The Iran War

by Jack Strain

  “Lastly, we are in the process of deploying another brigade of the 101st to help our operations in Lebanon which have been highly successful thus far. The combination of naval air strikes, Marine landings, and paratroop drops have seriously damaged Hezbollah forces and enabled major breakthroughs by Israeli ground forces.

  “Mr. President, in purely military terms, we are winning. We are accomplishing your military objectives and teaching the world a terrible lesson. We are closing in on Rahimi. We will get the bastard.”

  With those last words, President Wolfe perked up and seemed to come out of his stupor and spoke in a lifeless tone, “Everyone here knows what today is to me. I am burying my daughter. I won’t hear any talk about ending anything until he’s dead. And this time we won’t be burying him at sea like Bin Laden. I want the whole goddamned world to see us nail his corpse to some village shithouse and let it rot in the sun.”

  He then added in an agitated tone, “And another thing, no more talk about ending anything. Secretary Mahler keep bombing that damn country until its cities look like newsreels from the Second World War. All I want to see is rubble. Let the world see it.”

  He let those dark words linger then stood up, started walking back to the presidential suite, and said in a voice bereft of emotion, “We’re done here.”

  All eyes in the room were drawn to Schultz, but he ignored the others at the table and without really thinking, Schultz announced in a determined voice, “Mr. President, wait. We need to talk.”

  Wolfe’s hand had already reached the chrome handle on the door, but came to an abrupt stop, annoyed as he turned towards his Chief of Staff. He was about to say something when a familiar, pissed off voice from his past reverberated throughout the small room, “Goddamnit, Douglas, I’m serious. Hold it.”

  “Gentlemen, I need the room.” When Baxter Davis hesitated and looked over at the president, Schultz flew across the room and got within inches of the president’s Special Advisor and said, “I’m not shitting Baxter, get the hell out now, or I will throw you the fuck off this plane.”

  Trying to play it cool, Davis held Schultz’s gaze for a moment, nodded, collected his papers and left the room leaving the two alone. Neither said anything at first, and both ignored a minor patch of turbulence that shook Air Force One. Finally, Wolfe said, “Well, whatever you have to say, get it over with.”

  “You tell me, Douglas, what the hell is going on? Christ, one moment you look like a goddamned zombie, and the next you sound like some blood-thirsty lunatic. People are talking.”

  Immediately taking three quick strides towards his shorter, though husky, friend, Wolfe jabbed his finger an inch from Schultz’s face and said, “People are talking? Really? Who?”

  Dutch pushed away Wolfe’s finger and said, “What, you want names? Are you kidding me? Jesus Christ, I wish you could have seen yourself five minutes ago, ignoring the briefing on the deadliest attack on the American military in a generation and instead you are staring out the window completely out of it. Next, your eyes are on fire and talking about chopping off heads. Christ, you gave me the fucking creeps.”

  “It’s your job to keep our people in line. I need loyalty now more than ever. If you’re not up to it, then I may have to find someone who is.”

  The air in the small conference room seemed to thicken like a stifling August day as the tension that had been building for weeks was on the verge of erupting into a full-fledged confrontation. There was no escaping the fact that the president actually said the words and threatened to fire the one man who knew him best.

  If it bothered Schultz, he didn’t let on and instead hit right back, speaking in a manner oozing with sarcasm. “Oh, I know, Douglas. Don’t you worry. I haven’t forgotten that I serve at the pleasure of the president. Even if the president is acting like he’s lost his fucking marbles.”

  Taken aback by the viciousness of his friend’s response, Wolfe’s shoulders slumped, and he started moving his head from side to side and said, “Seriously, today of all days Dutch, you have to give me shit today? Just let me be.”

  “I know what today is, Douglas, believe me, I do. I remember the day she was born like yesterday. You were up all night, and I ran out and bought out all the burgers at that White Castle near the hospital and snuck in a six-pack. Remember how embarrassed Ivette got after the doctor walked in and saw us drinking beers and then yelled at us after he walked out? Christ, I’d give anything to turn back the clock.”

