by Ted Peters
“I broke it during football practice,” said Romeo. “Got whacked crosswise reachin’ fer a pass. The leg’s set. It’ll take a few more days before they’ll let me stand up with a walker or crutches. Caught that pass, by the way.”
Unexpectedly, the hospital room door closed on its own. When Graham and Leona looked over their shoulders, they became aware of two others in the room, two African Americans standing behind the closed door.
“I want ya ta meet Gator and Meat Hook,” said Romeo.
The two smiled slightly and mumbled, “How’s it goin’?”
“They’re my bodyguards,” Romeo continued.
“What do you need bodyguards for?” Graham queried, somewhat bewildered.
“The Kenwood Apostles are tryin’ ta recruit me. Tryin’ real hard, if you know what I mean. I want to be independent. I want to play football, not gangbanger.” After a pause, Romeo’s eyes widened. “Want to sign my cast, Pastor?”
“Absolutely.” Leona took out a ball point pen and wrote, “May you always walk with the Lord! P.L.” She added a smiley face.
The body guards had little to say. The lively Romeo engaged the visiting pastor and finely dressed black man on various topics for ten minutes. Then, Gator’s cell phone rang. Romeo’s rang as well. The room was buzzing with conversations as Leona and Graham said their goodbyes.
20 Wednesday, Chicago, 5:01 pm
After the hospital visit, Leona wheeled onto 60th Street and proceeded toward the lake along the Midway. Her car's Bluetooth speaker signaled an incoming call.
“Hello,” she said with strength in her voice sufficient to be picked up by the ceiling microphone.
“Lee? This is Justin Hurley.”
“Hello, Good Bishop. To what do I owe the honor?”
“By this time you must’ve met Graham Washington.”
“Yeah. I met your watchdog. Graham is sitting right next to me as we head from Hyde Park toward South Shore.”
“Graham, is that you?”
“Yes, Bishop. I’m here with Leona. How are you?”
“The question is: how are you? And more importantly, how are things going between you two?”
“Bishop,” interrupted Leona. “I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Let me provide you with some answers before you ask,” said the bishop’s voice over the speaker. “But first, is anyone else in the car with you?”
“Just the two of us,” said Leona.
“Good. Please don’t record our conversation. It’s just between us and just for this moment. Okay?”
“Okay,” sang the duet in the car.
“Here’s what I know. I received a phone call from Gerhart Holthusen. Gary’s the new CIA director. We’re both Oles. Dat’s pronounced ‘Oh-lees,’ doncha know? Sometimes ‘Stolies,’” said the Presiding Bishop with a lightness in his voice, which contrasted dramatically with his concern for confidentiality.
“Yes, I know you’re both Oles,” said Leona. “That St. Olaf bond is pretty darned strong.”
“Are you an Ole, Leona?”
“No. I went to Michigan State. I’m not even Norwegian.”
“Well, if you went to Michigan State, might you be a Finn from the Upper Peninsula?”
“No. Not Finnish either.”
“I’m Creole,” interrupted Graham. “Anyone care about that?”
“Creole?” The bishop sounded excited. “That’s African, French, and indigenous, isn’t it? Did you trace your roots, Graham?”
Leona interrupted. “Now, Bishop, is this what you do at Higgins Road, spend your time taking an ethnic census? I’ve got some urgent questions that need answering.”
“Right, Lee. Back to my story. Gary phoned about a matter he considered very secret. He warned me that one of my pastors might be in danger. You.”
Leona winced.
The bishop continued. “Gary told me he wanted to provide you with protection, but he needed a cover. This operation could not look like a CIA activity. So, we worked out the details for Graham to take a newly created position here at Churchwide headquarters. Gary did not tell me exactly why you are in danger nor anything about the politics involved. He asked me to trust him. An Ole can trust an Ole. Lee, this is what I know.”
“Are you asking me to trust Graham like you trust Gary?” Turning to Graham she asked, “Graham, I want to be sure you’re trustworthy. Are you an Ole too?”
“Not only am I an Ole, I sang baritone in the St. Olaf Choir,” said Graham beaming.
