CALL SIGN - SPLASH

     There was a Navy pilot I knew years ago who'd had a close brush with the Grim Reaper, one of many pilots who’d done so I might add. Thankfully this particular pilot did not get very acquainted with the one holding a scythe. I knew him from my squadron at NAS Oceana, Virginia Beach, VA. His call sign Splash, he'd had a very successful career as an F-14 aviator and was a very well respected fighter pilot. Well before the glory years being in a Tomcat cockpit flying out of Virginia Beach, back in his days of training as a student Naval Aviator during the carrier qualification phase, he'd experienced an emergency in flight, an engine failure. No big deal if you have two engines, but in this case he was in the single engine TA-4J Skyhawk, and while landing, or should I say "taking off?" Engine failure in an A-4 usually meant a return to Terra Firma via nylon letdown, and hopefully alive. In some cases, as what happened with Splash, a parachute never made it into the equation.

     The training was being conducted off the keys on a spring day - clear, calm, sunny, and beautiful. Wind still and ocean flat as a Great Lake, there wasn't even a ripple lest it was a wake. Carrier qualification training back in those days was conducted on CV-16, the USS Lexington, the Lady Lex, now a museum on a bay in Texas. Because of the lack of wind, the dead calm, she was making her own thirty-two knots of breeze over the deck, enough to recover planes. And the flying that day had gone smoothly, been uneventful, launching and recovering student pilots in a constant cycle, evolutions without incident, until Splash had his one problem.

     The engine failure occurred during a "bolter," when the jet "bolts" because the plane's tail hook misses all the wires when landing. Uncommon as it was, commonly that would occur due to pilot error, being too high, too fast, or too flat at touch down. Splash was coming aboard for his final landing of the six day-traps required in order to be qualified a Naval Aviator. He rolled into the "groove," on final, gear down, hook down, and ready to trap aboard, just ten seconds from being in the wires, and the latest qualified Naval Aviator.

     "One oh five, Skyhawk ball," he called over the radio, pulling a little power to adjust for a "float" as he rolled wings level. The "meatball" amber light was in the center of the Fresnel lens, meaning he was on glide slope, and he was lined up centerline, and on speed - a perfect start. A hundred more minor corrections later and he'd be done.

     "Roger ball Skyhawk," came the reply from the Landing Signals Officer, or LSO. "Looking good."

     Like the veteran carrier pilot he wasn't yet, as he crossed over the angle deck he confidently goosed the power just a tiny bit to compensate for the "burble" of the round down, the correction always more significant when the carrier made its own wind. The landing so far was flawless, right on glide slope, and he was right on airspeed, landing in the middle of the arresting cables, the hook hitting twenty feet aft of the three wire where it should if all is on and on. As luck would have it, the hook skipped over the three wire, ticked the four, and then clattered down the deck in a hail of sparks, thus missing all arresting cables entirely. The result was an "in the wires bolter," and something of a rarity.

     Already at military power during the bolter, as carrier pilots land power going to maximum for that very rare occasion, Splash rotated and got his plane airborne. Suddenly the plane coughed, and shuttered violently while passing the bow, as the Skyhawk experienced catastrophic engine failure, simultaneously going into a nose down pitch to port. The jet of course was slow, around 130 knots and decelerating, plus dirty with gear down and only fifty feet above the water. With that kind of configuration, and with zero "thrusties" now available for speed, altitude and life, there's only one procedure to initiate.

     The air boss and the LSOs simultaneously called for "Eject, eject, eject," over the radio.

     Already intensely hawking his RPM, Fuel Flow, and airspeed as they unwound, Splash didn't need the encouragement. Thinking, "Fuck this - I'm outa here," he pulled the lower ejection handle on his seat.

     The Martin Baker seat went through its advertised sequence of events, first jettisoning the canopy, then firing the seat rocket launching it up the rails out the cockpit. The seat drogue chute deployed and seat man separation occurred a split second later. From initiation of ejection to seat man separation one second had elapsed, but unfortunately the aircraft had also continued in its nose down trajectory, and Splash didn't have the altitude to get successful deployment of his chute before water impact. Instead his rag doll body hit the water at 125 mph, but at the precise angle that caused him to skip across a very flat Atlantic Ocean a half a dozen times before stopping suddenly in a big "Splash." He was very wet, but for the most part unscathed, however still needing one more carrier trap for the successful "Qual."  Bolters don't count, no matter how pretty they may be.

