Terminal Compromise

"We will need an army. Not an army with guns, but a lot of people who will follow orders. That may be more important than the money."

h.o.m.osoto took a momentary repose while he thought. "How big an army will you need?"

"My guess? Today? I would say that for all groups we will need a minimum of 500 people. Maybe as many as a thousand."

h.o.m.osoto suddenly laughed out loud. "You call that an army?

1000 men? An army? That is a picnic my friend." h.o.m.osoto was enjoying his own personal joke. "When you said army, Mr. Foster I imagined tens of thousands of people running all around the United States shooting their guns. A thousand people? I can give you a thousand dedicated people with a single phone call. Is that all you need?" He continued his laughter.

Miles was taken aback and had difficulty hiding his surprise. He had already padded his needs by a factor of three. "With a few minor specialties and exceptions, yes. That's it. If we follow this blue print." He pointed at the papers spread before them.

h.o.m.osoto sat back and closed his eyes in apparent meditation.

Miles watched and waited for several minutes. He looked out the expanse of windows over Tokyo patiently as h.o.m.osoto seemed to sleep in the chair across from him. h.o.m.osoto spoke quietly with his eyes still closed.

"Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" Miles was ready.

"Do you love you country?" h.o.m.osoto's eyelids were still.

Miles had not expected such a question.

"Mr. Foster? Did you hear the question?"

"Yes, I did." He paused. "I'm thinking."

"If you need to think, sir, then the answer is clear. As you have told me, you hold no allegiance. Your country means nothing to you."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way..." Miles said defensively.

He couldn't let this opportunity escape.

"You hold your personal comfort as your primary concern, do you not? You want the luxuries that the United States offers, but you don't care where or how you get them? Is that not so? You want your women, your wine, your freedom, but you will take it at any expense. I do not think I exaggerate. Tell me Mr. Foster, if I am wrong."

Miles realized he was being asked to state his personal alle- giances in mere seconds. Not since he was in the lower floors of the NSA being interrogated had he been asked to state his convic- tions. He knew the right answer there, but here, he wasn't quite sure. The wrong answer could blow it. But, then again, he was $110,000 ahead of the game for a few weeks work.

"I need to ask you a question to answer yours." Miles did not want to be backed into a corner. "Mr. h.o.m.osoto. Do you want me to have allegiance to my country or to you?"

h.o.m.osoto was pleased. "You debate well, young man. It is not so much that I care if you love America. I want, I need to know what you do love. You see, for me, I love j.a.pan and my family. But much of my family was taken from me in one terrible instant, a long time ago. They are gone, but now I have my wife, my chil- dren and their children. I learned, that if there is nothing else, you must have family. That must come first, Mr. Foster.

Under all conditions, family is first. All else is last. So my allegiance s.h.i.+fted, away from country, to my family and my be- liefs. I don't always agree with my government, and there are times I will defy their will. I can a.s.sure you, that if we embark upon this route, neither I nor you will endear ourselves to our respective governments. Does that matter to you?"

Miles snickered. "Matter? After what they did to me? Let me tell you something. I gave my country most of my adult life. I could have gone to work with

"I am aware of your background Mr. Foster," h.o.m.osoto interrupted.

"I'm sure you are. But that's neither here nor there. I could have been on easy street. Plug a few numbers and make some bucks for the clan." The colloquialism escaped h.o.m.osoto, but he got the gist of it. "But I said to myself, 'hey, you're good.

Fixing roulette wheels is beneath you.' I needed, I still need the diversion, the challenge, so I figured that the Feds would give me the edge I needed to make something of myself." Miles was turning red around his neck.

"The NSA had the gear, the toys for me to play with, and they promised me the world. Create, they said, lead America's tech- nology into the 21st. century. What a pile of s.h.i.+t. Working at the NSA is like running for President. You're always trying to sell yourself, your ideas. They don't give a s.h.i.+t about how good your ideas are. All they care is that you're a.s.shole buddies with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need a half dozen committees with their a.s.ses greased from here to eternity for them to say maybe. Do you know the difference between a.s.s kissing and having your head up your a.s.s?"

"If I understand your crudities, I a.s.sume this is an American joke, then, no Mr. Foster, I do not know the difference."