“Listening to your choir sing 'Beautiful Savior' runs shivers up my spine,” said Leona. Then she smirked briefly and enunciated loudly: “Okay, Bishop, that’s what you know. Now, what is it you don’t know?”
“If I were Socrates I’d ask you: how could I possibly tell you what I don’t know? If I could tell you, then I’d know it. So, by definition....”
“You told us you’d tell us what you don’t know. This is not the time for a philosophy lesson,” barked Leona.
“Graham, that Leona’s a real sassy tiger, isn’t she?”
“More like a tiger cub, I think. More like a docile lap cat who stretches her claws once in a while.”
“A lap cat and a tiger cub are about the same size, but they have very different futures,” added the bishop.
“Thanks for patronizing me, you two. Here’s the point: you guys are the ones saying my life is in danger. I have to make some decisions here about whether I’m going to protect myself or not. If you’ve got something relevant to say, then say it!”
“Here’s what I don’t know, Leona,” said the bishop. “I don’t know how to measure the degree of danger you’re in. Nor do I know its source. Nor do I know how long you might remain vulnerable. All I can say is that Gary sent Graham to us. It would be prudent if we took full advantage of Graham’s skills as a...whatever you are, Graham. Don’t go it alone, Leona.”
“Are you speaking ex cathedra?”
“It’s that other guy, the one in Rome, who’s infallible. I’m simply telling you to be a good steward of God’s grace and let Graham do his work. I don’t want to wait until heaven to see you again. Do you get my drift?”
“Yes, good Bishop.”
They signed off and disconnected as Leona’s Escape entered the South Shore neighborhoods. “Graham, I still don’t know who you are,” said Leona.
“Well, what do you want to know?” asked Graham.
“Start anywhere,” Leona prodded.
“Let’s see. I was born in New Orleans. Creole, as I said. Grew up with Mardi Gras, crawfish barbeques, red beans ‘n’ rice, and beignets with chicory coffee. Although most of the kids in my neighborhood went to Catholic parochial schools, somehow I ended up in a Lutheran grade school and then high school. As a senior, I won an academic scholarship—a full ride—to St. Olaf College.”
“How did you survive the Minnesota winters?”
“By placing this bayou boy in the path of a Great Plains winter wind, I got to see what hell looks like when it freezes over. Even the devil departs Minnesota before Christmas.”
“Probably goes to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras. At least, that’s what I hear.” Leona smirked. “So, why the CIA?”
“I got recruited while studying. I was in my second year at Princeton Seminary when I was approached. The recruiter said they needed analysts for NRMs. You know, New Religious Movements.”
“Domestic or abroad?”
“Abroad. Falun Gong in China, for example.”
Leona slowed the car as they approached an intersection with a red traffic signal. In her rearview mirror she spotted a flash of green and realized that the driver behind her—a driver holding a cell phone to her ear—was approaching too fast to stop. Leona reacted. She hit the accelerator and swerved abruptly to the right. The screeching green Chrysler swerved to the left. It skidded to a stop in the middle of the road with its front fender just to the left of Leona’s driver door. No collision. Leona took a deep breath.
“You dumb ass!” screamed Graham at the unknown driver of the wayward vehicle.
In a calm yet insulting voice, Leona spoke. “Graham, you’ve got to get a hold of your road rage.”
“Road rage? Hell, Miss Goody Goody. The problem is not my road rage. The problem is that each car on the highway is driven by a fuckin’ nincompoop. Now, that’s an objective fact of life.”
“Oh, is that true?”quizzed Leona with feigned naiveté.
“Yes, it’s true. And you’ve got to stop being so goddamn nice. I want to see you give her the finger!”
“I’m sitting here wearing my clerical collar. Need I say more?” Leona turned and rolled down her window. The driver of the Chrysler had dropped her cell phone and was sitting still, shaken and temporarily catatonic. Seeing that Leona wanted to communicate, she lowered her window.
“Are you okay?” asked Leona.
“Yes, now I am,” said the shaken woman.
