Chapter 15
Posted: July 18, 2007 - 12:53:57 am


A week after the destruction of the original CIA building, Karen moved back to the house with Robert. While she may have been the one insisting on Mike staying away, she had been just as miserable with the separation. She had missed his calm confidence about being able to survive while the world was going crazy around her. She had missed his strong arms wrapped protectively around her while she slept.

She spent the afternoon looking around the house. It was hard to believe that two men could leave a house so clean. After thinking about it, she said, "Duh, they're both Marines."

The kitchen was a mess by the time she finished preparing one of her special dinners, but the meal was worth it. The table was set with the best china, crystal glasses, and even flowers. Everything was perfect except that it was almost time for Mike to get home and she was still wearing her regular clothes. She fled for the bedroom to change clothes.

Mike entered the house and spotted Robert. He wanted to run over and pick him up, but thought it would be best to wait until he had Karen's permission. Karen stepped out of the bedroom wearing a slinky blue dress. Mike's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the dress. He whistled and then said, "I like that dress."

"I'm glad you like it," Karen said modeling her new dress. She had run over to a strip mall boutique to buy it before returning home. It had taken every ounce of her courage to do it.

Robert was feeling cranky that afternoon and chose that moment to cry. Mike looked over at Karen and asked, "Is it okay if I pick him up?"

A brief flash of concern flickered over Karen's face, but it disappeared as fast as it came. She smiled and said, "Go ahead."

Mike strode over to Robert and picked him up with ease. Lifting the little boy over his head, he asked, "Did you miss me, little fellow?"

Robert answered, "Dada."

Smiling at the new word, Karen said, "He's been cranky all day. I'd say he missed you a lot."

Mike hugged Robert and said, "I really missed you."

Watching from the bedroom door, Karen felt a little guilty about having kept them apart. She had known that her fears were unjustified, but that didn't make them any less real. A small smile crept across her face watching father and son together. Mike looked over Robert's head and said, "You're turn is next."

"I would hope so," Karen said with a laugh.

After a few minutes, Robert started to struggle to get down. Mike set him on the floor and watched as the baby tried to stand. Giving him a hand, the baby stood and tried to take his first step. Karen watched as Mike helped Robert take a few steps. She started to laugh when Mike said, "If I die in a combat zone; Box me up and ship me home; Put me in a set of dress blues; Comb my hair and shine my shoes; Pin my medals upon my chest; Tell my mama I done my best; Ma, mama don't you cry; In the Marine Corps you either do or die."

"What are you doing?" Karen asked listening to the Mike talk in cadence.

"He's a Marine. That's how Marines learn to walk," Mike answered. Looking down at Robert, he said, "Isn't that right?"

Little Robert made a noise that sounded a lot like spwat. Mike grinned and said, "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"That was definitely an OohRah," Mike said with a grin.

"Funny, it sounded more like spwat to me," Karen said looking at Mike like he was crazy.

Mike looked down at Robert and kissed the little hand. In a soft voice, he said, "Forgive your mother. She doesn't know what she's saying."

The little exchange reminded Karen about what she loved about him. He was strong and gentle with a little humor thrown into the mix. He was a man's man who could lead by example. Mike looked up and saw the expression on her face. Puzzled, he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that Robert is so lucky that you are his father," Karen answered.

"He's lucky for an even better reason," Mike said.

"What?"

"He's got you for a mother," Mike answered.

Mike sat in the corner of the Internet Café working on his computer. Over the course of the night, he'd had a brainstorm and was trying to see if it would work. The problem was that his left hand wasn't allowing him to work as fast as his brain. Frustrated, he stood up and said, "Damn it."

Charlie, one of the calmer analysts, asked, "What's the matter Mike?"

"I need someone to type for me," Mike answered.

Sitting off to the side, Cathy was staring out the window bored out of her mind. She had thought that working for the CIA was going to be interesting and exciting. She had imagined cloak and dagger spies coming in and out at all hours of the night. The reality was a lot more boring than she had thought possible. She looked over and said, "I'll do it."

Nodding his head, Mike said, "Come over here. I'll walk you through it."

Cathy approached and the screen changed over to a woman with her face splattered with come. Mike swore, "Aren't we ever going to get that fixed?"

Cathy looked at the picture. It was pretty disgusting in her opinion. The woman looked like someone had spilled hand cream all over her face. Disgusted, she asked, "Do pictures like that really turn on men?"

"Not at the moment," Mike answered sounding as frustrated as he felt. He stepped back until the screen returned. With a nod from her, he said, "I need you to pull up the information on the vans captured by the cops."

