Blaze

by Andrew Thorp King

  “Thanks for the heads up. Let me go change my underwear and I’ll be right back to oblige you in this match.” Blaze laughed.

  “If I thought you were actually kidding, I’d afford you a laugh.” Gallagher was clearly done with the talking and ready for the hitting.

  “Save the laughs for me after I leave you bleeding on the mat.” Blaze was ready to get this show on.

  “Enough of the chatter there cupcake, let’s do this.”

  Blaze wore baggy Under Armor gym shorts. Gallagher was, of course, wearing something verging on disgusting and quasi-pornographic.

  The sparring started off uneventful and heated up slowly as Chuck and Blaze warmed up. A few minutes in, Blaze began breaking a sweat. His sweaty muscles and tattoos glistened under the overhead lights.

  Gallagher appeared as if he was going to loose his breath, and his step, early on. But it was a false hope for Blaze. Chuck exploited every mistake his opponent made and he got several sequences of good shots in on Blaze. Blaze took the punches and absorbed their shockwaves while focusing on holding his ground, waiting out Chuck’s energy reserves, and planning his own succession of hurting bombs to lay on his old friend and mentor.

  But Gallagher kept at it and managed to land several more shots in quick succession. Blaze felt twitches of stinging pain that apparently still lay await deep in his bones. It was the ten percent of him not yet pruned for re-emergence into physical training. He fought through it to the endorphins rush that so defined the pattern of his life—pain births struggle, which then yields perseverance and forward movement.

  It was about twenty minutes in. Blaze’s feet tapped with perfect synch. He spotted Chuck yield to a momentary pause. With the speed of mythically enhanced lightening, Blaze landed two strong body blows and one triumphant headshot. Sweat leapt from Chuck’s forehead like ocean waves catapulted from a tsunami. He winced with pain and then smiled with a sick look of sadistic pleasure. A small stream of blood trickled from his mouth. Chuck nodded to Blaze. He was done for the day.

  “Alright, you got me this morning, you muscle bound Mick, “ snarled Gallagher.

  “Your damn right I did you old Mick bastard. Just a foretaste of what is coming for America’s enemies.” The sparring match was now serving as a foundational pow-wow to psych up each man in their coming challenges.

  “We’re going to need a whole lot more than your measly fists to neutralize them.” Gallagher was now exhausted.

  “Let’s go get some coffee and talk about that.” Blaze was eager to get talking about the heart of the matter—his comeback op.

  “Roger that.”

  The two men walked about a half of a block to their destination.

  It was a mom and pop corner coffee shop in downtown Detroit. The walls were painted with bright oranges, yellows and mocha browns. The décor dripped with uber eco-conscious modernity. Abstract art, with vague earthy aesthetics, adorned the walls. The tables were full with a collection of patrons who appeared to be the quintessential sampling of the great unwashed. Right beside where Blaze and Chuck stood in line, a twenty-something white guy with dreadlocks and a Che tee shirt spouted off about W’s blunders. His corduroy-wearing girlfriend nodded between sips of what appeared to be a mocha cappuccino.

  The line moved a bit and they were able to better see the menu. Chuck squinted with frustration as he read it. Blaze just shook his head and waved his hand in the air dismissing the menu. Chuck Gallagher and Blaze McIntyre just wanted a damn cup of coffee. Instead, they were inundated with a myriad of fanciful options to enjoy their needed caffeine fix.

  The line moved again and it was Blaze and Chuck’s turn to order. Blaze looked up at the menu again as the young, cute female clerk awaited his order. He pointed at the menu again and waved his hand in rejection.

  “I don’t speak French. I just want a large cup. I don’t know what all these things are on this cockamamie menu. I just want a regular cup of coffee. You know, the brown kind.” Blaze was all together perplexed and frustrated with the unnecessary maze that was the menu options at this modern coffee house.

