American Novelist

American Novelist is a pretty heady title, but that's what I am. I write books (5 published so far). I've decided to blog one of my earlier novels. I'll publish a page or two a day. If you like what you see let me know. If you hate it, well there are plenty of other things on the web, but I'd still like to hear from you.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Chapter 1 / Page 2

Outside, the sun was shining a warm brilliance still possible for mid-November in Washington. The grass remained green with birds chirping in varicolored trees. Lawn tractors were busily scooping leaves into pull-behind carts, kids were chasing basketballs across hardtop, and others chased the elusive oblong football. The NFL and NBA were in full swing, and Saturday mornings were a great time for kids to play at being the next Michael Jordan or Joe Montana.


Brian lived in a world populated by grainy satellite photos, dossiers of crazed world leaders, and deadly weapons most people had never heard of. He was an expert, for sale to the highest bidder, as long as the bidder was a government or business friendly to Uncle Sam. These days friendship was defined by the largest illegal campaign contribution made in the most recent election. Brian sometimes mused whether the crooks in the current administration or the bad guys on the other side of the world represented a greater threat. He suspected it was still the bad guys on the other side of the world.


The normal introductions were made. Surprisingly, the National Security Advisor took control of the meeting. Usually, something in the Tank was the purview of the Joint Chiefs. A map of the Persian Gulf snapped up on the digital display screen at the end of the Tank. Brian sighed; another oil mess. Considering the map was centered on Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Saddam was up to something.


Brian believed the Bush Administration should have let the 24th Mechanized Infantry and the 101st Airborne roll into Baghdad when they had the chance. It would have simplified life. Instead, Uncle had parleyed away a battlefield victory for an expensive stalemate. It kept precious resources monitoring Saddam, when the real enemy was across the Persian Gulf working on their own missile platforms, biological weapons, and nuclear bombs. Nightmarish artifacts recently procured from the disintegrating Soviet Empire—All for the glory of Allah.


A briefing officer stepped to the podium that controlled the screen. He was arrayed in full dress blues, obviously young, and intense. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped air waiting for the NSA to finish his introduction. Stillwell had been that briefing officer once, albeit, not here and not before this many heavies. He had brought the bad news about many nasty problems before generals, admirals, and the odd senator. Thankfully, many of those problems never made it to CNN or the Washington Post.

Friday, July 29, 2005

Chapter 1 / Page 1

1


Washington, D.C.
Saturday, November 15, 1997
10:00 A.M. EST


Brian Stillwell walked through the metal detectors and retrieved his briefcase from the Marine guard after passing through the security checkpoint to the Pentagon’s E ring. While the checkpoint looked like most airport security checkpoints, the difference was that the Marine guards actually watched the monitors and checked for weapons. They had 9mm Beretta pistols strapped to their sides and M16 A2 rifles nearby on ready-racks.


He followed the signs to the Tank. The Tank was a secure, windowless room buried beneath ground level that was impervious to all known forms of surveillance technology. Of course, in the current era of peace and goodwill, one only worried about Chinese nukes, the burgeoning Indian Navy, a collection of Arabs, starving Korean madmen, and the occasional Russian weapon of mass destruction gone missing. Oh for the Cold War days, when an enemy could be clearly drawn on the map. You counted their tanks; they counted your fighters. Now you had to worry about Ebola showing up in somebody’s shaving kit at JFK.


The National Security Advisor, the Deputy Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs, the Secretary of the Navy, a handful of generals, and other spooks preceded Brian into the Tank. All were checked against a retinal scan and a Marine guard checked off each name on a clipboard before entering. Something heavy indeed must be going down to pull this many self-appointed VIPs away from their Saturday morning play times. Not that it mattered to Stillwell; he was dressed in black jeans, an Annapolis sweatshirt, and new Nikes. He had no reverence for most of those present, except the military men who had put it on the line and the Marine guards who might end up in some forsaken no-name place fighting for God and country.


