Dad said he had lived a good life and simply wanted to die at home surrounded by his wife and son, not in some hospital room hooked up to life support. Both Mom and Dad had living wills in which they indicated they wished to be terminated rather than run up large medical bills. Robinson figured he was a long way from signing a living will, but knew that one day he would do it. In the end he felt his father was right. “Enjoy your life as best you can and let it go when your time has come.”
He had several papers he picked up that morning before boarding the plane. The New York Times followed the recent events closely.
256 Die in Tragic Terrorist Attack
It went on to describe the events earlier that week and inquired if the White House had been up front with all the details. It quoted the Press Secretary, “It was a painful decision to give the order, however the lives of our American men and women are a first priority. It is the president’s sworn duty to protect its citizens and the military personnel that protect us. To say the least, the event was extraordinary and it was our forces that were the target of this unwarranted attack upon the Fifth Fleet.”
When he was asked about the Iranians role in the incident he responded, “The Iran Air Flight 645 was of course a commercial aircraft from their country and they did respond as best they could, however our forces detected it a few minutes sooner and arrived on the scene with four Super Hornets. The Iranian forces were allowed to inspect the aircraft over the Arabian Sea and allowed our forces to continue the mission — which of course was to destroy the target on the president’s order.”
When questioned about the nature of the Iranians and the Americans working together in the joint mission he had an answer. “I am allowed to tell you that there were some tense moments and that the Iranians were prepared to the best of our knowledge to bring down the plane. We do not know that for sure, but it was the only recourse for anyone on the scene. Regrettably the nature of taking hostages is that when it ends tragically as it did in this instance, the hostages end up as the victims and die. The president’s feeling was that our forces earned priority in the mission in that it was quickly determined that the USS George H.W. Bush was indeed the target. Had the target been an Iranian super carrier, I would think the president would have acted much differently and would have ordered our forces to stand down at the appropriate time. In the end it was a rare joint effort by countries that are often at odds with one another.”
The article went on to say that from all appearances based upon the extensive internet coverage of the tragedy that the Iranians may very well have been content to see the USS H.W. George Bush sent to the bottom of the sea.
Robinson used the remote to turn up the volume on the TV. King Faraj, King of Saudi Arabia was speaking. “… and it was indeed unfortunate for the tragedy in the international waters of the Arabian Sea. Some sort of protocol must be formulated for occurrences such as this. A committee should be formed to study this problem and recommendations could be brought to the Assembly for a vote. My country has officially condemned the USA for its part in the incident and it is unfortunate there is not some sort of retribution that should be made to the families of the Iranian victims. I would propose a figure but leave that to others. Of course no amount of money could ever be enough to repair the damage for such a flagrant act of aggression against the Islamic World.…”
He shut off the volume. There was no point in listening to the diplomatic world which compared to little children throwing tantrums in a sandbox and kicking sand into one another’s faces. He decided to grab a Coke out of the fridge and stretch his legs for a minute. A glance out the window indicated he was over land, probably somewhere in the Sahara Desert in upper Africa. Another couple hours and he would land at Ben Gurion International and take a limo surrounded by DSS agents to the home of the prime minister. He pressed the remote to the sound “… of the events and the callous disregard of human life we will withdraw our oil commitments to the USA effective immediately for a period of one year. Thank you.”
It was a threat without much substance. Little oil from the Saudis ever reached our shore. The price of oil had reached a new high with the current crisis and prices at the pump hovered somewhere around five dollars a gallon. The oil traders were having a field day as the prices went up hourly as everyone knew the president would soon need to curtail the Strategic Reserve.
Within the guarded compound of the prime minister’s house Robinson could see a white picket fence much like Carol Turner’s home in Petoskey. She often ran out to greet him whenever he visited. She was a twelve-year old neighbor that was always in high spirits and never failed to come running across the yard in flowered dresses with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Hi ya’ Uncle Houston!” She would throw her arms around him and shower him with kisses. She called him “uncle” although they were not at all related. After dinner he would gather the neighborhood children in his ragtop Pontiac and head to the beach with inner tubes, face masks and snorkels.
White sails always dotted the icy blue water of Lake Michigan as far as the eye could see, while seagulls scavenged along the beach hoping the tourists would toss some scrap to them. On Sunday evening a small orchestra could be heard that did a performance in the band shell on the outskirts of town. The echoes of pop tunes and military marches would drift over them while the sun settled in the west. They would light a campfire and burn s’mores on a stick while attempting to outdo each other with horror stories.
Carol was special. She was a gawky rather fragile looking young child with innocent blue-green eyes and a chin that receded a little. Her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she spoke of frivolous things or shined with a fever when she spoke of animals. She talked to every dog that wandered up and down the beach as though they were human and cuddled them whenever they would allow it.
On one occasion they came across a seagull with a broken wing. “It will surely die unless we save it.” She picked it up and carefully held it in her hands. “Poor thing — I will take it home and one day he will fly again with his brothers.”
Robinson was greeted by a trio of Mossad agents while militia stood by with rifles. They were about to take him through the full security routine with the facial recognition and the finger printing when Harazi appeared in the doorway and waved them away.
He escorted Robinson inside where they wound their way through a maze of rooms filled with peach-colored upholstered furniture and tan leather couches. The library featured a huge domed ceiling with the light peeking through several skylights and the walls were filled with shelves of antique books that looked as though they had not been read. They marched down a stunning hallway where magnificent renaissance oils in elaborate gold frames lined the walls. A central patio reminded him of the one in Mirafores Palace in Caracas with the palm trees and lush pink and lavender flowers sitting in cream colored pots. Water cascaded down a wall and sparkling water flowed into a pool lined with granite and papyrus. In the corner sat a baby-grand piano with a parasol offering shade.