The report on the computer monitor began to blur about six inches away from Donna’s face. She wanted more coffee, but she was so tired she knew it would only make her shake. Why are the Chinese sabotaging the peace in Timor? What do they have to gain? They don’t even seem to be hiding it…
“…Ms. Klein, Ms. Klein?”
Donna looked up to see a middle-aged, vaguely familiar man in a white shirt, out of style blue polyester tie and a pocket protector. He was one of the few remaining seismologists the CIA had left after the end of the Cold War and the virtual halt to underground nuclear testing caused most of them to retire or return to academia.
“Ms. Klein. Can we talk?” The man stood hovering over Donna’s work area.
Donna sighed. She wanted to go home and catch some sleep. It was almost 9 PM. “Sure. What do you have?”
“Well, we received an indication of some seismic activity in China.”
“A quake?”
“Not exactly. Well, at least I don’t think so…” the man looked very uneasy, almost sick.
Donna didn’t have time for games at this time of the night after the fifth consecutive day of less than five hours of sleep. “What the hell do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”
The analyst flinched at Donna’s retort. He was afraid no one would welcome his hypothesis. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you, it’s just that you have a reputation as someone who views China with a little more suspicion than most.”
Donna was almost livid—a ‘reputation’? “Tell me what you want to say and get it over with. I want to go home, it’s late.”
The man gulped, “I think the Chinese have conducted four nuclear tests. They were very small and timed in a way to make it look as if it was earthquake aftershock activity.” The man blurted the last out as if he wanted to finish his report and run.
“Are you sure?” Donna stared at him with bloodshot eyes.
The man thought about his career. He was only a year away from a decent retirement. The higher-ups wouldn’t like this. That’s why he came to Donna Klein. He looked down at his shoes, “No. I’m fairly sure, but unless they test again in the same area, I can’t for certain say they’ve resumed nuclear testing.”
Donna began putting on her walking shoes. “Fine. Look, why don’t you send me an e-mail. I’m going home.”
It was snowing lightly for the drive home. Donna turned the news on and cranked the radio’s volume. She also cracked her window an inch — the freezing air kept her awake. There was another casualty among the peacekeepers in East Timor, this time an Australian. She sighed and was about to switch to a music station when the anchor quickly transitioned. “…and in other military news, the White House announced the withdrawal of the nomination of General Smithton for Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Smithton’s nomination ran into trouble when it was rumored that he pressured a subordinate officer into having sex with him. In a surprise move, the White House nominated Air Force Lieutenant General Timothy Taylor for the post. If the Senate approves the move, the 51-year-old widower will be getting his fourth star and will be elevated to the nation’s second highest military post.”
Donna remembered Taylor from the war game—so his interest, if more than professional, wasn’t completely out of line. She rolled her eyes—the man was 24 years older and it was just a couple of lingering glances…
Colonel Mike Flint took another sip of his strong, black coffee. Elements of the III Marine Expeditionary Force had landed three weeks ago. As their numbers built up to more than 12,000 Marines, Flint’s 31st MEU gradually pulled back and re-supplied. One advantage of performing a real world mission was that his unit received supply priority. His MEU logistics officer could get parts delivered to the middle of nowhere in a week, instead of waiting four months for as was more often the case than not lately (he remembered it was last like this back in ‘78 when he was a newly minted second lieutenant).
Just as Flint was beginning to enjoy the morning, Lieutenant Colonel Burl, his XO, walked in. Redeemably, Major “Rez” Ramirez, his intelligence officer, was behind him.
“Hank, ‘Rez’, top of the morning to you! Coffee?” Colonel Flint smiled. The officially worried look on Burl’s face was not a good sign.
“Sir, I’ve just come away from the daily UN staff briefing. It seems the commander of the Chinese police contingent is going to lodge a protest about your refusal to tell him about our operational plans.” Burl’s tone had a hint of self-justification. He’d warned Flint about the diplomatic minefield he was navigating.
“Who the hell is he going to tattle to? The Secretary General of the United Nations? Hell will freeze over and the President will join the Corps before I tell that sonofabitch when and where my Marines are going! We’ve already taken twenty-one needless casualties in this ‘paradise’ and I’ll be damned if I’m going to get any more of my boys killed because some communist cop wants in on our plans.”
Burl looked ill, “What should I say to the UN command, sir?”
“Don’t say a damn thing.”
“But…” Burl stammered.
“NOT A DAMN THING! Understood?”
Burl nodded silently.
Flint turned to Major Ramirez, “Rez and I have to talk. Alone.”
Burl stalked out the door of the white adobe command post.
Flint suddenly looked very old and very tired, “Rez, I just don’t know if it’s worth my staying on to see the bitter end for this. I can see it coming over the horizon. The bastards send us in to do their dirty work for them. Gradually, their Ivy League sensibilities get the best of them. Before you know it we’ll be wearing blue helmets and we’ll be left with pocketknives and a government-issued kazoo that we can hum ‘Kum-ba-yah’ with to all the locals so they can learn to get along with each other. This job isn’t fun anymore. In fact, I really hate this job.”
Ramirez’s bemused look turned gradually to concern as Flint spoke. The colonel looked up and saw the effect his words were having and quickly turned things around, “Rez don’t worry. I’m just having a dark moment. I’m sorry I let you see it. It was unprofessional of me. You’re one of best officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. I take too much advantage of that.” Flint smiled broadly and warmly, “As long as I can serve with Marines such as you I’ll still love my job just enough to keep coming back for more.
“Say, you must have a reason for coming here. I know you don’t pal around with Burl for shits and grins. What’s up?” Flint was now completely transformed back to his old self. Ramirez marveled at his commander’s resiliency.
Ramirez began slowly, reluctant to destroy his commander’s newly reconstructed good mood, “Sir, I just came from the daily Third MEF intel brief…”
“And…?” Flint asked.
“And things are getting interesting.”
“I don’t like it when you intel types say ‘things are getting interesting.’” Flint was mockingly petulant.
Ramirez chuckled, then in a flash was deadly serious, “Sir, three things. One, we’ve been told to expect greater activity from the extremist militia groups. Sources say they’re being armed and equipped in base camps in Indonesia.” Flint rolled his eyes—this sounded too familiar — base camps, guerrillas. Who said things ever change? “Rez” continued, “Two, we believe that Indonesian commandos are infiltrating into East Timor in platoon size units. They probably have up to a battalion in East Timor now. They’re mainly in and around the Ramelau Mountain region.” Ramelau Mountain was Timor’s highest peak at 9,490 feet high. It was about 50 kilometers south, southwest of Dili. “Three, Iraq is building up armored forces on its border with Kuwait.”