by Lewis, Rykar
Parks shook his head. He couldn’t think of the what-ifs, not in this job. He had to focus on the present, on his job, on his country, not on death.
Parks scrolled through two new “chatter” emails from Langley, when another message from Solomon came in.
KP,
That’s all right with me, I love bowling. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me the directions to your house, if you don’t mind. Well, I’ll see you at 2000.
-Solomon
After emailing Solomon back, Parks swiveled around in his chair, stood up, and walked around his office. He could hardly wait to relax and blow off some steam. He needed to rest and get refreshed, and then he would look forward to coming to work in the morning.
18
Monday, March 17th – 2215 hours
Jerusalem, Israel
“May 10, 2009,” Hazeroth told the prime minister. “Remember how the then-President of the United States addressed the Nation, on what they call Mother’s Day, about how Iran had been neutralized. The assumption was that Iran was no longer a threat, that they’d never again be deemed the ‘terrorist capital of the world.’”
Aziza shook his head. He didn’t remember even a small percentage of the speeches the American Presidents had spoken over the years.
“Do you recall what Iran did a week later in response to the President’s speech?” Hazeroth pressed. “Remember? Remember how Iran’s Hamas captured one of our soldiers? Remember how they shipped his stabbed, beaten, crumpled, bloody, dead body to our doorstep in a box? They proved that the American President hadn’t spoken the truth, that they still could be, and still were, the terrorist capital. But in 2013, upon President Winnfield’s inauguration, focus shifted. Iran was the new Iraq. The War on Terror was concentrated on Iran, and the terror cells were taken out.” Hazeroth paused and let his statement take root. “Well, Iran has no intention of being forgotten as the terrorist capital. They still are deadly. They have been dormant, but no, not taken out for good. They still are wicked and extremely capable of scheming an operation such as this.”
“Are you saying the War on Terrorism didn’t do its job?” Aziza demanded. “Are you implying that Iran is the culprit of the events unfolding?”
“More than implying, Mr. Prime Minister. I am embarrassed that I didn’t think of what the Americans did. The thought that Iran was guilty did cross my mind but I was stupid enough not to look deeper into the matter. And I must say, I believe they are right.”
“Answer my first question, Judah,” the prime minister commanded.
“The War on Terrorism was effective. It quieted most, mind you most, of the terrorist cells in Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran. But not all. It would be an impossible job to take out all the terrorists in those countries. You’d have to obliterate those entire nations to do that. Yes, the war was useful, and it silenced terrorist activities for a while, not for good. Terrorism is an ongoing thing; it cannot be stopped unless the root is killed.”
“Impossible. The root of terror could never be destroyed,” the prime minister countered.
“Yes, yes, and that’s why the War on Terror quieted terrorism, but did not completely end it. That would be an impossibility. America did its job, but Iran will still come back again, if it hasn’t already. The mindset of terrorism is still there, and I believe it has stuck out its ugly head today.”
“You agree with President Winnfield?” Aziza questioned.
Hazeroth had been briefed by Aziza on what the President had suggested, and he completely agreed with Winnfield.
“Did I not just say that I was ashamed not to have already told you what he did?”
Aziza was upset. “No, it cannot be, it cannot be,” he insisted. “The Lebanese are to blame.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, the Iranians are looking more guilty than the Lebanese. Can’t you see that? Why would the Lebanese attack us? They are still petrified of us.”
The prime minister opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
“Do you not agree with what the U.S. suggested to you?” Hazeroth knowingly asked.
Aziza again did not speak.
“I have been pressing our sources in Iran for information, but so far they have none,” Hazeroth explained. “Our agents in Lebanon have been trying to track information on who sent Qasim, but they have nothing either. We’re doing an advanced investigation on him too, and we are coming up with some interesting things. But we still have nothing of real value yet. I’ll most definitely inform you when we do.”