  The cute twenty-something girl with a streak of red dye down the one side of her brown hair looked at Blaze and smiled. She then glanced at Chuck. She eyeballed him from his head right down to his gym shorts. She restrained herself from launching an outburst of all out laughing mockery. Her face showed how she felt. Tough old bastards like Chuck cared not. The girl responded to Blaze’s menu rebuttal, “Well, yes, I suppose I could find a way to get you simply a large cup of brown coffee. You sure you don’t want any whip cream or anything?”

  “It’s 9:30 am, ma’am. I don’t eat desert that early.” Blaze figured his logic was common on this matter.

  “Okay, and just so you know, we don’t have any senior citizen discounts so I apologize to your friend, but he’ll have to pay full price for his cup,” She winked at Chuck—it was an obvious, irreverent jab.

  Chuck uttered a light growl as Blaze burst out into laughter. The young girl smiled big and winked again at the old dinosaur.

  The two men sat down at a small table with their cups of joe. Neither took cream or sugar. Piping hot, black and straight down the gullet as God intended.

  “So did you break it to the old lady?”

  “Sure did. And for the record, Diem is still young and vital. I’m her old man, she ain’t my old lady.” Setting the record straight, as Blaze should.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Alright Prince Charming, so what did she say.” Gallagher just wanted to cut the crap and cut to the chase.

  “It was a tough conversation as you can imagine. My having been out of harm’s way recently has been the fulfillment of all her prayers in years gone by. She’s the mother hen. She wants a stable and full household. She fears she’ll be a widow. She fears Shane and Dennis will end up fatherless. She also admitted that she recognized the crumbling that has been going on inside of me. She couldn’t deny the reality that every day that I pretended to be a good civilian, a piece of me died.”

  “You think she’ll really be able to handle it?” Gallagher was hoping this all was a real green light.

  “I wasn’t sure at first. But since I broke the news to her, she’s been nothing but supportive and understanding. She knows who I am. You can take the boy out of war, but you can’t take the war out of the boy.”

  Gallagher nodded his head in agreement, fully understanding the truths that Blaze was speaking. “Well Blaze, the timing indeed seems providential from where I’m sitting. These nut bags in Iran are on the cusp of having full-on global leverage with high flying nukes and a butt load of messianic ill intent.” “So this mission…it’s got to do with the Iranians? Figures.” Blaze had assumed that given the climate, any mission he’d be embarking on now would likely somehow involve the Iranians.

  “You’re damn right. They’re the unnamed, ignored boogey man of the last two decades. You’re up to speed on this Samani fruit, right? He’s ten times worse than Ahmadinejad. And ten fold more pissed off.”

  “Yeah, I know all about him. So what are we looking at here.” Blaze wanted the skinny.

  “We need to find a way to disable, or severely retard, the progress and processes at Natanz, Esfahan, and Bushehr. These are three of the most important nuke plants. We don’t really know how far along they are in having operational nukes, but if they’ve progressed the way they have in the realm of long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles, we’re in for a world of hurt.” Gallagher was now intensely looking Blaze straight in the eyes.

  “How the hell are we going to infiltrate these plants, let alone dismantle the operations?” The task, at first listen, seemed entirely overwhelming to Blaze.

  “I’m assembling a team and have concocted some possible approaches. We already have a source inside Natanz and close to the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. His name is Arash Jafari. He’s a Persian national
who has been working with us. He was working hand in hand with Reza Kahlili before Reza defected back to the US. Arash is still fully secure and undetected. He’ll be our starting point.”

  “What other grunts do you have in mind?”

  “Well, for one of them, I’m in the processing of pulling some strings to bust him out of the joint.” Gallagher began chuckling.

  “Wait…what? The joint? The only other valuable grunt I can think of who would be crazy enough to somehow be doing time in prison would be Zack Batt. You’re not serious, are you?” Blaze loved working with Zack, but knew full well the escapades and shenanigans that colored Zack’s personal life.