“Close call, eh! But now it’s over.” Leona spoke in a loud yet comforting voice. “Maybe you’d like to leave your cell phone on the floor while you finish today’s drive.”
“That’s for sure!” The woman’s voice communicated gratitude. She slowly regained her composure. The phone remained where it had fallen.
Leona took a deep calming breath for her own benefit. Shortly, the two cars went their separate ways. Graham rolled his eyes and shook his head in mock disapproval.
Leona initiated the next verbal exchange. “So, you studied Falun Gong, eh. Are the gongers still embarrassing the Chinese government? Oh! That reminds me. I’m hungry. Chinese?
Graham paid for an order of Moo Goo Gai Pan and one of sweet ‘n’ sour pork plus brown rice take-away. They headed back to the parsonage and spread out their dinner on Leona’s dining room table. They chuckled together when acknowledging that both preferred chopsticks over a fork.
“Does the presiding bishop have any clout with you, Lee?” asked Graham. “Or, do I have to hit you with the infallible pope? What happened to you in Tehran?
“I do my best not to lie, or even tell partial truths,” Leona began. “I’ve promised not to speak of this. I’d like to keep that promise.”
“I understand, Lee. But as you can see, it might help us analyze the situation, a situation that could mean life or death.”
“I’ve seen enough of life or death situations. They no longer scare me. But I rail against them. I protest. I protest to God. But well, I’m digressing. You want my story, don’t you?”
Graham nodded.
After a pause, Leona asked, “are you wired?”
“Of course not.”
“Then, please place your cell phone on the table. I don’t want to see the speaker switch on.”
Graham complied. Graham would have acceded to any of Leona’s wishes, so ready was he to learn about Tehran.
21 Thursday, Afghanistan, 7:01 am
“Oh, I see you’ve got my Bible on your desk,” said Jarrod as he entered the room, carrying a cup full of morning coffee. The heavy metal door closed behind him. Jarrod took a seat and crossed his legs.
The eyes of the man seated behind the large desk searched quizzically among the items strewn on his desk surface. He did not seem to find the alleged Bible. So, he sipped his espresso, holding the cup in his right hand while he turned his left palm up as if to ask, “What?”
“Right there,” said Jarrod, pointing to a medium sized book from the U.S. Government Printing Office, FY2009-2034: Unmanned Systems Integrated Roadmap.
A large grin appeared on the face of the one enjoying a short whirl in his desk chair. “No doubt you’ve got it memorized. You probably can cite me chapter and verse.”
“Just about,” said Jarrod.
“Then, I don’t have to read it myself. I can simply ask you: does it have the word of eternal life for us?”
“You could say that. If not eternal life, then certainly abundant life. It points us to the narrow way of the profit, that’s f-i-t, not p-h-e-t. We’re gonna make a killing.”
“Killing, literally or figuratively?” he said with a laugh at his own cleverness.
“Probably both,” continued Jarrod, responding with a self-satisfied smile. “It’s clear from this bible that Uncle Sam is prophetic about the future. Our military’s Combat Commanders or COCOMs will want more and more unmanned systems for such things as—and here’s what they say—surveillance; signals intelligence or SIGINT; precision target designation; mine detection; plus chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear reconnaissance. We’ve had our day with Predators, Reapers and Global Hawks in the air and PackBots and Talons on the ground. Note how it says that the future will need drones for ‘Expeditionary Runway Evaluation, Nuclear Forensics, and Special Forces Beach Reconnaissance’.”
“Maybe we won’t need grunts anymore.”
“Grunts will use drones to avoid soiling their uniforms with blood stains. They can use drones to kill accurately at a distance and remain antiseptically clean. Actually, it’s not merely a question of avoiding risk to personnel. Unmanned systems are proving to be superior to troops in all three domains: unmanned aircraft systems or UAS, unmanned ground vehicles or UGVs, and unmanned maritime vehicles or UMVs. The Warfighter demand is going to grow, and our profits will grow if we’re ingenious enough to cash in.”
“So, just how will we divert the cash flow so that it fills up our bank accounts?”
