty in five or less, over."

Stanley Craypool lets out with a nod and a triumphant grin. He replies.

"Copy base, see you soon."

On that, Stanley lowers the radio to his side. Moments later Demetrius rounds the corner with Showanda now perched uneasily next to him in the front passenger seat. Showanda smiles and waves from her front seat vantage point, as soon as she catches sight of Elizabeth who stands and waits patiently on the sidewalk.

Soon Culpepper's late model four door car comes to a halt just opposite Stanley, Sam, and Elizabeth. Showanda opens her door and steps out onto the street. She says cheerfully.

"Hey you two!" To which, Elizabeth brightly replies, "They didn't even blink!"

Stanley, a man on a mission, walks between the bumpers of two parked cars and passes Sam's leash into Showanda's waiting hand. Before Showanda can get back into the car with Sam, Stanley leans over the front door to talk to Demetrius.

"We're gonna be diving for thirty minutes maybe. Keep circling big guy!"

Demetrius Culpepper picks his hand held radio off the seat with his right hand. While holding it at head height, antenna straight up in the air he cautions.

"Keep in touch, Craypool!"

Stanley drops his hands off the top edge of the car door. Before Showanda has the door completely closed, he points to his right in the direction of the alley that passes behind the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant.

"Up the alley and on the right hand side, Culpepper!"

With that remark as punctuation, Demetrius and Showanda drive off in their automobile. Stanley Craypool turns round speedily and reaches down for Elizabeth Maxwell's lovely hand. With his girlfriend's hand in his, Stanley moves down the street and into the alley at the pace of a race walker nearing the finish line. Elizabeth trails behind, a reluctant and worried expression on her face.

Scene 36 'Hassan' Has a Blade, Kamel Abu Kamal, Has a Pistol

Location: The best outdoor table in the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC

As soon as he sees Stanley Craypool, his pet dog and his female friend disappear round the corner at the end of the block. _'Hassan'_ pushes his chair back and rises to his feet. After tossing his napkin onto the table with disdain, _'Hassan'_ bends at the waist in the direction of Mahmud Ahmed Hasakah and says.

"I will make my own way back to the embassy!"

While _'Hassan'_ speaks to the embassy information officer, Kamel Abu Kamal rises to his feet. This is Kamel's first effort at an assassination and he is understandably, quite nervous. Red in the face, the muscle bound young man explains.

"I have an ankle holster, Mister Hasakah."

Hasakah glances back and forth between the intense, beady eyed, _'Hassan'_ and the stolid appearing Kamel Abu Kamal. The information officer opens his mouth to speak, but is cut short by _'Hassan'_.

"Take your cash, but leave your wallet, Kamel."

Kamel does not quite grasp the meaning of the order from _'Hassan'._ Then he sees the older man pull his own wallet out from his rear pants pocket. While everyone watches fascinated, _'Hassan'_ removes the folding money from the wallet and then slides the cash down into his front pants pocket. Last _'Hassan'_ places the wallet down on the table next to Hasakah's salad plate. As an afterthought, and with a deadly flourish, _"Hassan'_ picks the cloth napkin he tossed moments ago onto the table and places the napkin atop the wallet so as to conceal its presence.

Parisoula Ar Raqqah shivers in spite of the heat, as she watches the studied and sinister motions of the man standing across the table. Kamel's mouth drops open in wonder and admiration. _'Hassan'_ is the kind of a man who wants those around him, particularly his victims, to underestimate his potential. Just now, everyone at the table realizes how _very_ deadly a man this man with only one name truly is.

Kamel reaches for his wallet but before he can duplicate the efforts of his mentor, _'Hassan'_ is around the table and striding manfully down the street. Hurrying away, doing his best to appear as if he were rushing in the direction of a cab, rather than in pursuit of an unsuspecting victim.

At the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and the first one way street to the south of the restaurant, _'Hassan'_ walks to the curb with his eyes forward and his hands resting casually in his front pants pockets. At the curb he halts and then looks first to the left and then to the right, doing his best to appear as if he were searching for a cab. While in reality, _'Hassan'_ hopes his eyes will light on his intended victim, his victim's girlfriend and their pet dog.

Unfortunately, for him, the Mukhabarat assassin sees no one on the path taken by his quarry. _'Hassan'_ frowns and bites his lower lip in frustration. Just then, Kamel comes along side him, looms large, and asks.

"Shall I return for the automobile?"

' _Hassan'_ ponders the offer while he looks studiously up the length of the one-way street. "Where in hell have they gone?" mutters _'Hassan'_ to himself. Then he replies to Kamel.

"The automobiles are parked end to end with no empty spaces."

"They must be on foot!"

Scene 37 Mystery And Romance In A Restaurant Dumpster

Location: In the alley behind the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant, on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC

Stanley and Elizabeth rush up the alley back in the direction of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant. In a few minutes, they arrive at a tall wooden fence with a wide wooden gate left open for deliveries and garbage removal. Peering inside Stanley and Elizabeth recognize the rear service entrance to the restaurant. They also see two large green painted dumpsters. Stanley turns to Elizabeth and with a grin says.

"No briefcase at the table means if they dumped anything, they dumped it yesterday."

Elizabeth feels her heart pounding and her mouth going dry. In particular, she finds herself put off by the heavy rusted iron bars protecting the rear windows of the restaurant.

"What if somebody comes?" whispers Elizabeth to Stanley.

Stanley ignores his girlfriend's interrogative. He lifts the citizens band radio in his right hand up to his face and presses down on the push to talk button.

"Tac one to base. On time, on target!" there is a pause- then the GENSA couple hears the voice of Demetrius Culpepper come back at them over the hand held speaker.

"Parked on departure point, Tac one." Stanley grins, his eyes are shining bright.

"Make a circle down Wisconsin and through the alley base, Copy?" says the young man in the thick eye glasses. Then he hurriedly takes his finger off the push to talk button.

"Circle down Wisconsin and through alley, Tac one, roger and out." answers Demetrius.

Stanley leads Elizabeth to the dumpster furthest from the alley. He flips open the hinged lid so it falls back on itself. Then he turns to his girlfriend and says.

"This one's all paper. You nip yourself in over the top."

Elizabeth shakes her head. Her eyes are filled with worry, and her lips are trembling. With her left hand to her mouth, she says softly.

"Am I really doing this?" Stanley insists. He replies.

"Toss the bag inside, babes."

Obediently, Elizabeth slings her shoulder bag into the dumpster. Then following Stanley lifts her up by the hips that she can swing her right leg over the edge of the dumpster.

Seconds later Elizabeth falls into the dumpster with the sound of cardboard and paper crunching under the weight of her body. Soon Stanley sits next to her on the disordered heap of recyclable trash. While Elizabeth reaches for her shoulder bag, Stanley begins pulling the hinged lid down closed over their heads. Stanley says,

"Flashlights babes, we don't have much time!"

Elizabeth finds the flashlights in her bag and passes one into Stanley's hands. As they push forward on the power buttons. The interior of the darkened dumpster begins to glow from the effects of two columns of light moving randomly this way and that. Forming and reforming shadows at the far interior walls of the container.

"What we're looking for is two things. Any kind of paper with a perforated edge. Cause that means it's a computer print out. Any stationary with a letterhead. Even if its in Arabic- the names, dates, and places, might mean something." explains Stanley.

