Luggalor's Lenses

by W. S. Fuller

  Will this be the night? Everybody thinks it’s got to be real soon. The moon’s down, and a night attack would definitely favor us... the blacker the better.... so they probably won’t come now. They’ll wait until there’s more light or probably attack during the day. I wonder if the Israeli’s would attack and not even tell us dumb grunts out here in the sand. Probably not, but it’s possible. It’ll be all planes and long range artillery and missiles at first anyway. Jesus, I still shiver every time I think about it. You’d think it would ease up after you’ve thought about it hundreds of times. What will it really be like? I’ve read and listened, but I know there’s nothing I can imagine that’s going to be like the real thing. How the hell did I end up in this stinking desert, completely exposed except for some sand bags and camouflage, with half a million holy-war-crazed Jew-hating Arabs just a few miles away with tanks, guns, missiles, chemical, even nuclear weapons, frothing at the mouth to roll right over us and get the hell to Jerusalem.

  Panic suddenly seized him...every muscle, every fiber in his body seemed to constrict. It usually came like this...quickly, without warning. The familiar sense of desperation followed. It was really going to happen...there’s nothing that could help him...everything was beyond his control. Have to think of something else...think of something else until the time comes, then just do my job. That’s all I can do. They won’t drop anything big or chemical or nuclear on Jerusalem or this close to it. Why the hell would they do that? That’s their prize, what they’re doing this for, and they’ve got too many people there to destroy it. It makes more sense for them to wipe out everything else and then march right through here and right on in. Come on, dammit, think about something else...sex. Shawn, naked in...

  A screeching blast of noise and a shock wave exploded through him, and instantly John was on one knee, reaching for his rifle, as the thunder of two Israeli fighters flying night patrol just above passed and continued to erupt along their northbound heading. He leaned on his rifle for a moment, still on one knee, and dropped his head. God, please help me, please keep me safe. Please keep my men safe. Please keep this horrible thing from happening. They’re so many lives, innocent lives. Please don’t let it happen.

  2012

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  General Mark Engen was finishing breakfast with his wife Ruth, and would soon leave for a day of meetings in the situation room before going back into the field...unless the schedule was disrupted. It had been four days since he was last home, and he wished more than anything he could stay, but since he could not, he was anxious to leave. Conversation between them was awkward. There were so many things he would have liked to say and, he suspected, she would have liked to say....but they either could not or would not.

  Zack, his nine year old son, and Anna, who was six, walked into the dining room with their books. “Daddy, when are you coming home again?” his daughter asked.

  “Soon. I’ll call you both tonight, or if I don’t have a chance, then tomorrow. Have a good day at school and good luck again on your recital. And Zack, good luck on your match.” He tried to act reassuring, normal, and show none of his fear and despair. He wanted so badly to hug each of them, to hold them for a long time. But he knew they would sense something. And he might fall apart. His two children turned and left. And now another good-bye for Ruth. This could be the end of it. Feeling the emotion coming, Mark knew he must walk through the door as quickly as possible and into the car waiting for him at the curb so he could put his mind away from his family.

  “I’ll call and let you know when I’ll be back. Hopefully, it will only be a couple of more days. Wish Zack good luck again in his match and Anna the same with her recital.” Mark grabbed his hat and coat, moved to Ruth, kissed her quickly on the lips and immediately turned to leave, glancing at his watch and acting hurried so he did not have to see her eyes or hear the sorrow in her voice.

  “Good morning, General.”

  “Good morning, Peter, thank you,” Mark said, climbing into the back seat of the car as his driver held the door open for him. Mark leaned back into the corner of the seat and thought ahead to the upcoming meetings, especially the intelligence briefing. The Mossad supposedly pinpointed most of the weapons, and he was anxious to find out what the situation was and everyone’s thoughts on the options. He wondered if he would find out whether the enemy knew they now have everything, or at least most of it, targeted. A critical issue in this insane game.