  Douglas smiled at that happy image. Remembered how Liliana smelled and how soft her skin was when he held her for the first time. God, I miss her so much.

  Dutch watched as his friend’s eyes softened and some of the tension seemed to bleed out of the room, then added, “Douglas, all of this…everything that’s happened is not you. I know you, not the bullshit you from Page 6 or the campaign you, but the man who has been my friend for thirty years. That guy knows he’s gone too far. That guy knows that there’s been too many dead, on both sides. And deep down that guy knows Lily would have been the first one to tell you that you’ve gone too far. We need to dial this back.”

  The president’s eyes began to well up and moisten as the anger and mind-numbing grief that consumed him for the past two weeks started to break. Then the guilt of all those flag-draped coffins that will soon start arriving at Dover Air Base that he had buried in his mind started to filter through the hardened outer shell he tried to hide from even himself. Images of the burned out Iranian city blocks and wailing women were also there, struggling to emerge, and then without warning, Wolfe started to sob.

  Before Dutch could even react, his friend wrapped his arms around him, gripped him tight and the tears poured out. Dutch was so relieved that his own eyes started to get misty. He held his longtime buddy close, tapped his back, and let him get it out. After about two or three minutes, Wolfe’s tears tapered off, he got a little embarrassed and started wiping away the wetness on his cheeks.

  He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, looked at Dutch and said, “Let’s bury my daughter Dutch and then let’s start bringing all of this to an end. Okay?”

  Dutch couldn’t help himself and felt the moist spot on his lapel, nodded back and said, “Douglas, whatever you need my friend. Let’s put Lily to rest first, and then we’ll sort everything else out.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Long Island, NY

  Air Force One landed at JFK around ten o’clock, and the Secret Service had a convoy of armored limousines lined up on the tarmac for the first family and their closest friends. Liliana’s body after laying in State at the Capital was being brought back to New York to be buried next to her mother, President Wolfe’s first wife, Ivette. Wolfe built a beautiful mausoleum at the Green Ridge Cemetery in East Hampton to intern Liliana’s mother, and there is where he would bury their daughter.

  A Secret Service armored Suburban with four agents would lead the black Bentley hearse carrying the first daughter as it pulled on to Interstate 678 and headed north towards the Long Island Expressway. Homeland Security had elevated its terror threat status to imminent, so the Secret Service and local law enforcement were not taking any chances. All East/West traffic was being shut down along the Expressway until the motorcade had passed. New Yorkers were told to make other travel arrangements for the day.

  Originally all access points to the Expressway were being shut down including foot traffic. Many Wolfe supporters and planned protesters alike reacted very negatively to this arrangement, but the president’s security came first and foremost. However, the Secret Service grudgingly decided to allow assemblies of people who wished to express their condolences and support for the first family.

  At overpasses along the Expressway, well-wishers, not protesters would be allowed to gather to pay their final blessings to the president’s daughter. She and her husband had been very active in a wide number of social and charitable causes in the greater NYC region and were widely liked and respected. Local police would
be responsible for shutting access points to the overpasses blocks away and perform a full security check of everyone who would be gathering.

  From Queens to the end of the Expressway, people began gathering since early in the morning. Traffic came to a standstill on the Island, and many employers instructed their employees to work from home if possible or take the train into the City. President Wolfe may be reviled in certain parts of the country, but for New Yorkers who watched his rise over the decades, though they may not agree with his politics, he was one of them. Today was a day for last respects, and New Yorkers turned out for their adopted native son and his daughter.

  The twelve-vehicle procession moved slowly towards the Long Island Expressway exit off Interstate 678 at about twenty-five miles an hour. The slow movement was less about observing the rules of the road and more about the limits of the presidential limo, officially known as “Cadillac One,” though most agents simply referred to it as “The Beast.”

