by Leo Gher
to Jake, and said, “We’re going to Paradise. How about you?” It was a joke, but Jake didn’t appreciate it; Paradise was the next town along the Strasburg Line.
The next day they arrived at Valley Forge mid-morning. This was the place where Jake’s ancestor bivouacked in the 1777-78 winter with the Continental Army. John Potts was his name, and he was a member of the 11th-Regiment in the Virginia Line, which was commanded by Colonel Daniel Morgan of the famed Morgan Rifles. It was a sacred place to Jake, and to all members of the FAA. Here, Jake thought, are buried the patriots of our America.
Another relative, Isaac Potts, owned the house where General Washington headquartered that fateful winter of the war. From that plain, stone farmhouse, the General and his staff received government officials, foreign dignitaries and coordinated the daily operations of the Continental Army.
“There’s a famous painting of Isaac Potts with General Washington,” Jake said.
“Where’s that?”
“In Philadelphia, and I want to see it.”
“No time, Jake,” Lindy insisted. “We’ve got more important issues with Tadesian.”
“More important to you, not me.”
For many Armenians, assimilation into mainstream American culture had always been challenging and was the primary reason why the link to their homeland remained so strong. More than half continue to speak the Armenian language, and most live in US Armenian enclaves. Watertown, Massachusetts is one – not the largest, but it is a significant Armenian gateway. And for generations, the Tadesian family had played host to those arriving from or returning to the homeland. This had been particularly true in recent months, as the Vartan Alliance had been amassing a corps of fighters in Watertown.
In the second-floor headquarters of Saroyan Weekly/Saroyan Review, Tad Tadesian sat on a lounge in his private office, which was next to the main production floor. He took a sip of tea, and then opened the storage compartment of the couch and took out his iJournal. He toggled through the headings, found the section titled VA Training, and began writing again:
October 27: Captain Mike Bedrosian left for the Carpathians two days ago; other allies are headed for the gathering place as well. Romania’s mountainous and volcanic countryside, with rapidly flowing rivers and limited forests is perfect for acclimating our troops to the Armenian terrain. The climate there is highland continental, which means hot summers and cold winters – same as Armenia. Our men will be well prepared for anything that may come their way.
Lieutenant Lindy Bedrosian and FAA freelancer Jake Moynihan are scheduled to arrive today. Mike, Lindy, and this Moynihan fellow will lead the VA training program at the gathering place.
Mike and Lindy Bedrosian were lifelong members of the Vartan Alliance, but Jake was not. He had been hired as its principal drone-trainer – on loan from the FAA. VA security vetted Moynihan a year ago. It was an often-used strategy of the Alliance to utilize other groups for training and for cover. Its international operation was frequently under suspicion.
Mike reports that the micro-drone demonstration at Clear Spring was a great success – will ship 5000 units to the Carpathians next week. Our new technologies will counter-balance – no, exceed – the enemy’s oil wealth.
Having finished his report, Tadesian turned to the iJournal section titled civil disobedience. Tad Tadesian considered himself the historian-philosopher of the Vartan movement, and began writing once more:
Civil disobedience in the pursuit of justice is laughable, though laudable. But what should follow when civil disobedience predictably fails to achieve any meaningful results; when peaceful protests and parliamentary pleas are ignored? What should be done if corrupt authorities and a compliant citizenry pay no attention to righteous actions?
Militancy, of course, but morally acceptable militancy, those actions that draw attention to demands and put pressure on the government, but cause no harm to people. The inevitable question becomes what to do when further action also falls flat? When politicians have been corrupted beyond redemption or reconciliation? Duty requires action– we will be prepared for such action within a few weeks!
The registration clerk at the Revere Hotel said, “Check-in begins at three pm, Mr. Moynihan.” It was ten minutes past noon when Jake and Lindy arrived in downtown Boston.
“Can we get into our room any earlier?” Lindy asked. She was tired of life on the road and was ready for a long, hot shower.