Elizabeth shakes her head and brings the beam of her flashlight to bear on Stanley.

"Who would throw important papers in a dumpster? It doesn't make sense!"

"It does make sense!" Stanley replies in a sharp tone. "The Iraqi's figure the F.B.I. will dive the embassy dumpster!... So they toss the important stuff in here!"

Elizabeth lets her weight fall back on her haunches. She bites her lip while Stanley's insightful comment sinks in. Suddenly she feels willing to cooperate, almost enthusiastic about the onerous task at hand. The National Security Agency Linguist looks about the dark, gloomy, hot, and cramped, interior of the dumpster- she wonders where to get started. Stanley is growing a little impatient with his apprentice. While pulling up feverishly with both hands on flattened sheets of cardboard boxes he mutters.

"The good stuff is underneath the card board. Start digging!"

Elizabeth nods her head. Slowly at first, with tentative gestures, she pulls up sheets of cardboard and peers underneath. Soon she is data mining with all the, brow furrowing industry of her boyfriend.

Scene 38 Where Are The Infidels?

Location: Near the alley behind the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant, on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC

' _Hassan'_ and Kamel Abu Kamal come to a halt at the intersection of the one-way side street and the alley. Stanley and Elizabeth used to make their way to the rear of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant. _'Hassan'_ peers up and down the alley in both directions. He sees nothing. Then he looks up into Kamel's eyes and resolutely says.

"They will be in a parked car with his scanner radio!"

Kamel Abu Kamal nods his head at the wisdom in _'Hassan's'_ remark. He offers.

"Back to the restaurant?" Then he glances in the direction from which the two men came.

' _Hassan'_ shakes his head vigorously in the negative.

"If we find them in the alley we can take care of it in an instant!" Once again, Kamel nods his head. _'Hassan'_ turns swiftly to his right and begins the march up the alley leading to the service entrance of the restaurant. The muscular bodyguard follows his leader close behind.

Soon the two Iraqi nationals come to a halt at the wooden privacy fence surrounding the rear of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant building. _'Hassan'_ peers up and down the alley for yet another time. Then he frowns and says.

"We will need the automobile." Both _'Hassan'_ and Kamel step past the wooden gate in the privacy fence and onto the property of the restaurant. Each man has a look of frustration and disappointment on his face. Halfway to the restaurant back door, the service entrance, _'Hassan'_ turns about on his heels and bites his lower lip.

Oblivious to Kamel, _'Hassan'_ stares intently at the two dumpsters behind the building. Then the Mukhabarat assassin pulls at the shirttail in the small of his back. Soon his right hand fills with the leather bound handle of a trench knife with a gleaming steel eight inch blade. As _'Hassan'_ takes his first step in the direction of the dumpsters, Kamel bends down on his right knee to retrieve his snub nose revolver from the holster surrounding his left ankle.

' _Hassan'_ waits politely at the lid of the first dumpster until Kamel stands at his side with his gun drawn and at chest height. Without a word _'Hassan'_ throws the lid, up and back on its rusty hinge. The hollow thumping sound of a dumpster lid banging back on itself fills the space behind the restaurant. Both men peer inside.

Knife and gun in hand _'Hassan'_ and Kamel see heaps of rotten food. Soon the noses of both men wrinkle up, as the foul smell of decaying meat and vegetables and spoiled milk wafts up at them from inside the dumpster.

The two Iraqi nationals exchange discouraged glances. Kamel moves to return the lid to the closed position. While he has the lid suspended halfway in the air with his right hand. Both men hear the subdued noises of an automobile working its slow way up the alley.

Kamel quickly lowers the lid of the dumpster back to its intended resting place. Glancing up, they see a four-door automobile rolling past the rear gate from left to right. Both men blink. They quickly drop their weapons to their sides, as Demetrius and Showanda pass on by.

There are, of course, no Iraqi surveillance photographs of either Demetrius or Showanda or Demetrius' automobile. Thus, both _'Hassan'_ and Kamel conclude the African American couple, are either on the way to or departing from a garage in back of their home. Still, this puts a break on their vigilance and murderous intent. As now, of course, there are eyewitnesses to their restaurant dumpster trespass. _'Hassan'_ groans softly and mutters.

"We would have witnesses to take care of!"

With that, the slender man works his heavy knife back into the sheath in the small of his back and then tends to his shirttails. As Kamel bends down to return his pistol to the holster on his left ankle. _'Hassan'_ turns round on his heels and without looking back at Kamel, begins walking to the rear door of the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant.

Kamel rises to his feet. While he hears the squeak of the rear screen door as _'Hassan'_ makes his way into the restaurant kitchen. Still, the burly bodyguard cannot take his eyes off the second dumpster. Kamel lumbers to the second dumpster and gingerly lifts the lid a foot or two above the closed position. He screws up his nose, anticipating a dumpster just as filled with spoiled food as the first. Glancing inside, all Kamel sees is heaps of paper, dozens of empty plastic bottles, and sheets and sheets of flattened cardboard boxes. Then he hears _'Hassan's'_ sarcastic voice behind him.

"Americans are garbage, Kamel. But they are not yet in our barrel!"

Kamel frowns and bites his lower lip. He drops the dumpster lid and it bangs to the closed position. The muscle bound bodyguard turns round. With a meek expression on his face, he follows _'Hassan'_ back into the restaurant through the rear service door.

Scene 39 Dumpster Diving Can Be Rough And Tumble, It Can Be!

Location: Dumpster behind the Tigris and Euphrates restaurant, on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, DC

Even before Stanley and Elizabeth heard the hollow booming sound of the lid on the dumpster next to theirs being thrown open on itself. They recognized the early warning crunching sounds of footfalls on gravel. Thus, when Kamel cracked the lid on their dumpster and momentarily peeked inside. Stanley and Elizabeth had already buried themselves under layer upon layer of cardboard and paper.

When Kamel unceremoniously dropped the lid on top of their hiding place, the GENSA members held their breath and remained perfectly silent. It was only after they heard the back door of the restaurant swing shut- they both turned on their flashlights. _'Hassan's'_ remark about Americans as garbage notwithstanding, neither Stanley nor Elizabeth had an inkling they were objects of a deadly pursuit. For all they knew, _'Hassan'_ and Kamel were disgruntled kitchen employees, making a scheduled dump of fresh garbage into the receptacle next to theirs.

Consequently, face to face, and body to body under the cardboard, both Stanley and Elizabeth shared feelings of triumph of right over wrong. They had indeed discovered all sorts of useful computer print outs, correspondence, and memoranda. Thus, the visit to the dumpster by the Iraqi's only meant they were now home free following a mission completely accomplished.

Stanley Craypool stares down at the top of Elizabeth's breasts pushed up towards him by her hot pink halter-top. His glasses steam up. Without a word, Stanley tilts his head down and sticks his tongue down as far as it will go into the young lady's mouth. Elizabeth drops her flashlight and starts to moan. Stanley pulls her halter-top and bra off from above her arms and goes to work on her rock hard nipples.

After a few long minutes of mutual heaven, Stanley returns to kissing Elizabeth on her lips. As he gropes to pull her shorts down and off, he says huskily.

"You got the best pair of light bulbs in the whole world!"