Stillwell found a spot reserved for him. He moved his name card out of the way to set his notepad before him and his briefcase next to the chair. He found himself seated at a table next to a collection of spooks and someone from the FBI (probably the counter-terrorism unit). These days everything seemed to boil down to countering some sort of threat. Since flight 800 had turned into a fireworks display over Long Island Sound and Oklahoma City had erupted into a morning killing spree, no one seemed to rule out terrorism—domestic or otherwise. It was the otherwise that brought Brian to this airless, windowless room on a lovely fall day.

Part 1 A Gathering of Warriors

PART 1
A Gathering of Warriors


"Should foreign nations… deceived by [an] appearance of division and weakness, render it necessary to vindicate by arms the injuries to our country, I believe… that the spirit of the revolution is unextinguished, and that the cultivators of peace will again, as on that occasion, be transformed at once into a nation of warriors who will leave us nothing to fear for the natural and national rights of our country."
Thomas Jefferson 1809

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Prologue - Page 4

Saddam rubbed his hands together. “And will they suffer as they die? Will the Jews who bombed my reactor finally be punished?”


Rihab Rashida al-Awazi replied clinically, “First they will have severe convulsions. The spasms will be so violent that even those with biological warfare suits will succumb. Some will lapse into comas; others will simply feel their ability to breathe cease. Death will come eventually. The attacks will come without warning.”


“As they deserve,” concluded Saddam. He fixed his gaze on Duri and said, “Do it.”


Colonel Duri saluted, realizing he had been dismissed.




AP November 12, 1997—Hundreds of Iraqi citizens were ushered into presidential compounds to act as human shields against possible American strikes on suspected weapons depot facilities. UNSCOM inspectors were refused entry to suspected Iraqi weapon facilities.



AP November 14, 1997—Ambassador Richard Butler, the head of the UNSCOM weapons inspection teams, decided to pull all inspection teams out of Iraq. The turmoil surrounding suspect weapons sites amid rumors of increased activity around the USS George Washington and USS Nimitz battle groups makes it impossible to continue their mission.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Prologue - Page 3

Saddam shifted his focus back to Colonel Duri. “When is the delivery scheduled?”


“Friday night.”


Saddam nodded carefully. “We will then stage the incident on Wednesday.”


Duri smiled slightly. “Yes, sir. It doesn’t matter where UNSCOM goes, we will deny the weapon inspection teams access to the hotels if need be. It should focus the American satellites and spy planes on those facilities.”


“And away from the sea,” finished Saddam.


United Nations Special Commission (UNSCOM) served as an umbrella organization for America’s weapon inspection program. This too changed. At the end of the Gulf War, Iraq held its breath under the threat of the massive Allied Armies. Saddam signed agreements permitting the West to search for banned weapons throughout his country. The alternative had been annihilation, but who would be so stupid as to believe he would live up to the agreements? The Americans—that’s who.


“Yes, away from the sea,” agreed Duri.


“And the missiles?”


“By early next year, twenty Al-Hussein and thirty-five Al-Abbas will be fitted with VX-Beta specific warheads. We probably will be ready to launch sometime in mid-February.”


Saddam bristled somewhat at the mention of the Al-Abbas missile. It had a range one hundred fifty kilometers greater than the Al-Hussein named after himself.


“Valentine’s Day. We will do it when the Americans show their sentimental weakness. You will be able to hit the carriers?” he asked eagerly.


Duri had no idea whether the modified SCUD missiles could even find the USS George Washington or USS Nimitz carriers. The SCUD was basically an unguided missile that more or less landed within twenty kilometers of where it was sent—if all went well. Of course, to admit something that might not be as the Great Leader believed could be fatal—especially when they were planning the deaths of thousands of Jews and Arabs. “Yes,” he lied.


Saddam held his gaze and looked back to the target list. “You’ll be aiming more than one at these targets?”


“The Jews get three each, as do the Iranians and Saudis. The rest are distributed among the other targets,” he explained.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Prologue - Page 2

“Add Amman and Damascus to this list. They were cowards who buckled to Bush.” It came out BUUUUSH. Every time he considered the former American President, his eyes bulged a little wider and his blood pressure rose a bit higher. “They are not Arab brothers; they are American lackeys,” he spat.


Colonel Duri nodded and mentally added the names to the target list. He had no paper or anything to write with. He was painfully aware that at least two rifles were pointed at the center of his back—one of the prices for serving the Great Leader.