  The exact specs are naturally a secret, but it would not be an exaggeration to say that it was the most advanced and safest vehicle in the world. At nearly eighteen thousand pounds, the powerful 8.1-liter Vortec V8 engine could travel at a top speed of 60 mph. With five-inch bulletproof windows and eight-inch armored doors, foam sealed gas tank, and a full array of hi-tech gadgets to allow the president to speak via a secure satellite uplink to anywhere in the world. Throw in tear gas nozzles on both the front and back bumpers to disperse hostile crowds, infrared night-vision capabilities for the driver, and a full protective sealed cabin to protect against bio/chem attack, “the Beast” may be slow, but it sure as hell was safe.

  Traveling in the back with the president was his wife, Marija, his sons, Declan and Duncan, their wives, and Dutch Schultz and his wife. Another two dozen members of the family and friends were spread out in half a dozen other vehicles. The mood was understandably subdued. Other than Declan and Duncan making small talk about the Giants’ chances of making a playoff run this year, everyone else was left to their own thoughts. The first family felt a mix of sadness mixed with the weariness of loss, and now settled in for the ninety-minute car ride and allowed their thoughts to be drawn to happier times.

  In the front passenger seat, Agent Darnell Sanders was not a happy man. As head of the president’s Secret Service detail, like every head of detail before him, Sanders cursed every trip outside the safety of the White House, let alone a slow-moving convoy of vehicles in the most dangerous threat environment he had ever experienced. Even with the AC turned up to its highest setting, Darnell was perspiring so heavily that his absorbent undershirt was threatening to soak through his suit, and they haven’t even made their way outside of the vehicle yet.

  With the threat levels so high, the Secret Service exerted its administrative pull and secured assets from both local, state, and federal sources. New York State Police along with local police units had been mobilized on a massive scale. In the air, Army drones and National Guard helos flew up and down the route to East Hampton and regular updates were provided every fifteen minutes. Crowds were forming at various overpasses, but if anyone was spotted anywhere near the actual expressway route, all hell would break loose on whoever decided to show up. All these crowds were already causing his heartburn to go into overdrive.

  Sanders turned to the veteran Secret Service driver next to him, Agent Cody Wiggins, and said, “Hey Cody, you got any Rolaids or anything? My gut is on fire.”

  The thirty-five-year-old former amateur stock car driver from Oklahoma stifled a chuckle, knowing his boss was in no mood to have his balls busted. “Sorry boss. Got some gum . . . that work?”

  They were passing Mt. Hebron Cemetery on the right and coming up on the Main Street overpass, Sanders was about to answer when he saw off in the distance a quarter mile away that the overpass was packed wall to wall with people. He knew the crowd had been building since six in the morning but couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the number of well-wishers. The normally graffiti-covered concrete and steel walls were now brimming with homemade signs signaling their condolences.

  Just then, the intercom came on and Dutch Schultz who had been monitoring the buildup of people all morning said, “Lower the divider and slow down. The first family needs to see this.”

  Spoken more as a command than a request, Sanders was forced to ignore every instinct he developed after two decades as an agent but told the driver to comply and dutifully lowered the divide and said, “There you go Mr. President. Look at all those good folks, sir.”

  Deep in thought, President Wolfe didn’t react at first until he heard his son Duncan yell out, “Holy shit, Dad, look! Look straight ahead.”

  Wolfe could feel the limo slow a bit and immediately leaned forward to look out the front window and felt a warm flush suddenly come over him. Hundreds of ordinary Americans packed the four-lane Main Street overpass. They were carrying images of his daughter and holding signs of support. A huge banner had been lowered and in bold letters read, “GOD BLESS Liliana: AMERICA’S FIRST DAUGHTER.”

  As the procession of vehicles came closer to the overpass, a cascade of white carnations and roses suddenly began falling from above and rained down over the passing cars, and the sounds of hundreds of people singing Amazing Grace could be heard inside the armored limo. Overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and respect, Declan, quickly followed by Duncan, lost their battles to hold back the tears. Marija and the boys’ wives quickly followed and seconds later both Douglas and Dutch were soon overcome by the moment and added their own tears as they watched this moving tribute to their daughter, step-daughter, sister, and goddaughter play out.