"How do I do that?" Cathy asked staring at the screen.

Frustrated at the delays, Mike answered, "Type link terrorist rail gun van arrest."

"Okay," Cathy said. She sat back and said, "A whole bunch of documents appeared."

"Type refine link gasoline," Mike said hoping that he would get some reports on the levels in the gas tanks.

"There are only three articles left," Cathy said.

"Pull one of them up by clicking on it," Mike said.

"Okay."

"Does it say how much gasoline was in the van?" Mike asked.

Cathy scrolled down the description of the van. She found that it held a quarter of a tank of gasoline. Nodding her head, she said, "Three quarters of a tank was left in it."

Looking over at Jim Donnelly, he said, "Jim, you've got the expertise on the Geographical Information System, right?"

"Yes sir. I'm about as good as they get on a GIS system," Jim answered.

"We need to find out the gasoline mileage that a van of the type used in the attack gets, figure out how much gasoline a quarter of a tank is, and establish a radius within which that van must have refueled," Mike said. Looking over at Cathy, he said, "Give Jim the data when he needs it."

"What are you doing?" Charlie Adams asked finding what Mike was doing much more interesting than what he was working on.

"I'm going to find the gas stations that those bastards used to fill up the vans and trace them back to where they came from," Mike said.

"Clever, but that's like searching for a needle in a haystack," Charlie said.

"We'll ask a thousand cops to nose around until we find that damned needle," Mike said.

"But..."

"Look. We know they paid cash for their gasoline since queries on their credit cards turned up nothing. That means they had to deal with someone at the gas station. They'll remember them," Mike said.

Jim said, "Okay, I've got it. There are one hundred and twenty three gas stations within the radius that van could have traveled. There are sixty that are along highways leading into town."

"Okay, print up the gas stations and pictures of the men driving the van. Send it out to the appropriate state police units with a cover letter that tells them that we need to find out which of those gas stations was used," Mike said.

Charlie said, "Before you do that, let me do something. Send me that file."

For close to five minutes Charlie talked to his computer. Cathy was staring at him in amazement. She looked over at Mike and said, "I've never had a man sweet talk me like that."

Mike laughed and watched what Charlie was doing. Charlie sat back with a grin on his face and said, "Eureka!"

"What is it?"

"Two of those gas stations are owned by Muslims who are on a terrorist watch list," Charlie said.

"Now that is an interesting twist," Mike said sitting down on the nearest chair. If the people working at the gas station were Muslim, they'd be an information dead end. As soon as the first question was asked, they'd be demanding their lawyers. Once the lawyers got involved, that would be the end of it.

The screen in front of Cathy switched over to a woman looking up at the camera with a cock in her mouth. The image was from the perspective of a man looking down at a woman giving him a blowjob. Cathy looked at the picture and decided that she actually liked it. She could understand why a man would like such a picture.

"Cathy, why don't you and Charlie work through the other reports containing gasoline and see if we can't narrow down which gas station they might have used," Mike said. His words snapped her out of her thoughts.

She said, "You need to move."

"Oh, sorry," Mike said after looking at the screen. The woman in the picture looked a lot like his wife. He moved out of the way and let her work.

Over the next few hours a rather interesting picture emerged. There was a network of Muslim gas stations spread over the country such that one could drive from one side of the country to the other side without ever having to stop at a non-Muslim gas station. Even areas where the density of Muslims was about one per hundred square miles had gasoline stations that were owned and operated by Muslims.

Mike sat back and stared at the picture. This kind of work was so far out of his expertise that he wasn't even sure what to do with it. Turning to Harold McKinsey who was on the FBI anti-terrorism task force, he asked, "What does that map tell you?"

"It tells me that there is a huge network in place that can be used to transport people and weapons across the country without raising any suspicions. Mike, I think you have discovered the Jihad transportation network," Harold answered.

The news covered the fall of Israel with less attention than such an important event demanded. Taking a feed from an Arab news service, the Wolf News Channel showed some of the fall, but cut off the transmissions when it became too bloody to show. The Muslims were killing people in the street and leading off young women. Not one reporter was willing to say what future those women faced.

On hearing one of the talking heads on the Coax News Network say that the fall of Israel meant that a major source of conflict between the Middle East and the West had been eliminated and that wasn't an entirely bad thing to have happen, Mike switched off the television in disgust. Angry, he said, "That's it. We're totally fucked now."

"You can say that again," Karen said. She couldn't get the image of the women being led away out of her mind.