Elizabeth groans again, softly. For background music, they hear the soft clicking sound of their thick eyeglass lenses bumping and banging into one another. Stanley lowers his face to the place between Elizabeth's beautiful legs and goes to work with his tongue. Elizabeth moans and groans. Her body stiffens from head to toe. Then shivers pass up and down her spine.

Panting like a dog, Stanley pulls his own shorts down and presses himself inside of his girlfriend. Elizabeth reaches up inside Stanley's t-shirt from behind so she can run her fingers and nails on the skin of her boyfriend's back muscles.

Locked in the best of all possible intimate embraces the couple move rhythmically up and down against one another. Stanley rubs the left side of his face against Elizabeth's beautiful lips. The left earpiece of his eyeglasses slides off his left ear and hangs dangling between their cheeks.

"E Equals M C Squared!" whispers Stanley into Elizabeth's left ear. Elizabeth's back arches up- she scratches cat like at the muscles under Stanley's shoulder blades.

"E Equals M C Squared!" says Stanley over and over, like a sex fiend gone out of control.

Elizabeth moans so loud her voice is nearly a shriek. Between long desperate pants, she says.

"That's soooooo dirty, Stan!"

Stanley Craypool can restrain himself no longer. As he climaxes he locks his arms around his girlfriend's hourglass waist. Then he brings his face up to kiss her lips. Simultaneously, the corner of his eyeglass frames lifts the right ear piece of Elizabeth's eyeglasses off her beautiful right ear.

The dumpster diving love making session is at an end. Stanley and Elizabeth lay there panting in the summer heat. Beads of perspiration drop off their flesh and onto the sheets of cardboard that make up their mattress and cover slip. Minutes pass, and then Stanley pushes the sheets of cardboard from off on top of his naked body and sits up on his rear end. With his back against the wall of the dumpster, Stanley breaths heavily for a while longer, and then reaches out for Elizabeth's hand. Soon Elizabeth sits up next to her boyfriend. Both genius' just as naked as the day they were born.

Slowly now, Stanley and Elizabeth find their way back into their clothes. Elizabeth asks.

"What do we do now?" Stanley replies succinctly. "Where is the radio?"

Elizabeth shines her flashlight around until she spies her shoulder bag. She reaches for the bag and retrieves the radio from inside. Stanley takes the radio in his hand and dangles his hand off his right knee. He says,

"Be sure you get all the papers."

Before Elizabeth can reply, Stanley turns round and with his knees atop the cardboard pushes the lid of the dumpster an inch or two up in the air with the top of his head. After squinting in the sunlight, he glances surreptitiously this way and that.

Very much on the ready to drop the dumpster lid and go back into hiding. Looking left and right the electrical engineer sees the rear door to the restaurant is completely closed.

Stanley brings the radio up until the antenna protrudes at an angle fully above the lid. With his eyeglasses dangling half on his face and half off, he works the push to talk button.

"Tac one to base." says Stanley. "Mission accomplished, base."

Elizabeth meanwhile, sits cross-legged on the cardboard wall-to-wall carpeted floor of the dumpster. She busies herself arranging a hefty stack of papers on her lap. Before Demetrius can reply to Stanley over the radio, Elizabeth says softly,

"Mission accomplished in more ways than one."

Scene 40 Roxanne la Fontaine and The Motor City Air Hammers Play A Gig

Location: The Wolverine Bar and Grill in Grand Rapids Michigan, USA

The Wolverine Bar and Grill on South Division Avenue in Grand Rapids Michigan. Is one of those family, owned taverns and restaurants with a large room in the back for weddings and a spacious parking lot on the building's north-side. The window frame exteriors are painted in white latex enamel and they sport dark red curtains. Entrance to the bar and grill is though a heavy oak door painted dark red with a white enamel frame.

The dining room tables are all small and round and covered with spotless white cotton tablecloths. Waiters and waitresses are easy to pick out from the guests. Not because they wear uniforms. But rather because they have white linen aprons with big pockets for things like change and ball point pens and receipt pads tied round their waists.

The bandstand puts the musicians a good eighteen inches above the floor. This is in the shape of a semicircle. With a long sheet of curtain matching red fabric pleated and stapled to the front edge. As a general rule, the owner of The Wolverine Bar and Grill pays his musicians an amount corresponding to whether or not he has ever heard of them, and whether or not he thinks their music will be good for business.

Not surprising, cash remunerations vary widely from one band to the next. On the up side, on behalf of the owner, it must be said he permits tips and invariably comes up with a round of drinks at the beginning of the last set. Closing time is midnight- Grand Rapids is, after all, a family town.

This particular Thursday evening at eleven at night finds Roxanne La Fontaine and her band, THE MOTOR CITY AIR HAMMERS, up on stage. Things are not going very well, for Roxanne, lead singer and guitar player, Lenny Pingatore, her boyfriend and drummer, and, Elaine Jaworski, backup singer, and back up guitar player.

For in the first place, the college kids are away for summer vacation so the Wolverine is nearly empty. In the second, the bartender took off on a personal errand. Leaving the owner to serve drinks to a small number of patrons, and leer, and hit, on a hapless Roxanne La Fontaine.

On stage, Roxanne does everything she can to emulate Chrissie Hynde, lead singer of THE PRETENDERS, stiletto heels, tight leather pants, tight sleeveless blouses, and lots of makeup. Given her perfect figure, beautiful eyes, and hair, it is not surprising the owner cannot take his eyes off Roxanne la Fontaine. Lenny is used to the attention. He is not jealous, but this particular gentleman owner leers in a way that makes Roxanne feels creepy.

For an unknown band without a record contract, THE MOTOR CITY AIR HAMMERS, have a pretty interesting play list. Lenny can handle a lot of songs made popular by bands like Bad Company and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Elaine does fair renditions of Stevie Nicks hits, and Roxanne, believe it or not, knows the music and lyrics to every tune ever sung by Chrissie Hynde.

Roxanne loves two things about Chrissie Hynde's music, the fact that sharps predominate over flats in her compositions, and the raw edge to her lyrics. In Roxanne's mind, Pretenders music has a pensive quality, a sense of impending danger that she struggles to impart to her own compositions.

So it is not surprising when Roxanne lowers her diet soda to the side table, and after a glance at the clock on the wall, turns to Elaine and Lenny and says.

"I want to wrap it up with "IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD."

Elaine and Lenny both nod in agreement. Each has had a chance to perform favorites of their own, so Roxanne's suggestion is rather more timely than not.

Roxanne steps up to the microphone and says.

"Ladies and gentlemen- The Pretenders – IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD"

Then Roxanne steps back slightly and the three accomplished musicians begin with the music to the tune. Soon Roxanne starts off with the first line in the lyrics.

"The middle of the road is trying to find me....."

"I'm standing in the middle of life with my plans behind me...."

Shortly the members of the Motor City Air Hammers make their way to the chorus,

"Now come on baby....

Get in the road....

Oh come on now....

In the middle of the road, yeah...."

Of course, no one in the tavern is paying much attention to the performance. Roxanne, Elaine, and Lenny, might just as well be a tape recording or a vinyl disc in a juke box.

Still, Roxanne cannot help but get caught up in the angst.

The last stanza of the lyrics strikes a responsive chord in Roxanne's heart as 1990 marks her twenty seventh birthday.

"The middle of the road is no private cul de sac,

I can't get from the cab to the curb,

Without some little jerk on my back,

Don't harass me, can't you tell,

I'm going home, I'm tired as Hell,

I'm not the cat I used to be,

I got a kid, I'm thirty three,

Baby get in the road."