"Depth perception." Miles looked for a reaction to his anatomi- cal doublette. There was none other than h.o.m.osoto's benign smile indicating no comprehension. "OK, never mind, I'll save it. At any rate, enough was enough. I gotta do something with my life."

Miles had said his piece.

"In other words, money is your motivation?"

"Money doesn't hurt, sure. But, I need to do what I believe.

Not that that means hurting my country, but if they don't listen to what makes sense, maybe it's best that they meet their worst enemy to get them off of their keesters." Miles was on a roll.

"Keesters?" h.o.m.osoto's naivete was amusing.

"Oops!" Miles exclaimed comically. "b.u.t.ts, a.s.ses, fannies?" He patted his own which finally communicated the intention.

"Ah yes." h.o.m.osoto agreed. "So you feel you could best serve your country by attacking it?"

Miles only thought for a few seconds. "I guess you could put it that way. Sure."

"Mr. Foster, or should I say General Foster?" Miles beamed at the reference. "We shall march to success."

"Mr. h.o.m.osoto," Miles broke the pagential silence. "I would like to ask you the same question. Why?"

"I was wondering when you were going to ask me that Mr. Foster,"

h.o.m.osoto said with his grin intact. "Because, Mr. Foster, I am returning the favor."

Chapter 9

September, 1982 South East Iraq

Ahmed Shah lay in a pool of his own blood along with pieces of what was once another human being.

The pain was intolerable. His mind exploded as the nerve endings from the remains of his arms and legs shot liquid fire into his cerebral cortex. His mind screamed in sheer agony while he struggled to stay conscious. He wasn't sure why, but he had to stay awake...can't pa.s.s out...sleep, blessed sleep...release me from the pain...Allah! Oh take me Allah...I shall be a martyr fighting for your holy cause...in your name... for the love of Islam...for the Ayatollah...take me into your arms and let me live for eter- nity in your shadow...

The battle for Abadan, a disputed piece of territory that was a hub for Persian Gulf oil distribution had lasted days. Both Iran and Iraq threw waves of human fodder at each other in what was referred to in the world press as "...auto-genocide..."

Neither side reacted to the monumental casualties that they sustained. The lines of reinforcements were steady. The dead bodies were thick on the battlefield; there was no time to col- lect them and provide a proper burial. New troops had as much difficulty wading through the obstacle courses made of human corpses as staying alive.

Public estimates were that the war had already cost over 1,000,000 lives for the adversaries. Both governments disputed the figures. The two agreed only 250,000 had died. The extrem- ist leaders of both countries believed that the lower casualty numbers would mollify world opinion. It accomplished the exact opposite. Criticism was rampant, in the world courts and the press. Children were going to battle. Or more appropriately, children were marching in the front lines, often without weapons or shoes, and used as cover for the advancing armed infantrymen behind them. The children were disposable receptacles for enemy bullets. The supreme sacrifice would permit the dead pre-adoles- cents the honor of martyrdom and an eternal place with Allah.

Mothers wailed and beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in the streets of Teheran as word arrived of loved ones and friends who died in Allah's war against the Iraqi infidels. Many were professional mourners who were hired by others to represent families to make them look bigger and more Holy. Expert wailing and flagellation came at a price. The bulk of the civilized world, even Brezhnev's evil Soviet empire denounced the use of unarmed children for cannon fodder.

The war between Iran and Iraq was to continue, despite pleas from humanity, for another 6 years.

Ahmed Shah was a 19 year old engineering student at the exclu- sive Teheran University when the War started. He was reared as a dedicated Muslim by wealthy parents. Somehow his parents had escaped the Ayatollah's scourge after the fall of the Shah. Ahmed was never told the real reason, but a distribution of holy rials certainly helped. They were permitted to keep their beautiful home in the suburbs of Teheran and Ahmed's father kept his pro- fessors.h.i.+p at Teheran University. Ahmed was taught by his family that the Shah's downfall was the only acceptable response to the loss of faith under his regime.

"The Shah is a puppet of the Americans. Ptooh!" His father would spit. "The Yanqis come over here, tell us to change our culture and our beliefs so we can make them money from our oil!"

For a professor he was outspoken, but viewed as mainstream by the extremist camps. Ahmed learned well. For the most part of his life all Ahmed knew was the Ayatollah Khomeini as his country's spiritual leader. News and opinion from the West was virtually nonexistent so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated to his country and his religion.