  “Dead serious.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC

  It had been quite a long time since President Jack Fitzsimmons had attended college. It was soon after grad school that he met Emily. At the time, she rendered him smitten and beholden in just a few short weeks. That magical glue of infatuation had lasted for the majority of their marriage. The strength of that infatuation served to totally transform in Fitz the houndish sexual behavior that typified his early collegiate years. For the most part.

  He sat sternly and quietly at the Resolute Desk, staring pensively into the corner of the room that at one time, prior to Obama’s presidency, hosted the famous statue of the bust of Winston Churchill. As he stared, Fitz agonized in prayer with open eyes over his teasing yearnings to be with a woman other than the first lady. Fitz still found Emily extremely riveting in appearance, and quite the lover when he did manage to get her focused in the bedroom. But it was her other traits that erected barriers against their marital intimacy. Like the permanent scowl that plagued her demeanor towards him in private. Or her incessant soulless ambition—that very easily had eclipsed his own—that left him starving for her affection. All of this had left him seeking, at least in his imagination, a different bed to lie in.

  Fitz did not have the brazenness, nor the tactical sense, to actually act on his wandering desires in the form of an extramarital affair. That said, he readily confessed to God his shame and regret for looking at internet porn sites in his weaker, albeit infrequent, moments. In fact, it was the crushing guilt of one of those moments that had prompted his current prayers as he sat at the Resolute Desk. A prayer that was cut short by the ringing of his landline.

  Fitz rolled his eyes as he reached for the phone. He knew who it was. “President Fitz. I trust you are having a productive and efficient morning. This is Maksim Koslov. Do you have some proper time to talk?” It was clear that Russia’s new strongman was all business this particular morning. Certainly not a deviation from the norm for Koslov.

  The Russian Czar had not yet been outfitted by the media with his proper functioning title. But President Fitz sensed full well the inertia that was pushing Mr. Koslov towards increasing grips on power. Power wielded by a Czar. It was this inertia that gave Mr. Fitz a bit of the nervous shakes upon hearing Koslov’s voice.

  “I’m doing quite well today sir. How are things there in Russia?” Jack knew that things in Russia were just fine for Koslov. Maybe not so much for the people of Russia.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, I’m well. My staff is well. And the people of Russia are full of hope and promise. This is what I have always promised, and they now know I am delivering.” Koslov’s voice exuded with pride. He had more than a high opinion of himself.

  “I gather that your sense of your own approval rating is rather high. I wish I could speak of myself with such pure confidence.” Fitz attempted to deflate Koslov’s over-confidence. The Russian President decisively ignored the comment.

  “Mr. Fitz, you and I have always agreed more than we have differed. It’s the bedrock of our understandings that I wish to continue to develop as we speak even today.” Koslov wasted no time to get to the heart of his call.

  “I feel the same way Maksim. What exactly do you have on your mind today?” Fitz’s eyes rolled again. He wasn’t sure if he felt the same way at all, but didn’t know what else to say. He was curious to hear Koslov’s perception of their overlapping mutual understanding.

  “You and I have often spoken about our sense that the world is becoming a smaller and more integrated place every day. We both agree that in the future we’ll see proper nation states become almost obsolete. The world already possesses a slew of travel and communication underpinnings that will make it natural to move into a new structure of continental states. This, in time, shall give way to a global government acceptable to the citizens of the world.” Maksim aimed to instantly engage Fitz with his broad-brush strokes on globalism. A deceptive tactic coming from a man hell-bent on reviving the Soviet Empire.

  “Maksim, you and I share much of the same vision in terms of the broad framework of a global future, but we do have many differences about certain movements, methods, and detours along the path to that end. Where is this line of thinking going exactly?” Fitz leaned back on his office chair as he swirled around to face the window, scratching his head with his free hand all the while.