The clerk checked his computer screen for the progress of the cleaning staff, and then replied, “Sorry, they’ve just now entered that room.” Afterward, he turned away to answer the house phone.
Jake had saved enough money from the week’s drive to Boston to splurge on a hotel. The Revere was expensive but was also only a few blocks from the Charles River and the Freedom
Trail. For those who could afford it, the Revere was the ideal spot to stay for exploring American patriots’ heritage – it overlooked Back Bay and Boston Common.
Jake said, “We can leave our bags, and then head for the Trail.” It was Friday, the 27th of October. They planned to explore the Freedom Trail in the afternoon, have a nice dinner that evening, and then meet with Tadesian in Watertown the next day. Everything was now on target for their Sunday departure to London.
“Okay,” Lindy replied, “but I want some time to soak.”
“We’ll leave our bags. Can you make a dinner reservation for us; say, 7:30.”
“Eight,” Lindy urged.
“No problem, Mrs. Moynihan.” The clerk rang the bellman’s station.
Jake asked, “How do we find the Freedom Trail?”
“Yes, of course, Freedom Trail Players tours begin every 45 minutes. The next one will begin at 12:45. Great fun, featuring tales of high treason, mob agitations, revolutionary actions, and partisan fights of the American Revolution.” The clerk was reciting straight out of the tour brochure. “Just watch for the red arrows on the sidewalk, across the street on Boston Common; you’ll see the signs.”
Feeling a bit grumpy, Lindy asked, “How long does it take?”
“The distance is less than three miles, but if you spend some time at each of the sites you will be gone for several hours.”
“And the Liberty Tree?”
“That is not on the Freedom Trail, sir, but down Boylston Street. There’s a large bronze plaque on the sidewalk where the great elm tree once stood.”
For members of the Freedom Army of America, the Tree was the Holy Grail of pre-revolutionary America. It was the focal point for rallies by the old secret society known as Sons of Liberty, and it became an essential symbol for the struggle against unlawful government rule. Jake had the logo burnished into the heel of his right tanker boot.
Jake and Lindy spent the afternoon on the walking tour and returned to the hotel at five o’clock. Jake was still energized, but Lindy was exhausted and headed straight for the room. Meanwhile, Jake stopped at the concierge desk to check about dinner reservations. “Moynihan, at eight,” he said.
“Yes, here it is,” the woman answered, “dinner for two in the lounge.”
Jake frowned, “I asked for a reservation at Rooftop Revere. We need some private time.”
“It is a seasonal restaurant, Mr. Moynihan. Management is closing it down for the coming winter months.” Looking out over Back Bay’s famous Victorian brownstones, the restaurant was one of the most coveted rooftop dining spots in Boston and usually closed mid-October.
“There are cabanas, right?” Jake said, then handed the woman a fifty-dollar bill. “If you could arrange a patio heater we will be fine.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Check back with me when you are ready for dinner.”
Three hours later, Jake and Lindy appeared at the restaurant entry. It was a fabulous way to cap off the day of exploring. The sky was resplendent: great billowing clouds of slate and silver, sapph
ire and ultramarine. They could see the Charles River in the distance and a smattering of high-rise buildings on the far shore. A man came up to the table, “I’m Padraig. I will be your server tonight.” He was at least 65, bent over at the waist, with a ruddy complexion, and a full head of gray hair.
As they approached their cabana, the twinkling cityscape disappeared. An overhead canvass had been closed and two intersecting partitions placed at the front to keep out the brisk night air. Inside the brightly lit cabana were a welcoming, well-pillowed couch and coffee table, a carafe of water, a dinner setting for two, and menus. Lindy said, “Can we draw back the overhead slightly? I’d like to see some sky.”
“Not a problem, miss.” He struggled to reach the pull, so Jake lent a hand.
After they had ordered dinner and the waiter had disappeared, Jake said, “I want to visit Minute Man Park tomorrow, before we see Tadesian. Google says it’s only a few miles from Watertown.”