Roxanne and Elaine raise their guitars up in the air with a flourish as Lenny swipes his steel brush on his cymbals. The song is over, the set finished, no one applauds, it's time to go home.

Roxanne steps back up to the microphone. In a somewhat mechanical voice she says,

"Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen. We've had a wonderful evening."

"The name of the band is- THE MOTOR CITY AIR HAMMERS!"

Roxanne sighs and shrugs her shoulders. She puts her hand over the microphone and turns to face Lenny and Elaine. In a bitter voice she says,

"We gotta learn more Karaoke. Do you think?!"

Lenny and Elaine both nod. They too feel cheated by the fact there was little or no audience to speak of. Lenny nods his head.

"This is show business, Kid. Get used to it."

With that, the drummer leans forward and pulls the power cable to the guitar amplifiers out of its socket. The show is over. They have to drive all the way back to Detroit.

Scene 41 The Guys Pay A Visit To Stanley Craypool

Location: The Stanley Craypool garage loft residence in Silver Springs, Maryland

Andy Howell, Moses Anderson, and Joe Gomez, come to a halt at the top of the unpainted wooden steps leading to the garage loft apartment that has been the Stanley Craypool _residence_ since the time of his divorce from his first wife, Deborah. The three men are dressed in civilian clothes. Somewhat out of the ordinary, Andy Howell swings a heavy-duty plastic briefcase with shiny silver locks in his right hand.

"Go ahead Moses, he's gotta be home." says Andy to his best friend.

Moses Anderson exchanges glances with Andy Howell. Then, wordlessly, he turns and delivers a crisp and business like knock to the door. Immediately, the three men hear the deep barking sounds of a large dog. After a few seconds wait, Elizabeth Maxwell appears in the partially open doorway.

"Guys!" says Elizabeth cheerfully to the men on the landing. "Do you need to talk to Stanley?"

"We have a present for him." replies Moses Anderson. "A big surprise."

Elizabeth glances back and forth between the three unexpected guests with a wide friendly smile on her face. While opening the door full wide, she twists around and says.

"Stanley!... You've got mail!... Andy, Moses, and Joe!"

Sam the Saluki, Stanley's dog, is the first to arrive at the doorway. The black and tan purebred lopes past Elizabeth's shapely legs and comes to a halt on the landing. With a wide grin on his muzzle, flapping ears, and wagging tail, he is nothing less than irresistible. At once, Joe Gomez reaches down and began to stroke the soft fur on the friendly animal's head.

Stanley Craypool is the next to appear in the doorway, dressed for an afternoon of casual computer programming. He wears a GENSA t-shirt with old ragged blue jeans, gym shoes with white socks, and incongruously, a set of wide, dark green, John Deere suspenders.

"Hey fellas!" says a smiling and bashful Stanley. "What's the occasion?"

Andy Howell hefts the briefcase in his right hand up flat and begins to work the locks with his left hand. As he lifts the lid, he grins and says.

"Satellite telephone, Professor Craypool!... Silver Springs, Maryland to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, any time night or day!"

Stanley and Elizabeth stare open mouthed at the contents of the briefcase, an expensive late model satellite phone with a flat panel antenna. Moses Anderson, meanwhile, reaches into the case and retrieves a sealed white envelope with his right hand.

Stanley takes the proffered envelope from Moses and eagerly rips it open with the tip of his little finger. He pulls out a sheaf of papers with a staple at the upper left hand corner. While turning the pages, he stares at the text for a good long while. Finally, Stanley raises his glance up off the paperwork and begins to blink.

"Is this what I think it is?" asks Stanley, glancing nervously back and forth between Andy and Moses.

"You are going to need that." replies Moses in a firm, definite voice.

Stanley holds the papers so Elizabeth can see the text on the first page. Elizabeth's eyes go wide and her lower lip begins to tremble. In an anxious voice, she asks.

"What do we want with a list of military telephone numbers?"

"That's the order of battle for every unit going overseas, Elizabeth. Every unit designator. Every unit talk group number." explains Andy Howell to Elizabeth and Stanley.

Just then, Joe Gomez stands up as Sam the Saluki pads down the wooden stairs for a bathroom break. Joe looks straight into Stanley's eyes and says.

"We want you to follow the war on cable TV. CNN, HNN, C-Span, stuff like that."

"Then what?" asks Elizabeth of Joe with delicate fingertips at her lips.

"Then give us a call if you think of anything." explains Andy to the GENSA couple standing in the doorway, with a matter of fact shrug of his shoulders.

That is the end of the impromptu visit. Stanley passes the envelope and telephone list into Elizabeth's reluctant hands. Next, he grabs the briefcase with the satellite phone held out to him by Andy Howell. If the Action Officer's Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency wanted a Monday morning quarterback, well by golly, they were going to get a Monday morning quarterback!

Scene 42 Moses and Linda Anderson Say Good Bye

Location: The Anderson's spare bedroom, Washington, DC

Early on in their marriage the Anderson's- Moses and his elementary school teacher wife, Linda, converted their spare bedroom into a study. They lined one wall with bookshelves, these filled with encyclopedias, dictionaries, and the textbooks Moses and Linda had pored through as undergraduates. Against the wall adjoining, they perched a long table, now covered with a commercial size copy machine, an electric typewriter, an up to date personal computer, and a veritable beehive of in and out boxes.

The far wall of the spare bedroom they blocked off with three legal size filing cabinets. Each cabinet equipped with a lock, each aglow in a light shade of office supply store tan enamel paint. 'Home Sweet Home' for a two career couple, just as devoted to their professions as the loving relationship they share with one another. This day marks an especially bittersweet moment in their lives. As soon, Moses will be flying off to the war, actually, the Desert Shield Operation, in the sands of the middle-east.

Soon the copy machine stops cranking, humming, and the light goes off. Linda retrieves the copies from the print bin with her left hand and with her right returns the originals to a slot marked 'RUSH' in the in and out box which belongs to her husband. She wheels about with the elegance of a runway model, and the purpose of a legal secretary, then, walks a few paces towards the desk.

Despite the fact that Moses and Linda stand on opposite sides of a business like desk in front of a window, in a bedroom converted to a business office, it is obvious they have a happy marriage. Very truly, the affection between them shines forth in the precise and studied manner they ready Moses' _off to war_ portable office.

Linda feels Moses looks extremely handsome in a set of fresh starched and ironed tan fatigues. Moses too, realizes Linda is quite attractive in black sling backed heels, tan hose, and a lightweight casual dress in Kelly green.

In the past, Linda had all she could do to keep from crying when Moses went off abruptly on this or that secret mission. Yet with time, and in particular this time, sharing his ritual of carefully packing his kit bag brings relief and comfort to her heart, maybe even good luck and romance to their relationship. Under Linda's watchful eye-, Moses slowly and deliberately places office supplies and documents into the vast expanse of his black canvas bag, reading off a freshly typed inventory list all the while.

"Paper, yellow legal pad, three hole wide lines, pens, ball point, felt tip markers, pencil sharpener, portable calculator."... Moses speaks softly as he transfers items from the expansive desktop to the inner recesses of the bag on top of the desk.

Linda watches quietly, she is entitled to feel jealous or afraid. However, years of a happy, though childless marriage has welded them together as one against the unspoken dangers of his job as an Action Officer in the Central Intelligence Agency.