  “You Americans are always so eager to jump to the bottom line so quickly. No appreciation for the art of conversation I suppose. Well, I will tell you, that as much as I share this vision, I don’t think it will happen without the ability to make decisions along the way that otherwise would not be made.”

  “What kind of decisions are we talking about?”

  “I speak very much here of the countries of the Middle East. Israel. Our Persian friends.” Finally, Koslov hit the heart of the matter.

  “Your Persian friends, not ours.” Fitz straightened his posture as he made his point.

  “You don’t need to posture with me. I know the official position of the United States. Your Secretary of State has been very clear about this. But I also know that you have larger goals that may supersede your desire to punish the Iranians.”

  “Maksim, no one here wants to attack Iran. That’s the farthest from our intentions, but we also can’t allow their nuclear activities and incessant threats to continue. We need unified international action. We need some sanctions with teeth.” This was about as hard as Fitz ever got.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’m not asking you to share my position that the Iranians need the bomb to be an equal deterrent to the Jewish strength in the region. I still believe a cold war posture of mutually assured destruction will work just as effectively with Muslims and Jews as it did between atheists and Christians.”

  “Are you asking me to back down on the Iranian sanctions?”

  “I’m making the case that such sanctions won’t neutralize the problem or bring us any closer to our vision of eroding national borders. They won’t advance us towards the eventual installation of a peaceful global government. We’ve not always been the best of friends with the Iranians either. They still haven’t forgotten when my Scythian ancestors repelled the invasion of King Darius in 513 BC. History sticks with the Persians. For this reason, we always tread carefully with them.” Now he was speaking truthfully. Russian-Persian history was full of issues.

  Jack Fitzsimmons’ voice stiffened as he found his spine and replied, “I’ve not decided how I’m going to proceed with Iran. The fact that there is ample evidence emerging that suggests that your country is working in absolute tandem with them isn’t making my decision any easier.”

  Koslov face turned red with frustration as he struggled to keep his cool. “Again, may I remind you that some decisions will need to be considered, by all of us who share this vision, that would otherwise not be made. If we don’t employ such flexibility for the greater long term good, the world will always be divided and at war. This goes to the heart of the Israeli difficulty. They’ve been a clear and regrettable stumbling block to the world for years and years. A counter-balance is needed.”

  Fitz was never one to be accused of being a Zionist or wa
rmonger. In fact, it was a miracle he got the Jewish votes that he did. It was his conviction that because Christ chose to be of meager means and to die violently on the cross in a victim’s posture, that it was God’s intention for Christians to champion the cause of all victims. Fitz didn’t see Israel or the Jews as victims in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. His sympathies were strongly aligned with the Palestinians and Israel’s Arab neighbors as a whole. This sensibility also extended to his complex feelings about the Iranian issue. He always secretly felt as if the Iranians were behaving the way they were because of some wrongs somehow done to them in the past.

  “I appreciate the call Maksim and I understand your concerns. I will consider your suggestions.” His mind was now fully considering the implications of Maksim’s words.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day Mr. President. I’ll wait eagerly for your further thoughts as you wrestle with these issues.” Koslov knew he had made an impact. He sensed the change in Fitz’s tone by the conclusion of the conversation.

  Fitz hung up the phone. He was no longer in a mood in which he could resume the prayer he had started prior to Koslov’s call. He felt as if he should focus his prayers on the Middle East instead. Yet he couldn’t get any real focus to engage in prayer. He didn’t know why, but he always felt it tough to pray about Middle Eastern affairs. Where would one begin anyhow?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FEDERAL CORRECTION INSTITUTION, FAIRTON, NEW JERSEY

  Zack was happy to see Chuck, even with having to endure the obligatory ball breaking. He went back to his lonely cell looking forward to getting sprung in the next day or so per the old man’s promise. He reflected. What a helluva journey. This life I’ve lived. Who knew? A skinhead thug rises from the projects and the streets and ends up being on the CIA’s short list of third-party mercenary assets.