Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">“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. Homosoto. Do you want me

to have allegiance to my country or to you?”

Homosoto 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 Japan 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 shifted, 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 assure 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 my family . . .my associates . . .”

“I am aware of your background Mr. Foster,” Homosoto 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 Homosoto, 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 shit. Working at

the NSA is like running for President. You’re always trying to

sell yourself, your ideas. They don’t give a shit about how good

your ideas are. All they care is that you’re asshole buddies

with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need a

half dozen committees with their asses greased from here to

eternity for them to say maybe. Do you know the difference

between ass kissing and having your head up your ass?”

“If I understand your crudities, I assume 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 Homosoto’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?” Homosoto’s naivete was amusing.

“Oops!” Miles exclaimed comically. “Butts, asses, fannies?” He

patted his own which finally communicated the intention.

“Ah yes.” Homosoto 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. Homosoto,” 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,”

Homosoto 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 pass 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 breasts 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-

fessorship 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