  The intelligence briefing was the first thing on the agenda and it didn’t take long. There were seven known nuclear warheads, with five located amidst the heaviest defensive positions in and around Tehran and Damascus, and the other two around Baghdad. Two strong opinions favored going ahead with a nuclear first strike when Mark was called upon for his views on what they now know, and what they should do.

  “I think we must wait. They should have the capability to tell when we have launched, and if they do, they will certainly fire all of theirs. If we do wait and they launch first, we will know it immediately and answer. Incredible devastation on both sides in both cases. If we wait, or just launch a conventional strike, there are two possible scenarios that would not result in a nuclear exchange. They might not attack. With the increased American involvement and world condemnation, they just might decide it is too risky. They certainly know that if they lose this time, with the stakes they have put on the table, their power will be gone for generations. If they do attack without the nukes, and we retaliate in kind, or if we mount a conventional attack, there is still the chance the nuclear option would not be used, or that we might be able to take it out. They know we have more than they do and ours are more accurate, and then there is the half life of the U-235...the precise and diligent monitoring of the detonation devices that we are pretty sure is necessary. Theirs might not work and they might know it, in which case it does not make a great deal of sense for them to guarantee their destruction on only a chance they could do major damage to us. You have all heard this argument from me before. It just seems the only chance we have to avoid a doomsday scenario is to wait until they make a move, or to strike with the conventional stuff. Any chance to avoid annihilation and loosing this on the world is more than worth it in my opinion.”

  Benjamin Gaifen was quick to reply. “But Mark, your argument actually supports a nuclear strike. If they are so afraid of losing, then it seems clear they are going to shoot them either at the beginning or whenever they think they might be starting to lose. If they never start losing, then we are doomed anyway. And I’m not so sure they can tell when we have launched or that their targeting systems are that accurate. There are a lot of unknowns about their ability to really hit us.”

  Mark started to respond to Gaifen about the meaning of his last statement and the benefits of letting an enemy know their warheads are targeted, but he decided to wait. He knew what would happen. It’s all so diabolical. Each argument can be turned to circle and support the opposing view, and all roads seem to lead to an unthinkable tragedy. The best hope for restraint is with the politicians. Why must the military always want to blow everything away?

  2012

  IRAN

  “Allah Akbar!”

  “Allah Akbar!”

  “Death to the Zionists!”

  “Death to the Zionists!”

  “Death to America!”

  “Death to America!”

  “Slaughter the infidels!”

  “Slaughter the Infidels!”

  “Allah Akbar!”

  “Allah Akbar!”

  The cries erupted from the throats of 20,000 men, and fired Saleh’s emotions to a feverish pitch as he raised the AK47 over his head and screamed, louder and louder, with the cadence.

  “Death to the Zionists!

  “Death to America!”

  “Death to America!”

  He touched the gold key hanging from the chain around his neck. Personally blessed by the Iman, it assured his place in heaven should he die a martyr in
the holy war. Every one of his twenty thousand comrades had an identical key. Saleh had never been so excited, and he screamed so loud and hard that he suddenly had trouble catching a breath, and started to gasp. He was silent for a moment, until his breathing was easier. He hoped no one had noticed. Screaming again, he tried to make his voice rise above the others. A feeling of enormous pride rolled over him. I am a man. I am blessed by the Iman and Allah. I am a warrior...and I will drive the hated enemy from the sacred land.

  After what seemed like hours, the officers requested quiet and Saleh, with the others, returned to attention, exhausted and aching from waving his rifle in the air for so long. He had screamed the same words and threats against the enemy in training every day. But never with so many men, and never with so much feeling.

  Standing there awaiting orders, he thought of his family. They would be very proud if they could see him now, and they would be very proud of him after the war. If he lives and returns home he will be welcomed and treated as a hero. If he dies he will be a martyr, and there is no greater honor than that. His father, the other men in his family and his officers were right. It would be a great privilege to be able to die for so holy and sacred a cause. Many never have the opportunity.