“Judah,” the prime minister said, “I need you to keep pressing them. I need to know what’s going on in Iran and Lebanon. We need to strike back, but we need to strike the right country. We cannot afford to attack the wrong nation; the world is looking for our country to make a mistake.”
“I know. We will do our best.”
“If we move against Lebanon without further confirmation that they are the ones, I fear the entire Middle East would move against us.”
Hazeroth nodded. “All the more reason to look deeper into the issue, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Find me something I can use. Find me the country to retaliate against. And find it fast.”
* * *
The clock read 1800. It was quitting time. Parks quickly grabbed his cell phone and headed out. He had already programmed his team members’ numbers just in case he needed to get a hold of them for any reason. He didn’t expect trouble but he wanted to be prepared.
The sun was dropping and the sky was turning bright orange as Parks walked the long parking lot to his truck. When he arrived, he found a note under the windshield wiper. He realized it was telling him where his assigned parking space was. Quickly he opened the truck’s door, jumped in, and drove off, waving to a couple of guards as he pulled out onto the main thoroughfare. He was still uncomfortable driving in this big city, but he felt safe in his monster truck. The sound of the diesel engine relaxed him, and he slouched back in his seat, one-handing the wheel.
He stopped at a red light and waited behind several cars. Actually, he did more than wait; he could have taken a nap with the time he had. The light seemed to be stuck on red; it just didn’t change. Parks fought to stay patient, but he was getting tired of sitting at this red light doing nothing.
“Stinkin’ D.C. traffic lights,” he grumbled. “I could have walked to the hotel by now.”
The light changed to green and everyone inched forward. By the time Parks made it right up to the intersection, the light switched again to red. He sighed loudly with frustration.
Parks waited for several more minutes at this light, and when it finally turned green once more, he sped off toward the hotel, as fast as he dared.
* * *
“Israel’s moving against Lebanon,” Winnfield boldly told the National Security Advisor. “And we can’t stop them. Aziza’s hard head is going to get him in a war he shouldn’t be in, and it will end up in the destruction of his State of Israel.”
“Are you sure he’ll take the large step of declaring war so soon? I mean, he has no real evidence that Lebanon’s to blame,” Smith said.
“He probably would have made serious steps in that direction if I hadn’t called. The only reason he might not declare now is because I put a seed of doubt in his mind by bringing up the possibility that Iran could be the guilty party.”
“You really believe Lebanon’s that innocent?” Smith asked in disbelief.
“With the information we have now, yes. Now that could change when we get more intelligence on the whole deal, but as it stands, I would say that Iran is the guilty party.”
“I agree that Iran looks responsible, sir. However I also think that Lebanon would be happy about taking out Israel, if the opportunity presented itself. Would they not?”
Winnfield chose his response carefully. “What Middle Eastern country would not like to see Israel drop off the face of the earth? However, I don’t think Lebanon has the military strength to move against Israel.”<
br />
“Whether they do or don’t, sir, they’ve always been known to try,” the NSA pointed out.
“But they wouldn’t do it, Tom, they wouldn’t. Not when Israel threatened them with an ICBM armed with a nuclear warhead that would leave Beirut smoldering for months to come. They wouldn’t,” the President confirmed. “Couldn’t.”
“Look, Mr. President, a suicide bomber attempted to come into Israel. He made it in, and was stopped before he could pull anything off. What’s so new and threatening about that? Has Israel looked at a single suicide bomber as an act of war before? We did, but we’re different. We don’t get ‘suiciders’ every week. They do. It’s a common occurrence, not a declaration of war. Why is Israel taking it so hard this time?”
“The world is about to explode, Tom, more than ever before. Israel is now the major Middle Eastern power since Iraq and Iran have been thrown down. They’re the big guys on the block. They’re second only to us on everyone’s hit list. Every Middle Eastern nation feels it has to take out Israel before she gets too strong. Lebanon is angry because their UNON Plan has been denied. They want the Golan Heights. They just want Israel gone. Aziza looks at that terrorist as sent from the Lebanese. He takes it as a challenge, and he’s going to tell the world how no one can mess with Israel. He’s not backing down, to anyone.”
