Motherland

by L. Todd Wood

  “Irving, my friend. We will once again smoke a thick cigar, overlooking our cattle, surrounded by mountains, and the beautiful young girls will dance for us, just like they did in Berlin all those years ago.”

  “I look forward to that day, Anatoly. It is so good to see you one last time. I can now go in peace.”

  “The lake is so peaceful at this time of the evening.”

  “Yes, it is, Anatoly. Yes, it is.”

  Connor walked out into the early morning desert sun. He carried his M-16 as usual, slung over his shoulder. The border to the Gaza Strip was as close as always. Lightning never strikes in the same place twice, he thought. He looked over at his hydroponic greenhouse, the tomatoes were falling down from the baskets still like the Gardens of Babylon. Natasha came up behind him and put her warm, soft arms around his waist. “It’s nice to see you here again, my Love.”

  “Yes, it is nice. It is nice to be home. And, this does seem like home.”

  “Connor, I was wondering.”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “Would you like to have a child?”

  Connor laughed. “I would like to try!”

  Epilogue

  President Chahine walked into the room at the United Nations. The Middle Eastern cabal was assembled. The leaders of all the Arab states as well as the Iranians were at the table. The Prime Minister of Israel was also there, looking as smug as usual. The president walked up to the long negotiating table and took his place beside his aide. He placed the language translator over his ears and leaned back in his chair to take in his surroundings.

  The incident of the Argentine weapons lab was almost forgotten. The Iranians had apologized profusely in private and assured the president they had just made an innocent mistake with the location of the weapons lab. The president, eager to confirm that his geopolitical chessboard moves had been as successful as he thought, was eager to accept the Iranian explanation. He had not been deceived, it had simply been a mistake, his narcissistic inner-self told himself.

  The conference had been called to attempt to once again solve the Israeli, Palestinian conflict in the Middle East. The deal hinged on Israel accepting land for peace. They would give back the territories of the West Bank, Gaza, and the Golan Heights in exchange for international guarantees for Israel’s security. Of course, no one expected this appeasement would really bring peace. What it would bring was a weaker Israel, one that would have a much harder time defending itself. The destruction of the Jewish State was the preferred international outcome.

  The Muslim and Islamic leaders one by one went around the table as the conference started. They all swore their desire for peace and to not be the first to attack Israel. However, none of them declared their support for the Jewish State’s right to exist.

  The Israeli Prime Minister took all of this in. He watched the faces of the Islamic leaders and tried to figure out how they could lie so brazenly to the world. He wondered why their hearts were so filled with hate. They could have real peace with Israel if they would just accept it, he thought to himself.

  The American president rose to speak as his time came in the rotation. He gave an oratory of lofty goals and dreams but again, everyone knew these were just platitudes and would never come true.

  The leader of the United Nations congratulated the American president, who was set to leave the office of the president in a few months, for his appointment to take his place at the U.N. as Secretary General. “I will be glad to relinquish my post to such an accomplished and distinguished diplomat, Mr. President,” he gushed. The American president beamed in the adulation.

  Soon,it came time for a break and the entire gathering rose to depart for a few minutes.

  Upon returning, all of the seats were again occupied, except for the Supreme Leader of Iran. His seat was empty.

  The Prime Minister of Israel leaned over to the seat next to him and asked the United Nations representative why the Iranian seat was empty.

  The U.N. official responded, “The Supreme Leader did not feel well. He has taken quite ill this afternoon. He will be represented shortly by another official from Iran.

  The Israeli Prime Minister sat back in his chair and smiled.

  ###

  Here’s where the story started, in Sderot, Israel. Unlike some reporters I know, luckily, I had an iPhone.

  About the Author

  L. Todd Wood is a graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy. He has been an aeronautical engineer and an Air Force helicopter pilot. In the Air Force, he flew for the 20th Special Operations Squadron, which started Desert Storm. He was also active in classified counterterrorism missions globally supporting SEAL Team 6 and Delta Force. For eighteen years, he was an international bond trader with expertise in Emerging Markets. He has conducted business in over forty countries. Todd has a keen understanding of politics and international finance. He is a columnist for The Washington Times, and has contributed to Fox Business News, The Moscow Times, NY Post, Newsmax TV, Breitbart, Zero Hedge, and others.

  www.LToddWood.com

  Other Works by L. Todd Wood

  CURRENCY

  SUGAR

  DELTA

  Dreams of the Negev, A Short Story

  The Last Train, A Short Story

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  CURRENCY

  by

  L. Todd Wood

  Prologue

  Weehawken, New Jersey

  July 11, 1804

  The smartly dressed older man came first, sitting erect and still as death in the rear of the long oar boat as it silently rowed across the wide river. The moon cast an eerie glow across the fast-moving, silky, black current.

