makes like a bat out of hell for his station, picks up the phone, and taps a few numbers. After several seconds, he is connected with Colonel Malcolm Fizer.
Colonel Fizer is a man who does not care for small talk or chitchat. He wants any situation report as quickly and clearly as possible. He is a military man through and through, and this characteristic resonates in his stern, demanding voice.
“What is it, Sergeant Kaley?”
“Sir, I've got something very unusual down here,” Kaley responds.
Not sure of any forthright way to explain it, Kaley simply details what they have found.
“It appears that, um…well, sir, we discovered a signal of unknown origin coming from the middle of Lake Michigan.”
“I'm already quite aware of the situation, Sergeant,” Fizer replies evenly. “We received a call from the Pentagon not more than five minutes ago. Apaches have been dispatched and it ceases to be our responsibility.”
“But, sir, from where have these choppers been dispatched if-”
“It is no longer our responsibility, Sergeant,” Fizer abruptly cuts him off, “and I hope that makes it perfectly clear.”
Kaley knows that Fizer is a somber man, but the tone of his voice sounded borderline threatening.
“Yes, sir-”
The phone clicks before Kaley even has a chance to affirm the colonel's statement.
Sergeant Kaley hangs up his end with a nagging sense of things left unfinished. He is a man who typically follows orders without question or doubt, and he has always maintained a rigid belief in the military's chain-of-command. Conversely, he has also never been one to acquiesce easily or fails to complete a task or challenge presented to him. His curiosity gets the better of him as he rushes back to Private Rushmore's station.
“Private, what's the status of our mysterious signal?”
“Sir, our satellite is no longer in range,” Rushmore indicates.
Kaley considers this for a moment, then leans in and quietly asks, “Do we have other satellites flying over that area?”
“Uh . . no, sir,” Rushmore says hesitantly, “at least not any military ones.”
As a result of his curious nature and his inherent need for having closure on everything he starts, Sergeant Jonathan Kaley asks a question that will change his life forever.
“Well, Private Rushmore, what other eyes up there can we look through?”
Washington, D.C. – Biltmore Hotel
A group of gentlemen ranging in age from their late 50s to mid-80s have gathered in a large suite of the private Biltmore Hotel, located on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. They mill around in suits and ties with looks on their faces consisting of a potpourri of emotions: nervous anticipation, quiet anxiety, and even outright fear. None of them doubt, however, what is to be done tonight. None of them second-guess the nature of this bone-chilling business into which they have incorporated themselves.
A handful of the men assembled here lived through World War II, all of whom fought and served courageously during the conflict. One man in the room was on the bombing mission over Hiroshima. Several men were present when the Allied forces opened the gates of the concentration camps and witnessed firsthand the atrocities the Nazis inflicted on innocent men, women, and children. Nearly all of the men in this room were involved in the campaign considered the only war in which the United States got their asses thoroughly kicked, in a small slice of jungle in Southeast Asia.
Those who served in Vietnam were mostly colonels, generals, and admirals. They were the top brass not directly involved in the deadly jungle firefights and skirmishes that defined the war. They were vital intelligence-gatherers, whether participating in or simply sanctioning the rather brutal tactics and interrogation techniques typically only used by the most barbaric of America's enemies.
It was a war where the enemy was unseen, damn near impossible to find, and oftentimes ambiguous. Their adversaries were not merely the North Vietnamese, but hundreds of thousands of civilians on both sides of the battle lines. A child could be packed with explosives as she ran into the eager arms of an American soldier only wanting to help. Everyone was the enemy, even the innocent.
Tonight, it seems the innocent have become the enemy once again. It is neither their fault nor intention to be involved in the events of tonight, but it is simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To these men, there is a war raging, and it has nothing to do with the battles in the mountains of Afghanistan or the deserts of Iraq. The repercussions of this war are much more grave. And it is especially these men that know the innocent are always unfairly sacrificed in conflicts and warfare. It is, they all know, the way of the world.
The events of tonight and over the ensuing hours do not merely involve America's interests. The interests these men have charged themselves with protecting are those of humanity's, and the consequences of this wager are nothing less than catastrophic.
Tonight, the survival of the human race is on the table.
The harsh sound of a cellular phone rings in the hushed room and everyone turns to look at the source. A man named Moriah takes the phone from the inner pocket of his suit coat, answers it, and listens for a moment. He gives an imperceptible nod and wordlessly flips the phone closed. He places it on the table in front of him, his eyes lowered, contemplating the news he has received.
Moriah's gaze slowly rises from the table and the men gathered in the room see a look that speaks volumes.
However, to make certain everyone knows without a doubt there is no turning back, he says slowly and deliberately, “It has begun.”
TWO
Tamawaca Beach, Michigan
Sean O'Connell cherishes these weekends more than anything in the world – only the three of them at the cottage for the Fourth of July weekend. No aunts or uncles or cousins running around. No grandparents fussing over anything and everything. No schedules or classes for him.
No worries, he thinks, as they wait for the show to start.
He shares a blanket on the beach with his wife, Isabella, and their 5-year-old son, Conor. The weekend thus far could not have been more perfect. The weather has been fully cooperating, they have kept Conor entertained with plenty of boating and go-carts, and Sean and Isabella even managed a night out alone while their neighbors watched the lad. He knew coming up here for the summer would be a good idea.
Sean O'Connell is a professor of political science and history, but not the kind of history with timelines and endless dates for his students to memorize, regurgitate and then quickly forget. His teachings have the students focus on historical events from a different angle, rearranging the pieces over and over again until they form a complete picture of the players involved and their oftentimes underhanded and dubious motives. It seems too general at first, he knows, like he is using too broad a stroke on the canvas. But after a while, his students begin to enjoy this new, unconventional way of thinking, and the canvas soon becomes whatever they want it to be.
Sean uses various examples in class to illustrate his belief that the vast majority of history