“Not even to our advice?” Smith shot out.
Winnfield was somewhat shocked by the question. It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement that had been on the President’s mind ever since the call with the prime minister. “No, not even to our advice,” he replied coolly. “I don’t know why; we only want the best for them. They’re in the jaws of a lion and they’re not going to get out by declaring war on the Lebanese with the kind of evidence they have. They need to have proof that Lebanon did it, or they’re going to get in trouble.”
“How are they going to get out of the ‘lion’s mouth’ then?”
“Good question. Well for one, they could listen to us, and we’d lead them out. But to fight Lebanon with no proof that they’re behind this would push Israel deeper down the lion’s throat.”
“That’s if we could lead them out,” Smith corrected.
“You don’t think we could?”
“I’m not saying that, I’m just asking how we’d get them out.”
“By telling them to take things easy because the world wants to pounce on them the first mistake they make. And I believe that declaring war on Lebanon would be their first.”
“And their second?” the National Security Advisor prodded.
“Ignoring Iran and letting them play their hand,” the President explained. “You see, war is war, but, winning is superior to losing. If Aziza attacks the Lebanese, they’d be at war. Big deal, what’s new? But by Israel declaring a war, Iran would play their part and win the whole game.”
“Whoa, whoa, Mr. President, I thought you said that if Israel made war on Lebanon, the entire Middle East would destroy her, not just Iran.”
“That’s if Israel was wrong about the Lebanese being guilty, and Iran really doesn’t have a plan to destroy them. But if we’re right about Iran, then they’re the ones to watch.”
“Iran’s the culprit?” Smith asked.
“I think so, but I’m not 100% positive yet. Not sure enough to declare war on them, if I were in Aziza’s shoes. But I will say that I’d declare a war on the Iranians way before the Lebanese.”
“Let me backtrack, Mr. President. You’re saying that if Israel listens to us about Lebanon, and stays pretty well mistake-free, they’ll get out of the hot seat?”
“Yes,” the President confirmed. “They don’t need to be so careful forever, just until the world calms down with them somewhat, and they get out of the lion’s mouth.”
“What if Iran doesn’t let them stay mistake-free? What if they force Israel’s hand against Lebanon? What should Israel do then? Just sit back and get obliterated by terrorists while letting the world know they’re not moving against anyone because they don’t want to make a mistake?”
“By that time we’ll know it’s Iran that’s responsible,” Winnfield declared. “Then we’ll take Israel out of the world’s sights, or the lion’s mouth, or whatever, and we will crush Iran with all we’ve got. Once and for all.”
“Let Israel think about it,” the NSA advised, “and we’ll see if they decide the right thing.”
“That’s just it, Tom, I’m guessing. I don’t know exactly what the right thing is.”
* * *
For the first time in three years, Parks could go home and feel comfortable. No evil feeling greeted him; no haunting sensation flooded him; all was peaceful and relaxing. Parks cranked up the heat in his new house and waited for Solomon.
He had swung by his hotel to change out of his uniform and pulled on a green Nike shirt, and jumped in a pair of blue jeans. They felt much more relaxing than the constricting Service Alphas he had been wearing all day. He had then went over and signed the papers to rent the house. Since he had excellent credit the procedure had taken about forty-five minutes. When it was over, Parks stopped by his storage unit to grab his bowling equipment.
The sun had almost completely dropped now, and the time was rapidly approaching 2000. Solomon would be here soon.
After about five minutes Parks heard someone pull up into the driveway. He figured it to be Solomon, so he quickly grabbed his phone, threw on his light jacket, then headed out the door. Parks almost went deaf when he stepped out of his house. Reggae music was slicing the air at earsplitting volumes. Parks rapidly confirmed the jet-black Camaro and music to be Solomon’s.