  President Wolfe wiped at his eyes and dabbed away the tears, sat back, and thought. My sweet, sweet girl, so many people loved you, Lily. I wish you could see this. I hope you are watching. You deserve to know how the people felt about you. I swear to you my beautiful girl that I will end all of this. No more death, I promise to try and see the world the way you did, I promise.

  As the motorcade picked up speed again, the first family sat back against the soft leather seats, emotionally drained, but feeling a sense of contentment after having experienced something so beautiful. What they could not have foreseen as the procession came up to the Kissena Boulevard overpass was that the same scene was played out again, and then again at the 164th Street overpass.

  Average Americans from across the nation had driven to Long Island over the preceding days and along with thousands of proud New Yorkers gave their final tribute to the first daughter. At every overpass along the way, they gathered, and at each one, the cars slowed, and the first family leaned forward and basked in the glow of a loving and caring nation. Not a person in the limo would ever forget such a sight.

  ◆◆◆

  Nicolette Oristanio arrived at the North Ocean Avenue overpass in her hometown of Medford at 7:00 in the morning with her two kids, Tommy, eleven and Brianna, nine. Due to roadblocks closing off Petty Drive, she was forced to park in the Jesus is Lord Church parking lot. Nicki led her two children up Ocean Avenue carrying two folding chairs while Tommy carried their homemade sign, and Brianna held a bouquet of carnations. All three were disappointed to find that they weren’t the first to arrive. In fact, there were about fifty other well-wishers already packing the overpass.

  The dark-haired, thirty-seven-year-old, proud soccer mom stood just a shade over five feet six and wore her straightened hair in a tight ponytail with her fraying Yankees cap on top. She never went anywhere without a backpack of supplies and her fingers wrapped around a ceramic Starbucks venti cup of steaming hot coffee. As a woman who lived for the wall-to-wall people out bargain hunting every Black Friday, she was not deterred by the crowd and moved like an agile dancer with her kids in tow until they came upon some choice real estate about two-thirds of the way across the overpass and chanced upon a member of their church. Both women let out a loud middle school squeal that few women outgrow.

  Several years older, Dolores Tatum was
thrilled not to be alone since her husband backed out at the last moment to play a round of golf on this beautiful Indian summer morning, so she offered up a quick hug and said, “Nicki, come here! Come here. Put your chairs down. Here let me grab something.”

  Five minutes later, the chairs were set, signs tied down, and contents of their combined backpacks laid out with all sorts of goodies and treats. Nicki said, “Will you look at the crowds already? The news people said to get here early, but I never thought there would be so many people this early.”

  Dolores was finishing up a bite from her apple cinnamon muffin from Abe’s Deli and said after she swallowed, “It’s this way everywhere. Nicki if you had waited another hour, fuhgeddaboudit.”

  “Where’s Joe and the kids?”

  Always pretty heavy with the makeup, even for an early Saturday morning, Dolores raised one eyebrow, pursed her lips and spoke with a hint of annoyance, “What do you think Joe says to me this morning? He says, ‘weather’s too good not to golf.’ I hate that stupid game. I wanted to bring the kids, but Joey Jr. has football practice, and Sandy has her driving lessons, so it’s just me.”

  Nicki was about to respond when her mother’s instinct kicked in, she stood from her chair and quickly scanned the crowd until she spied the kids hanging with a group of schoolmates. She sighed a quiet sense of relief that moms and more than a few dads let out once they knew their kids were safe. She reached out and grabbed her friend’s arm and with a smile on her face, said, “Then it’s just us girls. All the better.”

  For the next four hours, the two women gabbed and ran into other ladies from the neighborhood. Even though it was a sad occasion, like most wakes and funerals before long, it took on a festive ring to it as neighbors and friends grouped together, exchanged stories, talked about the war, and generally just caught up to let the time pass quickly. The local news media was all over the expressway interviewing people while helicopters roamed the crisp blue morning skies tracking the presidential procession that slowed at each and every overpass along the way until they were about fifteen minutes from the North Ocean overpass.