Shaking his head at the loss in intelligence information that this meant, Mike said, "You'd think that the liberal press would have covered that story with a lot more diligence. A small country surrounded by enemies is totally destroyed. Isn't that the kind of underdog story that they like so much?"

"No. The Jews have never been viewed as the underdog by the liberal media except when it comes to Germany. Israel has been viewed as oppressors of the Palestinians," Karen said knowing that it wasn't that simple.

"I can't say that I was surprised when the President refused to assist Israel, but that doesn't make it any less disappointing," Mike said. America had a chance to stand with an Ally and had chosen to turn its back in an effort to appease the Muslims.

"We'll never be able to convince another country that we'll stand by them in times of trouble," Karen said.

"You can say that again," Mike said. He figured that their fathers were cursing up a storm.

Karen slipped the rubber over Mike's cock using her mouth to unroll it like she had seen in a television program on the cable television. She hated rubbers. She knew how much Mike hated rubbers, but she had dropped her birth control pills in the hope of getting pregnant. That had been before the attack on the CIA building. She wasn't going to risk getting pregnant until his sperm had been checked out by a doctor. Everyone knew that exposure to radiation could damage sperm.

Karen started to cry. Her tears took Mike by surprise. He pulled her up and hugged her. In a soft voice, he asked, "What's the matter, my love?"

"This is the matter," Karen said tugging on the rubber. With a bitterness that was so strong that she could taste it, she said, "I hate them so much."

"We can use spermicidal foam if you'd rather," Mike said gently.

"Not the rubbers. I hate the terrorists. I want to see each and every one of them dead," Karen said. Pulling back from him, she said, "I want to see them burn. I want to see them writhing in agony as we torture them to death."

"Whoa," Mike said realizing that he was suddenly swimming in the world of tears from a highly emotional woman. He put an arm around her and asked, "What's the matter?"

"They are destroying everything that I love. I can't enjoy my life worrying that I'm going to get blown up by some mother fucking Arab. My college is closed. I don't feel safe going to a mall. I'm scared of going out to eat. They are even forcing me to distance myself from you out of fear that their fucking radiation is going to make me give birth to a monster," Karen said.

Mike didn't know what to say to her without it sounding like a lie. The American way of life was gone and unless things changed soon it wouldn't be coming back. He could envision having to be searched before going into a mall because of the fear that he'd be carrying a bomb. They did that in Israel and people had gotten used to it. Stroking her back, he said, "I'm working hard to make sure that the terrorists won't win. We'll be victorious and life will return to normal. I can assure you that my sperm are not damaged from radiation."

"I'm sorry, but I'm having a very hard time believing it," Karen said.

The rubber never got used that night. Mike spent an hour holding her while she calmed down. It was a long time before she fell asleep in his arms. It was even longer before he fell asleep.

Mike looked into the hospital room and caught sight of the man lying in the bed. Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile on his face and entered the room. Approaching the bed, he said, "Hello Dale."

"Hello, Mike," Dale said. He rubbed a hand through his hair and then frowned when he looked at the hair that had come out.

Dale was a shadow of the man who Mike had met that first day on the job. It was hard to look at the damage that the exposure to the radioactive material had done to him. Concerned, he asked, "How are you doing?"

"I'm dying," Dale said with a frown. He had been standing fifty feet from where the second canister had crashed through the wall of the CIA building. Stunned by the concussion, he had stumbled around blinded by dust for ten minutes before getting out of the area. In that time he had inhaled or swallowed enough radioactive material to kill him.

"Shit," Mike said shaking his head. It didn't matter how many wounded men he had watched die, it never got any easier.

"Don't feel that way. Just focus on getting the bastards who tried to kill us," Dale said.

Mike glanced at the door before he said, "It's not going to be easy. The President has too many Secret Service agents around him."

Dale laughed at the comment despite the pain that accompanied laughing. It was a sad little laugh since he believed there was a grain of truth in it. He did blame the President for his death. He said, "That's the best one I've heard yet.

Mike took a seat and said, "Aside from your husband being shot, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?"

Dale laughed and said, "I take it that your question is a subtle way of finding out how I'm doing despite the fact that I'm dying."

When Mike nodded his head, Dale said, "I'll tell you the truth, I'm not doing well. I'm depressed as hell. I want to get it over with, but I'm too much of a coward to eat a bullet even if I could get a gun in here. My body is decaying while I lie here in this damned bed and there are no drugs or treatments that can change that. I just want to die."

Mike was quiet for a minute and then, after glancing over at the door, softly asked, "Are you asking for some help?"