The idea of another history excursion aggravated Lindy. She turned up her nose, cocked one eyebrow, and said, “We’ve been doing this stuff for a week.” She waved one hand in the air, “Haven’t you had enough?” The 21-year-old had a goal, but it had nothing to do with eighteenth-century minutemen.
“When would I have another chance to…”
“Mike said you’d get hung up with the patriot stuff.”
“Leave Mike out of this.”
“We agreed to a schedule,” she said, refusing to accept the idea that they had all the time in the world for playing tourists. At that juncture, Padraig entered with two Sam Adams, glasses, and a plate of cheeses.
Once he was gone, Jake said, “So tell me about Tadesian.”
At last, happy to be moving on from the “sacrosanct” American Revolution, Lindy replied, “He will want to know about the drones… how they work, how you will train the troops for what’s to come.”
“And the recruits Mike is gathering in Romania?”
“It’s a global phenomenon,” she said, “but the flow of foreign fighters is neither steady nor even.”
“From where?”
“They come principally from the States: Armenian hotbeds like Glendale in Los Angeles, Queens in New York, and Waukegan in Illinois. There is a large contingency from the Baltic States, from urban populations in Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius. But there are many from neighboring Abkhazia and Georgia.”
“Not Russia?”
“Gaghut leadership does not trust the Russians. They change sides on a whim, whenever it suits them.”
“Gaghut?”
“It’s an Armenian word,” Lindy explained, “what the indigenous folk call the diaspora, meaning us.”
“Do I need to understand anything special about Tadesian?”
“He’s president of the Vartan Alliance, of course, but most importantly, he’s the money-man.” Lindy shifted on the couch as Padraig returned with the entrée. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow on the way to Watertown.”
“Good idea,” said Jake, then added bluntly, “tonight is for relaxing, enjoying dinner, and making love.”
Lindy replied cheekily, “Which do you prefer first, Jake Moynihan?”
The next day, Jake and Lindy left for Watertown in the late morning. Lindy had won the agenda battle – no Minuteman Park. They headed straight for Watertown for the big powwow with Tad Tadesian. After lunch, they found the Saroyan building. A short, middle-aged man stood guard in the foyer. After identifying themselves, and the guard escorted them to the upper floor.
Tadesian was waiting. “I see you have met my aide, John Josef.”
He offered a hand. “Everybody calls me JJ.”
Lindy introduced Jake, “This is Moynihan, our drone specialist.” Afterward, they entered Tadesian’s private office and then sat down.
“So, Lindy, you and Jake are headed for London?”
“Right. We have some business at Sotheby’s on Monday.”
Jake said, “A family matter.”
“Afterward, we are meeting with Jake’s cousin. We have planned a little vacation in the Cotswolds, then we’ll take off for Ireland.”
“I have cousins there, they live in Dublin.” That was the end of the small talk.
“So, tell me about the drones,” said Tadesian.
Jake began: “At Operation SnakeRoad we had a drone pilot. He had lots of experience, mostly in Asia, but also in Afghanistan. He had been an Army airman, and flew the big Predators as well as petite UAVs.”
JJ interrupted, “But these are micro-drones.”
“Let me explain,” said Jake. “Drone tech has changed a lot. They are not actually the same equipment used a decade ago. Initially, those were for surveillance only. But after 911, the CIA started exploiting some Predators to strike at the enemy. They were trying to kill Osama bin Laden. But on that nascent mission, they were too late. Apparently, he had left the kill site two days earlier.”
Lindy filled in: “Just the same, they got three kills. It was a new tactic – drones had been weaponized – but the technology was at its initial stage, not ready for primetime, so to speak.”
“In the decades that followed, pilots flew Predators and Reapers from military bases hundreds of miles from the action. It was nothing more than a video game, and the targets were bug splats on their computer screens.”
Tadesian interrupted, “So just how far has the technology advanced?”
