The number of deaths these weapons have inflicted by guerilla fighters and terrorists around the world is impossible to calculate because there are no end-use controls that prevent them from getting into the hands of undesirables. The potential destruction from the MANPADS on the market is even worse and less excusable.
More recently, a combat theater commander in the Persian Gulf relaxed administrative requirements permitted by operational regulations, which ultimately led to missiles being transported on unguarded trucks and driven by third-country nationals. In addition, ammunition sites were left wide open.
In Europe at one depot, facility managers’ records recorded that 22,558 Category I missiles were in storage. The GAO counted 20,373, a frightening difference of 2,185 missiles. The GAO’s conclusion, enumerated in GAO/NSIAD-94-100:
“It is impossible to accurately determine how many missiles are missing at the item manager or storage level because the services did not establish effective procedures to determine what should be in their inventories.”
In hard numbers, it is estimated that one percent of the worldwide total of 750,000 MANPADS — or 7,500 missiles — were beyond the control of the U.S. military or formal governments. Luis Gonzales had two.
The wires picked up the New York Times story. Cable news ignored it. There were no visuals. But the foreign press took note. Two days after Michael O’Connell’s brief article ran, The International Herald gave it a paragraph on page six.
The United States Army has reopened an investigation into the deaths of seven members of a Special Forces team killed in Baghdad, September 2004. The combatants died during a devastating apartment building explosion. Reports at the time indicated that it was a trap. The exact reason for renewing the inquiry is unknown, but a Pentagon source told The New York Times that some irregularities have recently surfaced…
Canadian Robby Pearlman sipped his latte on the balcony of his suite at the Hotel Meurice. He looked over the Tuileries and the city beyond. It was the Vancouver real estate developer’s third trip to Paris. By far, it was his best.
The tall, athletic businessman turned back to the bedroom where a 26-year-old blonde lay naked on the bed they shared. They’d met the previous afternoon at the Louvre, on a Da Vinci Code museum tour. She was on holiday from London where she worked as a teacher. She was hoping for a suave Frenchman, but the handsome, soft-spoken, well-read Canadian caught her eye.
She slept as he read the newspaper and contemplated what to do.
“Bring your cell phones with you and call in. And you can text message friends, because I guarantee you, it’s going to be too loud to hear any rings.” The phones were an important component to the real success of the Bridgeman March on Washington.
“We’re days away from the biggest political show of force ever to be witnessed in America. You’ll be part of it. You’ll make history. You’ll show the rest of the country and the entire world that we demand change. We demand it now.”
Bridgeman’s picture was on the cover of Time. Inside, there was a sidebar on Elliott Strong. They printed only what they knew; O’Connell had more.
O’Connell discovered that in Atlanta, Strong benefited from another timely merger which put him on stations across the state.
Another announcer was supposed to get the syndication gig, but coincidently, he was the killed in a brutal, unsolved carjacking.
Robby Pearlman ran his fingers down the back of his newest conquest and pressed into her. She felt his hardness against her ass and responded with a tired moan. She really wanted to rest and couldn’t understand how he was ready again.
“In a little while, I’m so tired.”
He pushed closer to her. She reached back and held him in her hand. “Please. Just a few minutes.” Up until now he had been attentive to her needs and pleasure. But now he showed an insatiable appetite. He rolled her on her back and climbed over her. “In a while.”
Pearlman wouldn’t stop. It was as if he stalked her and now it was time to take her down. She tried to resist, but couldn’t. He was too strong, too determined. The man she’d spent the last twenty-four hours with suddenly changed. He became a sexual predator.
“Please! You’re hurting me.”
Pearlman didn’t stop. He didn’t hear her. And least of all, he didn’t care. He was some place far away.
“What’s the matter?” Katie asked. They were already into their nightly phone call and it was clear to her that Roarke wasn’t himself.
“Nothing. I’m okay.”
“Come on, honey, are the bad guys getting you down?”
He was constantly amazed at how well she read him.
“I can’t.”
“You can tell me how you feel,” she offered.
“How do you know me so well?” Roarke asked in return.
“I know you because I love you.”
This was still all so new to him. “And why do you love me?”
“I love you because I know you so well.”
With that, Roarke opened up. Tonight, they wouldn’t have a romantic or sexy conversation. This was a pouring out, equal to what Katie had done when she was in Roarke’s arms. He spoke like they were in bed: lovingly, openly, and honestly. Through it all, he blessed the day they met. Katie vowed to catch an early flight out in the morning. It was time she took her research to Washington, time she tried out Roarke’s bed.
Katie Kessler’s first round of research covered everything from prestigious legal journals to Gore Vidal’s novels. She reviewed Congressional testimony from 2004 and studied fundamental arguments offered by the Founding Fathers. Some of them seemed relevant enough to be heard in the halls of the House and Senate chambers today. When it came to constructing a new framework for presidential succession, there was certainly no shortage of opinion. Kessler read hundreds of briefs: thousands of pages of testimony. But coming up with solid arguments that would stand up to the Constitution was another thing entirely.
As Katie packed her suitcases and stacked her boxes of research by the front door of her Grove Street apartment, she wondered whether she would be able to accomplish what Congress hadn’t achieved in more than fifty years.
Recently, many of the country’s greatest legal scholars went to the Capitol to offer their proposals for amending the succession laws. Nothing came of the testimony. Leading representatives filed a variety of bills. Again, nothing happened. Now Ms. Kessler was going to Washington. She asked herself how she could make a difference. It seemed like an impossible task until she had an epiphany. I don’t have to get a bill passed. She needed to deliver the groundwork. Others would supply the muscle for the heavy lifting. By working for the White House, she could approach succession from the inside, much like Harry Truman had in 1947. Another realization came to her. That’s how it gets done! Not when Congress wants it, but when the president does.
Ideas were taking shape now. They were a combination of disparate thoughts from both sides of the aisle, with a little political dynamite thrown in for good measure.