At last, Moses chucks the inventory list inside the bag with an air of finality. And then reaches with his strong hands for the zipper and the pull on the opposite side. It is then Linda spies an item her husband missed in his haste. In her schoolteachers voice she says.

"High lighter marker's Moses!"

"What?" Moses responds, then, looks up into the eyes of his lovely wife standing in a thoughtful pose on the opposite side of the desk.

Linda reaches forward towards the backside of the bag on the desktop with a schoolgirl's coy smile on her face. Soon Moses can see a clear plastic pouch filled with a double stack of transparent markers held in the delicate fingers of her right hand. A look of consternation clouds Moses' face. Linda grasps the situation correctly.

"I thought you might want to try something new, Moses."

Moses takes the markers from his wife's outstretched arm and hefts them for a brief moment. There is something out of the ordinary in these markers, his wordless expression says. Linda nearly laughs at the puzzled look on the face of the man in the crisp fatigues. It was fun to tease a lieutenant colonel. With a wide princess like smile, she explains.

"Florescent markers, honey, they glow more than the other kind."

After a bit, Linda's words sink in and Moses eagerly nods his head. He has a look on his face like when a committee decides to accept a proposal. Moses swiftly chucks the markers in the bag. Then he stands full erect and asks.

"How about a good bye kiss, Linda?"

Linda Anderson has her handsome husband exactly where she wants him. She shakes her head from side to side.

"Not until our wedding picture is in the bag!"

Moses grins sheepishly from ear to ear. He picks up a metal framed eight by ten inch photo off the desktop and lowers it into the bag with slow reverent motions. Finally, he works the zipper on the bag shut with decisive motions. Last, he leans across the desk towards his wife, both hands flat on the blotter, fingers outstretched. Will he get his goodbye kiss?

Linda holds her ground. She could lean across the desk and share an embrace with the man she loves and married, but she decides not to. Moses strong shoulders drop in frustration. He asks.

"Do I have to say please?"

Linda shakes her head in the negative once again. She replies.

"No. You have to say you love me."

Moses grins eagerly again and leans even further forward over the desk.

"I _love_ _you_ Linda, more than ever." Says Moses in a husky voice filled with sincerity.

Linda slowly leans forward towards her husband. As their lips meet, she savors the feeling of his strong arms encircling her delicate shoulders. Just to the extent the thought of a separation hurts, just to that extent, the kiss is ever so sweet.

Scene 43 Maybe Billy Is Taking A Nap!

Location: The Bill Norman Residence, base housing, Quantico Marine Corps Base, Combat Development Command

Lieutenant Colonel Bill Norman stands in tan fatigues and combat boots on the wall-to-wall carpet near the front door to his three bedroom base housing residence. The sun shines brightly through the living room windows and it is a warm day in early summer. Yet there is an obvious chill in the space between Colonel Norman and his wife, Janet.

Colonel Norman bends to his left side and grasps the combination lock securing the closed folds at the top of his well-worn duffel bag. For a moment, his heart swells in pride at the sight of his name and rank stenciled in black on the flank of the bag. Then he remembers his situation. The tension in the family brought on by his son's repeated gestures of rebellion.

Colonel Norman's face goes beat red while he deliberates. Should he exit the front door stage left? Should he wait for a moment on the chance he might reconcile with his son? Would there be a hug and a handshake, or a fraternal slap on the back? Janet can see the utter disappointment in her husband's posture. Her face clouds over in exasperation. She mutters.

"Another stunt from the teenager."

As Bill stands erect the green canvas, duffle bag dangles off the floor. He wheels on the heels of his boots to come face to face with his wife. He can neither beg nor reveal his true feelings. Janet realizes the gravity of their situation. The precarious position her rebellious son has manipulated her shaky marriage. She turns her head towards the right, in the direction of the bedrooms. In a shrill voice- at the top of her lungs-, she shouts.

"William James Norman Junior! Your _father_ is leaving!"

For a moment, Colonel Norman leans towards his wife in a gesture of hope. If Billy joins them in the living room, what role should he assume? Being a father is so complicated! Speaking half in jest, half in anger, the Lieutenant Colonel mutters to his wife.

"If the kid sticks his head out the door- Janet, should I be the 'Lord of the Manor', or 'Beaver's Dad'?"

The question is so loaded with sarcasm Janet drops her eyes to the floor and declines a response. Filled with steam- the Lieutenant Colonel cannot pass up the chance to goad his wife yet another time.

"The dumb broad I married put a psychiatrist in command of this bivouac, kidoo!"

The living room stays silent and cold. Bill considers apologizing. He yearns to hug the woman he married so many years ago. Nevertheless, the shame of his situation steels his resolve, his visceral need to tower over his wife and son. At last he frowns and after his shoulders slump in defeat. He wheels to his left with parade ground precision.

Janet's hand comes up to her mouth. She pleads.

"Wait!"

Bill Norman notices the absolute anguish in Janet's voice. He drops the duffle bag and turns back to face his wife. Janet bites the knuckle on her first finger as her mind works feverishly towards a solution. She throws out her arm towards Bill in a stop sign gesture and says even more anxiously.

"Wait Bill!"

As Colonel Norman's mouth, drops open Janet scurries over the living room carpet in the direction of the bedrooms. Soon she passes into the short corridor and out of sight of her husband. Colonel Norman hears the sharp desperate sound of a mother's knuckles rapping on the bedroom door of her errant prodigal.

The house remains silent in spite of the force of the frenzied maternal knocking. There is no response from the confines of William James Norman Junior's bedroom, none whatsoever. Soon Janet's voice cries out.

"Billy! You're father is leaving for Saudi Arabia!"... "He wants to say goodbye to you!"

With his weight balanced between both feet, Colonel Norman lets the air out of his lungs. Then he hefts his bag off the carpet and over his left shoulder and makes decisively for the front door. Janet hears the rattle of the dead bolt and rushes back to the center of the living room.

"He must be asleep, Bill!"... "You know how teenagers sleep!"

Colonel Norman comes to a halt with his right hand on the doorknob. His broad back turned towards his wife. His eyes peer out the glass in the front door towards the family car resting in the carport.

There is a long silent moment while both the Deputy Commander of the Readiness Detachment and the President of the Officer's Wife's Club struggle against hope to hear sounds from the silent bedroom. Any sounds at all. In a dead cold voice, Colonel Norman says.

"That would be it."... "Teenagers sleep real heavy."

Janet's hands dangle limp at her sides. She opens her mouth to speak, but Bill is out the door in swift moment. Without looking back, Colonel Norman opens the driver's side front door of the sedan. He hefts his duffle bag onto the passenger's seat, and slowly lowers himself behind the steering wheel.

The sound of the engine starting brings Janet to the window in the front door. She lifts the white lace curtain with her left hand and begins to wave goodbye at Bill with her right. It is too late. Bill backs the car out the driveway. His face a mask carved in cold stone. Janet's hand comes to a halt.

The image fixed in her mind that sunshine filled morning, and for the lonely months to come. Is a pair of white knuckled hands clamped tight to a steering wheel in the ten and two o'clock position. As the car recedes from view, tears begin to pour from her frightened eyes. Still there is no sound from the inner recesses of their son's bedroom. Under her breath, she mutters.

"Yes Sir, Colonel Norman Sir, Yes Sir!"