“Here’s the plan. Two businesses. The first will be Unmanned Security Systems Incorporated. We’ll set up the factory in South Haven, Michigan. We can test the UMVs in Lake Michigan and both the UGVs as well as the UAS on the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes in the northern Lower Peninsula. We’ve got our engineers working now on a design for aerial reconnaissance vehicles the size of a model airplane. We’ll call it the AirEye. An AirEye could look like a bird, a crow or something harmless to those on the ground who spot it coming.”
“A crow? Why not a hummingbird?”
“Bigger. AirEyes will be equipped with visual and audio surveillance capacity, which just might fit into a hummingbird-sized drone. However, we want to add low caliber single shot firing. Can you imagine an infantry soldier on patrol in an Afghan village or in the countryside? He walks. He doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He launches his AirEye. It flies about twenty-five feet overhead and perhaps a hundred feet in front. By looking at a screen the size of a cell phone, he can see what’s on the other side of the fence. He can see what’s around the next corner. With the AirEye gun he could even take out someone lying in ambush.”
“Why only one shot? Why not a magazine?
“The recoil will blow the AirEye out of position for a second shot. One’s all we can handle. But if the shot is carefully aimed, it’ll be enough.”
“Gotcha. Any domestic application?”
“Can you imagine the following? Along the U.S. and Mexican border we’ll demonstrate by directing our AirEyes to scout out drug traffickers. We’ll make a big kill. Lots of publicity. Then police departments all around the country will line up to buy not only our technology but our training programs. Again, imagine: a police car with an operator sending our aerial drone through neighborhoods at ten miles per hour transmitting back visual and audio reports. When the cops see action, they go into action.”
“Can we corner the cop market? Cops are already using drones.”
“Here's our edge. Cops who are now using drones do so while on patrol. Once we've convinced the patrols that our AirEye is superior, then we can offer our complete Drone Center to a city. The Drone Center will be like a mini-airport. A small cadre of desk pilots will send AirEyes all over the area, gathering intelligence and watching what they see on monitors. When they spot a neighborhood needing attention, they will notify the closest squad car to look into it. So many of our municipalities are in a budget crunch. With AirEyes, cities can reduce their patrol personnel by fifty percent or more. They'll love our products, because they appear to save money.”
&nb
sp; The man behind the desk grinned.
Jarrod continued. “We’ve got a second plan too. Our second factory and business headquarters will be located in Tehran. We’ll call the company Remote Intelligence Incorporated. Here we will design and build UAS drones for rogue forces. Recall what I said about adding firing capacity? Now, imagine this: an aerial drone the size of a model airplane guided from the ground that flies above buildings looking for snipers. Once a sniper appears on the monitor, the controller guides the drone around the sniper, sneaks up on the sniper, and fires a single deadly shot at close range. This is defense. The armed AirEye could equally be useful for offense. With our armed AirEyes, no politician in any country will be safe from assassination. Oil rich terrorists will line up to buy our products.”
“What about jamming?” The man behind the desk held his chin in his hands. “Suppose an enemy finds our frequency and jams our remote control?
“We’ll overcome that with the Lamarr principle,” announced Grimes.
“Huh?”
“Ever heard of Hedy Lamarr?”
“Do you mean the movie actress?”
“That’s the one.”
“How does she fit in here?”
“Hedy Lamarr was born into a Jewish family in Vienna. Her name then was Hedwig Kiesler. When she became a glamorous beauty and starred bare-breasted in a 1933 Czech film, she was invited to the kind of parties where she got to know weapons developers for the German military. She overheard many discussions about torpedoes and how they worked. After she moved to Hollywood and changed her name to Hedy Lamarr, she led a second life as an inventor. During the Second World War, she developed a device to prevent the jamming of remote controlled torpedoes, hoping to sell it to the U.S. Navy. She synchronized the transmitter and the receiver in a radio control mechanism to change frequency simultaneously. She called it frequency ‘hopping’. The Navy never actually used it. But she, along with a guy named Antheil, actually patented the proof of principle. In short, we’ll just do a little frequency hopping. The jammers won’t be able to catch up. No problem.”