  He turned and marched off with his company for more drills. Saleh hoped they would be the first to attack, and that it would be soon.

  2012

  DHAKA, BANGLADESH

  The stench was overpowering as they entered the refugee camp. Standing water, laced with raw sewage, was everywhere, and Jennifer felt herself begin to wretch. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath. God, thank God, this is the last one. A few more hours, one more press conference, and they would be back at the hotel, and then tomorrow, on their way home. She had seen enough...far more than enough, to understand the enormity of this country’s desperation and tragedy, and the implications for the world if something cannot be done to slow and eliminate the causes.

  The reporter, photographer, Jennifer, and the two other congressmen were ushered by their guide into a crude lean-to where ten to fifteen children huddled around three women, one of whom was very old. The guide told them the old woman was the only person over sixty still alive in the camp. She looked ninety. All emaciated, the children had the swollen bellies and huge, empty eyes she had come to expect and dread at every stop. One of the women lifted a small child and handed her to Jennifer. Tears filled her eyes, as they always did. She could never get used to this. She hated it...hated the world for it...sometimes wanted to hate God for it. It was unfathomable. She tried not to listen as the guide translated what the mother was saying to her. Didn’t he know if there was any way for her to take this child...all these poor, innocent, doomed children, that she would? Couldn’t he see that hearing the pleading ripped her heart out?

  They were moving slowly through the camp when a man walked hurriedly up to the guide. The two turned their backs toward the group and had a brief, animated conversation before the stranger left, again moving in double time.

  “There has been a change in the schedule,” the guide said, “We are to leave and go back to the hotel now.”

  Jennifer gazed out the window of the bus as they bounced and lurched along the heavily rutted road back to town, but she saw little while lost in her thoughts. It had been even worse than she imagined. So much of the land taken by the sea, with towns now standing in salt water. And water everywhere else to ruin the cotton and what precious little other agriculture and subsistence crops there are. It never stops raining. And then there are the Shanti Bahini, the rebels, who keep relief efforts from getting to the millions dying of starvation, and the government, more intent on fighting the rebels and preserving a system of rampart corruption than saving its people.

  Seventy-four people had come on this fact-finding trip. Thirteen members of congress, twenty two members of the scientific community, assorted aids, agency officials, medical personnel, translators, photographers, and the press. Jennifer could not imagine how any of them, even the most jaded and skeptical, considering what they had seen, could not now be terrified by the thought of what is happening to the planet. The environmentalists, scientists and other doomsayers have been vindicated, although even they were far from accurate with their predictions of the time it would take these devastating effects of the greenhouse and global warming to come to pass, and their magnitude. The consensus seemed to be that a critical mass was reached at some point in the last few years. Before that apocalyptic threshold was passed, the greenhouse effects crept slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly. It was as if they were moving up a long, slight, uphill grade. Once at the crest, the road turned downward, and steeply, and the acceleration was now frightening. Somehow the world would have to be convinced that we must act, with whatever it takes, if there is to be any hope.

  Filing slowly into the hotel, Jennifer noticed a large contingent of the group standing, milling around in the lobby. It appeared everyone had been recalled from their various, gruesome outings and inspections, and there seemed to be an air of excitement. After the long ride, she had an aching need to go into the bathroom off the lobby, and decided to wait until she returned to find out what was going on.

  When she stepped back into the hall she almost ran into Li as he was going into the men’s room.

  “Unbelievable, Jennifer, unbelievable.” Li said, shaking his head.

  “What Li...what’s going on?”

  “You haven’t heard? That depression organized and strengthened dramatically overnight, and was declared a cyclone this morning. The predictions are it will be major storm, with catastrophic damage.” A hint of a pained smile crossed Li’s face. “As if there could be any other kind around here ever again. Anyway, it’s headed right down the middle of the Bay of Bengal towards us, and they are trying to get us out of here tonight. There’s supposed to be a briefing as soon as everyone gets back. I’m thinking about staying, but please don’t tell anyone.”