Scene 44 The Andrew George Howell Family Is Expecting

Location: The Andrew and Karen Howell Apartment, Gaithersburg, Virginia

Mrs. Andrew George Howell, formerly Karen Chesley Blackstone, stands in the living room of the two-bedroom apartment she shares with her husband and son. She is freshly arrived at home from a long day's work as a Codes and Ciphers Specialist in the Central Intelligence Agency. The late summer afternoon finds her dressed in a double-breasted suit in a shade of medium tan linen fabric. Just at the moment, she has a telephone handset pressed against her delicate left ear. The phone cord entwined through and wrapped around the fingers of her right hand.

The dining room table is half set with dishes and silverware. Quite obviously, the phone call interrupted her dinner hour routine. As Karen listens intently at the earpiece, her posture speaks for worry and her beautiful eyes blaze with fear. The young lady glances nervously down at the gold watch on her left wrist. Then she takes a deep breath and speaks softly into the mouthpiece.

"They're usually back by now."

There is pause while Karen presses the handset to her ear and strains to listen intently to the words spoken by Linda Anderson, the wife of her husband's best friend in the Action Officer's Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency. She replies in a firm voice.

"I know where Andrews Air Force Base is, Linda."

Karen hears a noise at the back door in the kitchen and reflexively raises her head. Soon she spies her son, Jason, smiling at her from ear to ear. Jason wears cycling shorts in black, a red, white, and blue, club jersey, and matching leather-cycling gloves. The happy and eager high school student stands there with his racing bicycle slung over his right shoulder. There is a white racing helmet in his left hand.

At the sight of her carefree son, Karen's visage noticeably brightens up. She covers the mouthpiece of the phone handset with the delicate fingers of her right hand and opens her now smiling mouth to speak. It is too late. Flush with adrenaline and the triumph of athletic competition Jason rushes into the living room and nearly shouting says.

"Twenty two point five for the whole twenty miles Ma!" .. "Twenty two and a half miles an hour!"

As he speaks, Jason raises the cycling helmet above his head as if it were a sword in the hand of a Viking warrior. Karen smiles in spite of herself, then, she falls back into the role of the admonishing mother of a boisterous teenager.

"I'm on the phone Jason!"

With that, Karen refocuses on the telephone in her hand and returns to her conversation with Linda Anderson. In a business like voice, with all the fear and anxiety washed away by her son's enthusiasm, she asks.

"Does Moses want to speak to him?"

Karen nods her head with her mouth slightly parted. Then she remarks dutifully.

"I can remember that."

There is a pause and in closing her side of the conversation, Karen says.

"You too Linda, Goodbye too."

Karen drops the phone to her side and raises her head. As she pulls a lock of hair out from in front of her eyes, Andrew George Howell steps into the living room from the kitchen, taking up a position a pace or two behind Jason.

Andy's cycling clothes are a match for those worn by Jason. Father and son like, he too carries his racing bicycle over his right shoulder. Karen notes wryly that both her men sport helmets in their left hands. Karen sighs in the presence of all this male bravado in her living room while she stands there in silence.

With his head cocked in a gesture of curiosity Andy asks Karen.

"Was that Moses?"

Karen shakes her head in the negative. She answers.

"Andrews Air Force Base, a one thirty something."

Andy shakes his head and speedily takes control of the conversation.

"A one thirty is an airplane. Hercules one thirty. That's a designator, Karen."

Karen decides to defend herself. She replies.

"Linda told me a "one thirty"."

Andy already knows that Saddam Hussein's troops have invaded Kuwait in previous weeks. He takes his bicycle down from his shoulder and leans it against the back of a chair resting underneath the dining room table. Turned away from his wife, without looking into her eyes, he queries.

"How much time do we have?"

The room goes completely silent. Karen sees a worried look growing on Jason's face. She busies herself with returning the handset of the phone to the cradle to avoid making eye contact with the two precious men in her life. Jason lowers his bike to the carpet and leans across the top tube towards his mother. He looks pensive now, just the least bit deflated.

With her eyes cast down to the floor, Karen replies.

"You should be there already."

With that, Andy rushes into the bedroom he shares with Karen to change into his fatigues. Just at the doorway, he turns his head to speak to his wife over his right shoulder.

"Where the hell is my pager?"

Karen feels relieved- her fears displaced- as now they have something to do as a family. Even if that something to do is to get Andy off packing to a war in the desert sands of the middle east.

With Karen still standing by the bookshelves, Jason leans his bike against Andy's and strides towards the kitchen. Karen turns her head away from Jason and speaks towards the bedroom door.

"Where did you leave it, Andy?"

Now Jason returns from the kitchen with a pager in his right hand. He says.

"It was on top of the microwave."

Karen and Jason listen intently but all they can hear is the sounds of a married man rattling around in his bedroom. Karen decides to break the silence. She raises her voice and says.

"Your pager was in the kitchen!" Jason glances down at the top of the device and adds.

"The message window is blank!"

Karen and her son hear a pause in the frenzied get ready for war ritual. Soon Andy's voice booms out at them through the bedroom doorway.

"So I'm not in trouble yet!"

Karen shakes her head at the irony in Andy's remark. A moment later Andrew George Howell, Major, Action Officer's Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency, rushes back into the living room, dressed in combat boots and chocolate brown fatigues. He drops his duffle bag to the floor then turns to face his wife and adopted son.

Jason hands Andy his pager. Andy slides the pager into the left shirt pocket of his fatigues. While looking out the window, without making eye contact with either Karen or Jason, he explains.

"They're projecting less than two hundred deaths, Karen. Including accidents and friendly fire screw ups."

Karen wraps her arms around her waist and shivers. Looking down at the floor, she inquires.

"Am I happy now?"

Andy struggles to keep the scene light. He smiles and moves forward, thinking to embrace the woman he loves. As Andy closes the distance between himself and his wife, he sees Karen turn away in profile. The Action Officer skids to a halt and says.

"There's gonna be a half million guys there Karen. The odds on getting hurt are about like slipping in the shower."

Andy raises his hands, thinking to put his arms around Karen's shoulders. Karen shivers, turns away, and grows small. Then she reminds her men of something it seems they have both forgotten.

"Our baby is due in February, Andrew."

Andy nods his head while Jason glances back and forth between his mom and dad. Andy states.

"That's the best part!"... "The whole thing should be wrapped up in a hundred days, give or take."

It takes a moment for Andy's words to sink in. Finally, Karen turns back towards her husband and they gaze at one another eye to eye. The Major wraps his arms all the way round the codes and ciphers specialist, his loving wife. Jason takes a half step back and away from his parents as a smile grows across his face.

Andy hugs Karen and kisses her with deep affection on her cheek. After a long while, they separate. Andy grabs his duffle bag and heads for the front door. Half way out the door Andy turns and says.

"A hundred days Karen!"

Now it might have been that all eyes would come to focus on Karen at this turning point moment in the lives of a happy family living a life of danger. Yet instead, something special happened, something even sweeter. In the moments before Andy closed the door decisively behind him, eager to go off to war. The three of them, Karen, Andy, and Jason, turned to face a new piece of furniture in the living room, an infants' crib standing next to the dining room table.

Within the crib, on the mattress, lay an assortment of toys like rattles, a three months supply of diapers, a folded stack of blankets, and a complete wardrobe of babies clothes trimmed in pink. For you see, on the advice of the ultrasonographer- the obstetrician informed the Howell family to expect a baby girl!