  He was balding, middle-aged and had dark features. However, he was in a much darker mood, a murderous mood in fact. He was the kind of man that never forgot anything; especially, the stain on his honor. His eyes bored holes in the back of the man sitting in front of him and he did not notice his surroundings as his mind was lost in thought. He was there to right a wrong he had suffered.

  To this end he was joined by two other men seated near him, as well as two additional young rowers and his dueling second at the head of the craft, a total of five. The only sound was the water lapping like a running brook as the oars slipped in and out of the calm silvery surface. Slowly the boat crossed the dark current. Preoccupied, the passenger did not hear. He was focused only on the task ahead of him.

  They beached the long oar boat upon the bank and he and the three men quickly scurried into the woods as the rowers stayed behind. Immediately the four gentlemen began to clear the brush along the ledge facing the water. The birds awoke but no one heard. Their singing cast an odd joyful sound, contrasting eerily with the morbid events unfolding beneath them.

  A man younger by a year arrived a half hour later in a similar craft with a smaller entourage. He was a person of importance and seemed rather arrogant. In fact, he had a brilliant mind. Unfortunately he had a habit of taunting others with his brilliance that brought him to where he was at this hour. His pompous mood seemed out of touch with the somber circumstances.

  One of his party was a well-respected physician. His second, sitting in the bow, carried an ornate box the size of a breadbasket. Inside were two Wogdon dueling pistols, the finest in the world at the time. The pair of weapons had already claimed the lives of a handful of men. One of these killed had been the younger man’s son.

  The first party made themselves known and the group just arrived made their way up the embankment to join them. Salutations were exchanged.

  The seconds set marks on the ground for the two men ten paces from each other. The younger man, since challenged, had the option of choosing his spot and had already sel
ected to be facing the river. The two antagonists loaded their pistols in front of the witnesses, which was the custom, and the seconds walked into the woods and turned their backs. This way they would not be party to the scene and could not be charged with a crime as dueling was now illegal. The honorable gentleman was becoming a rare breed. Times were changing.

  The blonde man's second began counting down. Unknown to his charge’s opponent, the pistols had a secret hair trigger firing mechanism; just a slight application of pressure would ignite the powder. This was a slight of hand to say the least.

  A loud crack rang out. A few seconds later, another. Then a cry of pain. Whether the younger man accidentally fired due to the hair trigger or intentionally wasted his shot, we will never know. Historians have debated this point ever since. His shot missed his adversary and ricocheted into the surrounding trees.

  The return fire from his opponent however was deadly. The ball pierced his abdomen and did mortal damage to his internal organs before lodging in his spine. He collapsed to the ground.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder still hung in the air as the dark haired man walked up to him writhing on the ground. He was confident in his errand as he stood over him and methodically reloaded his pistol.

  "Where is it?" he asked as he calmly packed the powder down the barrel.

  The seconds stepped forward out of the brush but the older man waived them off with his pistol. The New Jersey woods were strangely quiet; the New York lights across the river twinkled in the background, soon to be obscured by the rising sun. Its rays would soon shine a bright light on the deadly events happening below.

  "Where is it?" he said again sternly but softly, pointing his reloaded pistol at the man's head as he tried to lift it off the ground and speak. The long highly polished brass barrel reflected the early morning sun.

  Blood poured from an open wound in the gut. Although mortally wounded and lying in the dirt, he held his hand over the opening to try and stop the flow.

  "Go to Hell!" he gurgled as his mouth filled with blood.

  "I probably will but I think you will beat me there," the darker gentleman chuckled and knelt down beside him. He started going through his bleeding man’s pockets. "I have heard you always carry it with you.” Aaron Burr knew he didn't have much time before the surgeon and seconds gathered and pulled him off. Inside the man's blood soaked coat, he found it.

  "Ahh!" he gloated smugly. He quickly hid the pouch inside own vest and stood.

  "You will never find what you are looking for!" the wounded gentleman said in a whispering laugh. His strength was ebbing. He was going to die.

  "We'll see," replied Burr.

  "He's all yours!" he called to the second and the wounded man's supporter rushed forward and tended to Alexander Hamilton.

  DELTA

  By

  L Todd Wood

  Prologue

  She was thirty-eight years old and a virgin. Her parents had seen to that. They had selected her when she was only ten to be the guardian of the flame. Her life was laid out in front of her before it even started. It had not been a bad life; in fact, it was quite pleasurable. She was worshipped and held a very high position in Roman society. She even had her own box at the Coliseum with the five other virgins. But, as with the clouds in the sky, things always change.