"No, but I appreciate your offer," Dale answered as tears welled up in his eyes. He reached over and put a hand on Mike's arm. He said, "You're the first one who has really listened to me. I really do appreciate the offer, but I couldn't saddle you with that burden."

Nodding his head, Mike asked, "Is there anything that I can do for you?"

"You can keep me company," Dale answered.

Mike spent a pleasant hour talking with Dale before getting chased away by the nurse who declared that visiting hours were over. The subjects they discussed avoided terrorism, work, and the news. Mike told Dale about having gone fishing with Sanjay and the fun he had. Dale was just as surprised to learn that Sanjay enjoyed fishing and barbecues as Mike had been. It was a very pleasant visit and Mike left feeling that Dale wasn't quite as depressed.

The area around the Internet Café where Mike ran his intelligence group had changed significantly over the past few months. The stores to each side had moved out and the military had moved in. The lot was surrounded by chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Gates with guards prevented unauthorized access to the parking lot. It looked very odd to have so much security in strip mall next to a residential area.

Mike arrived one Monday morning to discover a dozen technicians were in the Internet Café making changes to the entire place. It didn't look like an Internet Café anymore. Although the layout hadn't changed, the room now looked like a military command and control center with large screens across the front of the room.

The largest screen showed a map of the United States with markers of recent terrorist events. The size of the marker indicated the level of significance of the event. Small markers meant a suicide bomber while a large marker identified a crippling attack. At the moment there weren't any large markers on the map.

It should be noted that there were two colors of markers. Red markers indicated acts of terror performed by Muslims. Blue markers indicated acts of terror against Muslims. Although the press was reporting more acts of violence against Muslims, the red markers out numbered the blue markers. Mike knew the screen presented a picture of a nation on the verge of social collapse.

After studying the large map of the United States for several minutes, Mike turned to Jim and said, "I want us to put that network of gas stations that we discovered a couple of months ago on the second screen over there."

Jim typed the commands to generate the map and then display it on the screen. He asked, "Is that it?"

"Yes, but make those gas stations a bright yellow. Then I want you to overlay on that map the areas with population densities of Muslims that are greater than twenty-five per square mile," Mike said looking at the map thinking that there had to be something they could learn from it.

"I don't have the data to do that," Jim said.

"Use the data from the last census," Mike said.

"It won't be accurate. We've had a lot of movement over the past ten years," Jim said.

"Well, the next census is supposed to be taken this year, although I doubt we'll find many people willing to go door to door," Mike said.

After a few minutes of typing, Jim managed to put up green areas on the map that corresponded to the data Mike had requested. Mike stared at the map for several minutes. His intent focus on the map slowly became the center of attention in the entire room. Nodding his head, Mike finally asked, "Does anyone notice anything odd about this map?"

Shirley Holbrook answered, "Well, we have a lot of yellow dots in rural areas along highways without any Muslims living nearby."

"I noticed that too," Mike said. Turning to Jim, Mike asked, "Can you put up all of the major attacks by Muslims on that board?"

"Sure," Tim said. With a few keystrokes the map was updated with the information.

Jack McElroy said, "You know, it is pretty obvious that the majority of major attacks are happening in areas where the Muslim population isn't all that large. They must be moving people and material from one area to another to launch an attack."

"Tim, put up all of the previous residences of the terrorists who were involved in those major attacks on the board. Use red for them," Mike said.

"That's real interesting," Shirley said staring at the map.

Mike went over to the screen and, pointing to various areas while talking about them, said, "We have clusters here, here, and here. There are always a few locals who are familiar with the target and one person who isn't. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have an idea."

"What?" Shirley asked.

"See this area here," Mike asked.

"Yes."

"There aren't any red spots there. Don't you find it odd that it is the only area where we have a high density of Muslims and no terrorists living there?" Mike asked.

"I believe that you are right," Jack said reaching for his telephone. He was ready to call a branch of the FBI offices near that area.

"Hold on, Jack. I'm not done with this," Mike said.

"What are you thinking?"

"Well, I'm thinking that if they are doing the planning and providing material support from that area, then they must be meeting the people who are going to do the actual attack somewhere. I'd bet it is at one or more of those gas stations, particularly those where there is a Muslim owned hotel nearby. The interesting thing about those gas stations is that the people living around them are not Muslims. I suggest that we send people out to talk to those folks to find out if they've noticed anything odd. They'll talk to us," Mike said with a smile.
Lazlo Zalezac
Lazlo Zalezac
Chapter 16