  Jennifer studied her new friend for a moment, then asked a question she was sure she already knew the answer to. “Why do you want to stay?”

  “As if what we have seen is not bad enough, any storm of any size that makes landfall along this part of the coast, and especially if it comes in close to the mouth of the Ganges, will cause a catastrophe the world has not seen since Hiroshima. I must be here to report it. No one should be able to turn away from what is happening, and will happen again...in many other places.”

  Jennifer had finished packing and there was still forty-five minutes before they were due to leave for the airport. She set her tiny travel alarm in case she fell asleep, then flopped back on the bed, exhausted. Her thoughts turned to Li.

  They had talked on a number of occasions during the trip, and she found him a fascinating conversationalist and highly dedicated and intriguing man. Very attractive. Much taller than most oriental men, his shock of black hair and smooth, handsome features gave him a commanding presence. The thought of spending time, or becoming involved, with someone with so much passion, pulled strongly at Jennifer. It’s wasn’t so much the sexual passion, although she was sure that would be there, and quite a change for her...but the passion for ideas, for things...for life. Li spoke with such authority. Fire seemed to always dance in his eyes. Perhaps it was her frame of mind, with the world seemingly caving in around her...but what a refuge, a haven, to be able to bury yourself emotionally, and physically in someone. If only for a while.

  Her thoughts raced through those first relationships in high school when she was too serious a student and too prudish to learn much...then to college and how her liberation, the parties, that whole ridiculous, crazy scene, and then Jeffrey, had led to their relationship. God, it must have seemed like we had so much in common, but what...or what that mattered, or would last. It’s incredible how ignorant we were...naive, immature, innocent... totally oblivious to what an enduring relationship is all about.

  And poor Jeffrey. Or maybe...lucky Jeffrey. Who really knows? A goo
d man, but not a passionate cell in his body...about anything. Well, maybe his work, but still a kind of detached passion...passionless passion. And mine burns like a fuse. And for so many things.

  2012

  JERUSALEM

  In the first, dull, barely perceptible light of day, tear gas canisters exploded simultaneously along the one hundred and fifty meters that included the two gates on the southern wall. Following within seconds was a withering sheet of automatic weapons fire and grenades.

  Kabril ran toward the triple gate, leading thirty men in gas masks into the white smoke, their weapons blazing. Two Israeli soldiers stumbled from the cloud to his right and he lifted them both off their feet and threw them backward with a swift motion and burst from the Uzi. They reached the gate and twenty of them formed a protective perimeter while the others attached the wide rope ladders to get them inside. Fire was coming back now as troops rushed from other posts, but they were pinned down, and the first group was quickly up and over. Another volley of tear gas was laid down, and the last of the men providing cover ran and scrambled across.

  Kabril was now in a crouch, running low past the al Aqsa Mosque. He glanced to his right and saw Hassef’s men coming from the area of the Single Gate. He wondered about Josiah and the Golden Gate, knew there had been some casualties as the last of the fighters came across...but also knew they were in the plaza. It was going well.

  He dove to the ground as they received fire within fifty meters of the police post on the western wall, then motioned with a sweep of his arm. The men fanned out and directed their attack at the post where the Israelis were in fortified positions. Hearing a scream to his right, he crawled toward the motionless figure. The mask and jacket of the wounded fighter shredded in front of him and dirt, blood, and brain matter sprayed Kabril’s goggles. He cleared them with his sleeve an instant before seeing the bright yellow flash of Abdul’s rocket launcher. The bunker exploded, there was a second flash, then another instantaneous explosion. Kabril motioned the men forward, and again they moved low, continuing to fire. Dropping back to the ground within twenty meters of the post, ten grenades suddenly arced silently through the air. Kabril now noticed the fire and grenades coming into the post from the north that told him everyone was inside. They were up and moving forward again, then quickly all over the Israelis that remained alive.