  Julia and the five Vestal Virgins guarded the flame in the Temple of Vesta. The virgins and their ancestors had guarded the flame for a thousand years. The temple was a fifteen-meter-wide, circular edifice in the Foro Romano, supported by twenty Corinthian columns. It was one of the oldest structures in Rome and was used to store important records and business documents for safekeeping. There was an opening to the east pointing towards the sun, the origin of fire. The flame burned continuously inside. It was said that if the flame ever went out, Rome would fall. The year was 298 AD. Vesta was the goddess of fire, the goddess of the hearth—the fire that kept an ancient home alive. She was worshipped originally in the circular huts the Roman tribes built in the area, hence the circular design of the temple. The goddess kept Rome alive as long as they kept their covenant with her to keep the flame burning. At least, that was what the people were led to believe.

  Julia also had a covenant with Rome, although not of her choosing. Her parents had offered her as a virgin to guard the flame when she was ten. The virgins came from very high-placed families in Roman society. It was an honor to have a daughter selected to guard the Temple of Vesta. In return for thirty years of celibacy, upon their fortieth birthday, the virgins were allowed to marry and received a huge dowry from the state. They had statues made in their likeness that were placed in the gardens around the temple. However, if a virgin broke her vow of celibacy to the Empire, the consequences were dire.

  The Vestal Virgins lived in a multi-room structure right outside of the temple. The site was the most holy in Roman culture and was placed squarely in the center of Foro Romano, where it all began. This was where the first tribes of the ancient valley met to trade along the lowlands of the river. It was where Romulus was suckled by the she-wolf after being abandoned by his parents. Any free Roman citizen could take the fire to his home, and the temple therefore represented the hearth of Rome.

  It was early evening when the visitor came to call on Julia. He was a younger man, a servant dressed in servant's clothes, and quite handsome. She met him at the gate to the temple grounds to talk after he had sent a request in to the College of the Vestals to speak with her. The senator’s aide could come no further. “Tonight at midnight, Senator Thor will pay you a visit. He has something to give you, something that needs to be guarded, even from the emperor himself. This is the safest place in Rome. Please meet him.” The visitor left without explaining further. Julia was left wondering at the gate for some time but finally retired to her room.

  Julia was troubled. She would have to be very careful. This meeting was very dangerous for both her and the senator. She knew things were changing in Rome. The corruption was rampant. The emperor was claiming for himself more and more power. The Roman order and process that had survived for centuries was giving way to raw corruption and tyranny.

  The Senate had long been relegated to the periphery. Originally the body was set up by the early Roman kings and came from the historical group of elders the tribes organized to help govern themselves. In fact, the word senate is derived from the Latin word senex, which means old man. Once Rome became a republic, the power of the Senate grew exponentially. However the republic was long gone. All power was now held by the emperor. No longer was he seen as an equal to the average citizen in Rome; he was a god. However, he was becoming more and more corrupt, cut off from communication with his subjects and events throughout the Empire. He received information filtered by his court with which he constantly feared revolt and death. His actions were not those of one concerned about the future of the Empire but of one concerned with staying in power. While he concentrated on giving out favors, the barbarians advanced to the north.

  Night fell. At the appropriate time, Julia rose from her bed and left her chambers, moving as quietly as possible. She made her way out into the warm night. She could see the light from the flames of the hearth in the Temple of Vesta licking the ceiling of the ancient structure. She was scared. However, she trusted the senator and knew he was a good man; she would meet him despite the danger.

  She made her way silently across the garden between the wading pools and stopped near the stone fence on the other side. Her white evening clothes stood out like a ghost under the full moon. The cicadas sang a rhythmic song of joy to the white orb in the sky. The Roman Forum was silent.

  “Julia,” a voice whispered. “I am here.” She turned and walked toward the sound. The senator stepped from the shadows. “Thank you for coming,” he said softly. He was old, probably over seventy, which was ancient for a Roman man. His eyes were flanked by deep crevices in his skin, and his hair was a wispy white. He walked with a pronounced stoop. He was dressed in a tun
ic made of expensive cloth with large, colorful stripes, identifying him as a senator.

  “I came as you requested. What is so important? I cannot stay long," Julia declared.

  “I don’t have much time," he said and handed her a small, stone tube typically used to store documents. It was capped at both ends and sealed. “You must guard this with your life. It is the past and the future of Rome. Do not place it in the temple with all of the other royal documents. Keep it with you at all times. Tell no one. It is safe here I believe. No one will bother you. When you are older, pass it on to one of the other virgins with a sacred oath to guard it with her life as I request you to do.”

  She took the container. It was surprisingly light. There was a lanyard attached at both ends. She put the cord around her neck, and the scroll dangled between her breasts. She moved it under her night clothes so it could not be seen. “I will do as you ask,” she replied, “because I believe you are a good man that wants what’s best for Rome. I have seen you fight to restore Rome to its former glory and justice. I trust you.” Julia had heard of the senator's reputation as being kind and wise, although they had never met in person. She looked him in the eyes one last time then looked around the courtyard, frightened that she would be discovered. “I must go.”