Solomon got out of the sports car and began walking over to Parks, leaving the deafening music blaring. Parks met him halfway down the driveway and Solomon greeted him warmly with a handshake. Parks instantly reached into his jacket pocket and applied a healthy dose of Germ-X to wash away all the handshake germs. He hoped his friend wouldn’t be offended over that action because he did it whenever he shook hands. That was just his routine.
Parks hoped that he could persuade his guest to drive in his truck. He didn’t feel like losing all his hearing in one evening’s drive because of some reggae music that was as irritating as it was loud.
“Are you ready, KP?” Solomon asked. He was wearing a light-blue, turtleneck sweater, with Dickey’s blue jeans, and a black leather jacket. A pocketful of change jingled rhythmically when he walked, but Parks could barely even hear it over the loud music.
“Yup. What vehicle do you want to take?”
“Yours is fine. Do you want me to drive? I know of a good bowling alley not too far from here.”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Parks conceded.
Solomon ran and pulled his Camaro up the driveway further to get out of the truck’s way. He shut off the loud engine and finally silenced the deafening reggae tunes. He then climbed into the truck’s driver’s seat and received the keys from Parks. The diesel engine fired up and Solomon backed out onto the road.
“Do you like music?” Solomon wondered.
Parks grimaced. “Well, I’m not a big fan of reggae.”
Solomon nodded understandingly. “Hang around me long enough and you will be.”
“I really don’t think so,” Parks replied. “That’s just not me.”
19
Monday, March 17th – 2030 hours
Washington D.C.
“Debit or credit?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Credit,” Parks confirmed.
The man rang up the total and asked for shoe sizes. Parks didn’t need any borrowed shoes, but Solomon did.
“You’ll be on lane nine. Do either of you need bumpers?” the man genuinely wondered.
Parks and Solomon laughed and shook their heads, then went down to number nine.
“I really appreciate you bowling with me,” Parks told Solomon. “None of my Marine Corps buddies ever did.”
“How come?”
“Wel
l, I’m a...” Parks switched gears. “I score kind of high sometimes, and they were just sore losers I guess.”
“That’s a bad reason not to play with you. How high do you score?”
Parks waited a second before he answered. “My highest score was 250,” he said shyly.
Solomon whistled in amazement. “I sure am gonna look bad next to you.” He pulled on his shoes and reached for a bowling ball. “Come on, I’m ready to bowl.”
Parks tied his personalized shoes and set up for the game. Both of them peeled off their jackets and cell phones and tossed them on the nearby seats.
“You first,” Parks instructed, shaking his arm out so he could get all the blood flowing in it.
Solomon pushed up his sweater’s sleeves and stepped up to the lane. Skillfully, he made the ball roll in perfect alignment with the center pin. The ball and pins made contact and all but two fell.
“Not bad for ball one,” Solomon convinced himself. “I can still get ’em with the spare.”
“Yup,” Parks agreed, rolling his ball around in his hands.
Solomon rolled a not-so-perfect ball the next time, and both pins were left standing. Parks wanted to coach him on what he was doing wrong, but he didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all. Besides, Solomon wasn’t doing badly at all.
Parks drew a long breath and stepped up to the lane, cradling his custom fourteen-pound bowling ball. Lining up on the center, he rolled the ball at impressive speed. It snaked to the right and Solomon gasped, thinking it would go in the gutter. But it didn’t. At the last second it swung to the middle, struck the center pin, and flung all of them down, making a loud crashing sound ring throughout the alley.
“Whoa man,” Solomon exclaimed, “you are one good bowler.”
Parks shrugged his shoulders. “It was an all right roll. Good job to you.”
Solomon grabbed his ball and proceeded with the game, trying to imitate what he’d just seen Parks do.
* * *
“There! Did you see that?” Solomon exclaimed, pointing to the fallen pins.