“It’s not a straight line, Tad,” said Lindy. “The old tech was abandoned when civilian casualties mounted to an unacceptable level.”
“Private corporations have entered the game. AI and drone miniaturization are the norm. It’s called swarm tech, and it’s now quite inexpensive.”
JJ asked, “So our guys will not be flying drones?”
“That’s right,” replied Lindy. “Perdix drones don’t need humans telling them where to go, or even how to get there.”
“Don’t need maintenance crews either.”
“But how?”
“Perdix communicate independent of any operator, and often utilize shared decision-making to find the best way to a target.
“It’s the AI – miniaturized.”
Tadesian interrupted again, “So, you’re telling us that the 5000-man army that Mike is assembling in Romania is useless.”
“That’s right,” Lindy said. “Useless!”
“The original Vartan-Armenian plan was simple: equalize the equation – 50K + 20K = 70K. Azerbaijan’s armed forces required recruiting at least 20K fighters from the Armenian diaspora.”
JJ interjected, “… or reduce their numbers below ours.”
“You’re thinking is entirely outdated,” said Jake. “Old Soviet tactics.”
Lindy added, “We should press our advantage ASAP.”
“So, Lindy,” Tadesian insisted, “just how many troops do we need?”
It was finally the right question, and they had the answer. “500! 500 well-trained operators, and five million Perdix drones.”
Jake added, “And a different strategy.”
Moynihan’s Dream
Tom Moynihan had spent his career fighting terrorists. When he died, his eulogy was a grand litany of praise about his successes. Ridding the world of radicals and diehards, however, was not Tom’s real goal. From a lifetime working against the global menace, he knew that cutting off one head of the Hydra only meant two rising in its place. Taking down Islamic Jihad, Boko Haram, Abu Nidal, the Shining Path, or any of their evil incarnations would not solve the genuine problem. No; they all were merely symptoms of the dilemmas facing the civilizations of the twenty first-century.
Moynihan’s dream was more about bringing an end to global tribalism – specifically, the escalating and coalescing hostilities between the West and the East. Tom knew the misunderstandings were more than religious; they involved cultures,
economics, morals, and mores of vastly conflicting sorts.
So now, two knights take the field – one as victor, the other as victim – to face the dragons perilous, and history’s jesters play on, to no good end…
19
Old Mr. Chubby
London was cold, cloudy, and damp that last day of October. In fact, at the London City Airport, it was snowing: big flakes, falling straight down. For the pilot and passengers of the business jet about to land, the mantle of pristine whiteness masked the true character of the city below. LCA is unique among London airports. Its short runway and 5.8-degree glide path make for white-knuckle landings. Most pilots relish the test, but for passengers not used to the sudden weightlessness and steep dive, it is stomach churning, often evoking a moment of terror. So, the pilot of the Zümrә XLS-4 flipped on the cabin intercom and announced, “Hold onto your hats, folks, the landing will be something of a plunge.” The Azeri private plane was the last to arrive at LCA that wintry day.
Conor was used to the unusual maneuver, but not Tali. She tightened her grip on the armrests as the nose of the Cessna dropped down, and the plane began falling out of the sky. Trying to reassure Tali, Conor said, “London City is closest to central London, just a short ride to the hotel.” The Four Seasons was home base when Conor was in London. It suited his tastes, had excellent security and was halfway between the airport and Foreign Secretary Kazimov’s Ash Park Mansions in Chelsea. “It’s handy, and there are no long lines at Customs.” For Tali, Conor’s words were no comfort at the time; but he was right about the convenience. It only took 45 minutes from touch down to get to the hotel.
Jake Moynihan and Lindy Bedrosian, on the other hand, had arrived two days earlier and were staying at a small boutique hotel near Eccleston Square. The Premier Inn suited their needs and was only 15 minutes from Sotheby’s auction house. They could have walked to the auction if they had wished. It was also close to a bus station, and there they could find day tours to all the great sights where England’s monarchy was eternally on display.