The other person standing next to Duri was nicknamed Doctor Germ by Western weapons experts. Doctor Rihab Rashida al-Awazi was a rather plain woman at age forty-two. It was hard to reconcile this new mother of a baby girl with being Saddam’s chief chemical and biological weapons architect. Her black hair pulled back in a loose bun, she stood with hands folded before her. The printed dress hung loosely over her shoulders. She simply did not look like someone who had designed a weapon system capable of killing cities.


“The warheads, Doctor. They will work with this wonder weapon from our Chinese friends?”


She nodded quietly. It was her wonder weapon; the Chinese simply provided the manufacturing facilities. She kept her peace. It was best not to anger the Great Leader.


“We are expecting to receive five casks. They each hold maybe twenty liters of VX-Beta.”


“And how much per warhead?” Saddam asked, looking back to the target list.


“One liter per warhead. That should have a dispersal radius of five kilometers.”


Saddam pulled at his mustache. “The effects?”


She lifted her head proudly, for VX-Beta was primarily her invention. Western analysts called VX-Beta the City Killer. Iraq had to mass-produce the chemical in China. Iraq simply did not have the capacity to produce the required amounts without the Americans discovering something. “There is no antidote. There is no degradation in effects. Wherever you aim the missile, they will die. VX-Beta will continue to kill indefinitely. The tests in China indicate they continue to have lethal effects in areas exposed to weather for the past several years. It is no longer simply a persistent chemical agent, it is a permanent chemical agent,” Rashida al-Awazi concluded triumphantly.


“You are certain?” Saddam asked, his eyes dead cold.


Without blinking, Rashida al-Awazi replied boldly, “Yes.”

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Prologue - Page 1

PROLOGUE

Presidential Palace Near Baghdad
Saddam Hussein perused the two pages in his hands. He sat in a high-backed chair at a priceless, antique French desk. The desk and chair were on an elevated platform with gold-laced tapestries hanging behind the Great Leader. The carpeting was a royal red; pillared golden candle stands marked the borders of the room. The trademark black .45 ACP pistols lay casually on the top of the French desk. The muzzles pointed carelessly towards the entry door.



A dour man with thick black hair and hands scarred from his former street fighting days, Hussein now had others to kill for him. It was rumored he still used his guns to murder those who displeased him. His flat black eyes showed no joy or compassion, and the trademark mustache hung heavily over his upper lip. Today he was dressed in khaki fatigues that he found more comfortable than a Western Style suit coat and tie.


Members of his personal bodyguard stood inside and outside the doorway. Each held a machine pistol, and submitted anyone entering the room to a full body search after they had passed through an airport style metal detector. A trained, bomb-sniffing dog waited outside the doorway under the watchful gaze of its handler. Saddam Hussein protected himself not only from the masses—most of whom were too poor and frightened to attempt anything so bold as assassination—but also from the colonels in his own armed forces.


Generals could be watched easily. They had achieved their rank, and as long as the graft was not terribly expensive, generals understood their place. It was the anxious colonels who always seemed to be plotting grander schemes and greater glory. Saddam went through a lot of colonels.


He looked up to the two people standing twenty paces from his desk. He nodded as he went down the target list: Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa, Kuwait City, Tehran, Tabriz, Qom, Al-Jawf, Riyadh, and Ankara.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Introduction - Point of Honor


POINT OF HONOR takes place in November 1997. Saddam was still killing people. Clinton was president, and no one had yet flown jet liners into our tallest buildings. The outbreak of Clinton's Oval Office hijinx was just around the corner.

In my mind, the War on Terror has been waging for almost two decades, starting on November 4, 1979 when Iranian students overran our embassy. Whacking the bad guys then, might have saved us a lot of grief down the line--but that's another story.

I wrote POH in secret, telling no one until I had most of the manuscript finished. I found an agent who liked my work, but never managed to get it published. POH went through a couple of ups and downs and settled in the small press.

There is a great deal more to be said. It remains in print and available. So should you tire of 1 page per day, you can buy it or give it as a gift.

My job is to entertain you. Let me know if I succeed.

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