Scene 45 Estelle Wingate Promises To Look In On Karen And Linda

Location: Front lawn of the Henry Winston Wingate residence, College Park, Maryland

Mrs. Henry Winston Wingate, Estelle Wingate, stands in the luxurious grass on the front lawn of the home she shares with her husband Henry. In the College Park community of Maryland, just to the northwest of Washington, D.C.. Though somewhat plump, she wears a pair of white jogging shoes, red jogging shorts, and a red tank top jogging shirt.

Just now four of the Wingate family grandchildren, ages six through ten, play a mix of tag and soccer on the lawn. Under Estelle's watchful eye, they run in and around the trees and their grandmother, as if she were a goal post. This warm summer afternoon Estelle divides her attention between her grandchildren and her husband Henry.

Colonel Wingate, Commander of the Action Officer's Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency eases his leather suitcase into the trunk of Ronald Bruce Haynes, J.D., Mercedes sedan and then closes the lid with a decisive motion. Next, he makes for the back door on the passenger side of the car, the luxury automobile resting on the curb at the edge of the Wingate residence lawn.

The only available seat in the car is the passenger side rear. As Ronald Bruce Haynes sits behind the wheel, General Lowell Ueberroth holds the leather seat next to him, and Major Benjamin Hazeva of the Israeli Mossad occupies the seat behind Attorney Haynes. Colonel Wingate opens the side rear door for himself. Before alighting, he places his hands spread apart on the roof of his car, coming face to face with his wife.

Estelle waves her hand in the air at her husband while she squints in the sunlight.

"Call me from the hotel, Henry!"... "Never mind the time!"

Colonel Wingate smiles and bobs his head up and down.

"Andrew's wife, Estelle!"... "Look in on her"

Estelle Wingate's smile grows wider still. Nothing would please her more than to see Andy and Karen start their family. In her mind, it would be as if yet another grandchild joined the Wingate fold. Colonel Wingate lowers himself into the seat next to Major Hazeva and shuts the door. On cue, Bruce Haynes shifts the automobiles' transmission from park to drive. As the Mercedes whispers away down the quiet tree lined street Estelle continues to wave.

"Be careful Henry, be careful!"

That was goodbye at the Wingate residence. Through three wars and more, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate had served with distinction, always returning home fit, decorated, and in one piece. Behind the lines in France as a Jedburg during the Second World War, at the 38th Parallel in the Korean Conflict, and in Thailand during the ten years of the War in Viet Nam.

Scene 46 Joe And Sharon On The Joys Of Family Planning

Location: The Joe and Sharon Gomez residence, Hillcrest Heights, Maryland

Joe Gomez and Sharon Little married a year before Saddam Hussein ordered ground troops into Kuwait. Then they moved directly to Hillcrest Heights, near Joe's work office in the Drug Enforcement Agency. Joe and Sharon wanted a big family. However, after months of trying, Sharon's first pregnancy came to anguished end in a stillbirth.

The Gomez's are devout Catholic's so the death of an unborn child strikes deeply at both of their hearts. Over time, Sharon becomes less and less interested in housekeeping. Moreover, Joe begins to drink beer on weeknights, not just on weekends- as before the tragedy.

While Joe stands in the living room, dressed and ready to leave for Kuwait, Sharon walks towards him from the bathroom. Her mouth curled down in defeat, her steps small and tentative.

"The test was negative." Says Sharon to Joe in a soft voice filled with disappointment.

Joe shrugs his shoulders and hefts his duffle bag up into the air with his left hand. Sharon sees his eyes are blood shot. She tries to avoid looking at the empty beer cans standing on the dining room table. Sharon moves closer and while hovering near to her husband explains.

"As soon as you return, Joe!"

Joe sighs and backs away from Sharon, shuffling his bag towards the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turns and looks directly into Sharon's eyes.

"They promised us a phone system. I should be able to call every week."

Sharon nods and puts her hands on her hips.

"My parents will have grandchildren Joe, your parents too!"

Joe Gomez holds stock still at the mental image of his parents, joyful with a grandson or granddaughter in their arms. Bolstered now by his wife's optimism, his face breaks out into a sheepish grin.

"When I get back" says Joe to Sharon, "thing are going to get serious."

Sharon perks up at her husbands' renewed faith in their marriage. Nearly in mirth, she exclaims.

"Things are already serious, Mister Gomez, things already are!"

That was goodbye and off to war for the first time in the Gomez apartment. Joe and Sharon had problems to deal with, but most importantly, they had each other.

Scene 47 "Don't Forget Your Derringer, Bo!"

Location: The Colonel Beauregard Morgan Residence, Base Housing, Quantico Marine Corps Combat Development Command

Dorothy Morgan rolls her car out of the garage and brings it to a gentle halt on the far left edge of the Morgan residence driveway. She shifts the transmission into park. Then Dorothy turns the motor off with a practiced twist of the key in the steering column ignition lock. With the driver's side door closed behind her. Mrs. Morgan stands at her full height for a long moment, peering back into the dark recesses of the garage.

While standing there- Dorothy Morgan commits the image of her grizzled husband, Colonel Beauregard 'Bo' Morgan, Commander of the Marine Corps Readiness Detachment, Quantico Marine Corps Base, all dressed up in a fresh pressed set of chocolate chip fatigues, to loving memory. Although this is far from the first time these two have said goodbye, and Bo has promised this will be the last combat assignment. Dorothy struggles desperately to hold back the tears.

Finally, with her lower lip held firmly between her teeth, and arms wrapped tight around her waist, Dorothy walks the distance from her car to the rear fender of her husband's automobile. His vehicle sitting in the garage with the motor off and the trunk lid wide open.

Under Dorothy's watchful, maternal eye, Colonel Morgan loads the trunk with duffle bags, shoes, and computer equipment. As the Colonel hefts a bulky desktop computer into the trunk, his wife asks.

"Are you going to take the monitor, Bo?" Without breaking stride, the Colonel replies.

"Uh, Uh, gonna buy a new one in Riyadh."

Dorothy Morgan reaches down to the concrete floor of the garage and picks up a computer keyboard that she hands silently to her husband. Bo slides this into the trunk and then reaches down for a flat rectangular device she has never seen before.

"What's that?" asks Dorothy, pointing at the object in Bo's hands.

The Colonel halts his routine and looks up at his wife, while he stands at parade rest.

"Bought me a scanner, Dorothy dear." Mrs. Morgan's brow knits up, she inquires.

"What's a scanner?" The Colonel nods in a gesture of masculine self-satisfaction. He spreads his feet slightly in his combat boots and explains.

"Takes pictures I can import into my briefs and papers."

Mrs. Morgan's interest in computers hardly extends past sending and receiving e-mails, so her husband's explanation passes over her head. Just then, the Colonel slides the last item in his makeshift communications center, an inkjet printer, into the trunk and slams the lid shut. He glances at the heavy stainless steel watch on his thick left wrist, then, looks directly into the eyes of the woman he married out of high school.

For as many times as these two have parted company, Bo off to war- or a secret mission of one sort or another, Dorothy has never gotten used to the bittersweet experience of saying goodbye. She wants her husband at home. Shivering now, fighting back tears, Dorothy says quietly.

"Do you have time for lunch?" The Colonel shakes his rugged head back and forth. He strides the short distance to his wife, wraps his arms around her like a gorilla, and says.

"Last time honey, pinkie promise this is the last one."

For a few long moments, they stand there in a familiar embrace. Bo rubs his cheek into Dorothy's hair while he squeezes the small of her back against his waist with the light firm force of his hands. Finally, they break apart, and Bo mounts the driver's seat in his automobile.

After starting the engine, Colonel Morgan rolls his window down with the touch of an electric switch in the door panel. He starts to wave his right hand at his wife, but Dorothy interjects in an urgent maternal voice.

"Have you got your derringer, Bo?" The Colonel blinks a few times and says,

"What?" Mrs. Morgan puts her hands on her hips. She replies.

"I don't want you going over there without your derringer!"

The Colonel blinks again- he purses his lips while the words sink in. Finally, he begins to pat the pockets of his fatigues. After a bit he retrieves an aluminum frame, two shot derringer with black plastic grips from his left shirt pocket. Bo holds the pistol up to view and remarks.

"Never once used the goldarned thing!"

Dorothy smiles in spite of herself. In a triumphant maternal voice, she says.

"I don't want you to _use it_ dear, I want you to _have it_ just in case!"

Colonel Morgan returns the derringer to its resting place in his shirt pocket. He shifts the transmission into drive and presses down with his left foot on the brake pedal. Then he leans out of the window for a goodbye kiss.

Dorothy steps forward, leans down gracefully, and kisses her husband full on the lips. When they break off, Dorothy stands erect and does her best to appear composed and in control of her emotions. The Colonel jauntily grabs the steering wheel with his right hand and sticks his left elbow out the window. He heads out the garage and down the driveway.

As Colonel Morgan turns left around his wife's car and onto the street, Dorothy begins to wave her right hand up in the air.

"Maybe, just maybe, this will be the very last time." she prays to herself while she continues to wave.

Scene 48 The Action Officers Get A Send Off From Edgar Coolidge, MD

Location: Flight line at Andrews Air Force Base, Washington, DC

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate is dressed in a black chalk stripe tropical wool suit with a vest and a foulard tie, on top of a freshly starched shirt with long pointed collars. Even in the oppressive heat on the flight line at Andrews Air Force Base, he appears cool and collected. Fatherly like- he ushers his team onto the chocolate brown camouflage painted Hercules C-130 transporter.

Standing just outside the hatch at the top of the portable stairway, Wingate exudes a mix of paternal confidence and nostalgia. Today- it is his chance to relive the sixth day of June 1944, D-Day, and he is enjoying himself to the fullest.

"Colonel Morgan, Lieutenant Colonel Norman, take whichever seats you wish, gentlemen." says Colonel Wingate, in a voice both brisk and professional.

Colonel Wingate and Colonel Morgan share a firm handshake as the commander of the Marine Corps Readiness Detachment and his executive officer pass through the hatch and into the passenger compartment of the plane.

Next, Wingate glances down to the bottom of the stairs and over the roar of the planes' idling engines says.

"Quickly now, Andrew, let's get on with it, Moses."

Andy Howell, Moses Anderson, and Joe Gomez have only small kit bags in their hands, so they leap up the stairs to the airplane hatch taking them two at a time. In less than a minute, the three close friends are through the hatch and wending their way forward between the passenger seats towards the pilots' compartment. Soon thereafter Colonel Wingate climbs over the foot of the hatch and into the plane.

As he does so an air crewman- begins to muscle the sturdy door shut, and turn the hatch mechanism so as to seal the airlock. All is right with the world- Wingate is in an expansive mood, so he takes out a moment to remark to the young man closing the hatch.

"Thank you, young man. Thank You."

After the air crewman looks up and grins at the Central Intelligence Agency Patriarch, Wingate wheels about and begins to walk forward towards the cockpit.

Just at that moment a four door Chevrolet with smoke glass windows comes to an abrupt halt on the tarmac at the side of the plane. Though the planes' engines are roaring, still the men on board sitting on the port side of the plane catch the motion of the car out of the corners of their eyes.

The men on board the plane turn their heads reflexively, imagining the car on the strip beside them holds a late arrival. Much to their surprise, rather than an officer or an enlisted man bearing a top-secret message, the C.I.A. Chief Psychiatrist, Edgar Coolidge, MD, clambers out of the front passenger-side seat, of the light grey painted automobile, followed hard on by two of his more youth full residents. To the amazement of the men seated in the plane, Coolidge and his two charges hold up poster boards stapled onto sticks, which they begin waving in the air.

All the eyes on the plane go wide. Joe Gomez is the first to speak. Over the din of the plane's engines, and with his nose nearly pressed against the glass of the window at his side he asks.

"What in the Hell are they doing here?"

In complete sympathy with that remark, Moses and Andy's mouths drop open in tandem. Bill Norman, on the other hand, responds to the strange scene on the tarmac at the side of the plane by clenching his jaw and bobbing his head up and down in approval.

Down on the ground at the side of the plane Edgar Coolidge can see that all eyes in the plane are upon him. Consequently, he raises the poster board on a stick in his right hand just as high up in the air as he can reach. As he does so, Colonel Wingate, still standing in the aisle, leans towards the window over the heads of Moses and Andy. Completely dumbfounded, he begins to read the words painted on the three waving poster boards out-loud.

"Kill Them All! Let Freud Sort Them Out!"

Reads the text on the sign at the top of the stick in Coolidge's hand.

"Topple The Statue In Firdos Square!"

Goes the words on the first resident's sign, in reference to the statue of Saddam Hussein standing in Baghdad, the capital city of Iraq.

"What's Firdos Square?" asks Joe Gomez of Colonel Wingate.

"A park where they have a huge, statue of Saddam Hussein." replies Colonel Wingate.

"Death For Hamaan (Saddam Hussein) And His Sons Uday and Qusay!"

Reads the sign in the waving hand of the second resident.

By this time Bill Norman has twisted himself around in his seat and worked his head near the window Andy and Moses are using to watch the theater on the ground. When Colonel Wingate stops reading, Moses shakes his head and says.

"What in the hell is that supposed to be?"

It is Bill Norman rather than Andy Howell or Colonel Wingate who has the next word. At the sight of the frenzied clamor on the ground next to the plane, Lieutenant Colonel Norman thrusts his jaw forward. With a stiff index finger pointed out the window, he growls.

"That's patriotism!"

Just then, the transport plane begins to roll slowly forward, as its engines wind up to an ever-increasing pitch- leaving the macabre circus on the ground behind. As the men in the seats crane their heads for a last look at Coolidge and his entourage, they catch a fading glimpse of the Agency Chief Psychiatrist pulling his index finger across his throat in the style of a vigilante executioner.

At the sight of the good doctor jumping up and down, red faced, drawing his finger across his throat, Andy Howell lets the air out of his lungs and while shaking his head slowly from side to side, says bitterly.

"Coolidge thinks _I'm too nuts_ to go overseas!"

Moses Anderson and Joe Gomez laugh aloud, at Andy's ironic remark. Colonel Wingate stifles a chuckle behind a closed hand. Bill Norman, in sharp contrast to the other men in the team, scowls and stares angrily over the seat top, glaring hotly at Andy in the seat behind him.

-THE END-

Iraq War Desert Shield Novel 1 of 3

Jeffrey Wayne Dejent

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