     Fortunately for our student that was not his time, and the Reaper saw no reason to stick around. So Splash got back on the horse for one more lap around the track, successfully getting his final trap and his "Qual." A week later he was on his way to Oceana training to fly the Tomcat. He was in a brand new plane with a call sign that would stay with him forever.

Why Brown Won

Published anonymously to avoid the charge of treason, “Common Sense,” a pamphlet written by Thomas Paine became an instant success in January 1776, selling 120,000 copies in its first three months and half a million in its first year. The mantra of Paine’s work, which was structured much like a Quaker preacher’s sermon with sprinklings of Biblical verse, was an incendiary argument for the abject rejection of British rule. Paine’s words galvanized an incensed colonial population, uniting attitude with action. “Common Sense” called for independence of thought and self-rule and that’s exactly what the colonies got.

Two hundred and thirty-four years later there has been a new calling for common sense and again the people, from the very state where thought morphed into action and resulted in revolution, have spoken. Perhaps it’s fitting that Republican Scott Brown has been elected to the United States Senate from Massachusetts, a state known as much for liberal leanings and fortunately once again, for common sense as well.  But the message that Scott Brown touted in his campaign for the special election of the late Ted Kennedy’s vaunted seat, was pretty obvious – “We can do better.” “Yes we can.” Sound familiar?

Two issues were at the crux of Scott Brown’s huge upset over Martha Coakley, healthcare and terrorism. The democratic candidate fell in line and backed the ridiculous policies of the Obama administration regarding the grossly mishandled Christmas day underwear bomber, policies that resulted in a lawyered-up terrorist and forever lost intelligence, all at the expense of American’s liberties, and paid for by them. Common sense came to light as the Massachusetts electorate said, “Wait a minute – that’s doesn’t make any sense.”  Scott Brown as in turns out is for waterboarding on extreme case terrorist subjects and doesn’t consider the method of interrogation to be torture. Abdulmutallab is hardly an extreme case, however that being clear, read his Miranda rights and excused from interrogation after just 50 minutes of light questioning - an action green-lighted by the Obama administration, supported by Coakley, and rejected by voters in the Bay State. Scott Brown capitalized on that part of common sense, but what really sent the people over the top was the debate on health care.

Massachusetts has its own health care plan and the anger welled up for the commonwealth’s voters at  Harry Reid’s hastily put together plan, full of secretive negotiations and backroom deals – the cornhusker kickback, the Louisiana Purchase, deals funded by taxing the health care benefits of people and employers who already had plans of their own.  Senate democrats insisted that only “Cadillac” plans would be taxed, but regardless of the automobile associated with the tax, Massachusetts voters saw the plan as having very little to do with common sense and spoke with their votes.

For their part, the Obama administration quickly threw Coakley under the bus. How could the State’s Attorney General lose after having such a huge lead? Surely it must be because she was a terrible candidate and having nothing to do with president’s policies.  In fact, according to team Obama, Scott Brown’s win was a re-affirmation of the Obama victory in 2008. Robert Gibbs on Scott Brown’s win as said to Chris Wallace on Fox News Sunday: “More people voted to express support for Barack Obama than to oppose him.” No kidding – he really did say that. A loss is not a loss after all – it’s a win for Barack Obama. 

Chris Wallace: It wasn’t the same thing that swept Barack Obama into office. Scott Brown explicitly campaigned against the Obama agenda. His approval rating among that electorate was 61%. Their enthusiasm for Republican policies among that electorate was 40%.

Chris Wallace: But your not suggesting that this was a mandate for Barack Obama?

Robert Gibbs: No. Of course not. But I’m also not suggesting that what you said a minute ago meets the truth test either.

Chris Wallace: You don’t think that when they voted for Scott Brown they were voting against Obama’s policies?

Robert Gibbs: That’s not what they told pollsters. No.

Robert Gibbs on Scott Brown’s win: That may be what he campaigned on but that’s not what the voters in Massachusetts said in the Washington Post poll… They did a poll of voters who participated in why they voted. Right. More people voted express their support for Barack Obama than to oppose him.

Common sense prevailed with the electorate of Massachusetts on Tuesday but was vacant from the White House and now President Obama has embarked on a new urgent populism that will never work. The reason it won’t work has to do with the President himself and his own ideology – common sense will see right through it.

FDNY Helping Hand - The Earthquake Excerpt from "Falcon On The Tower"

JUNE 14, 2008

BAGRAM, AFGHANISTAN

Kicking up Afghan dust, the combat vehicle bounced along an unpaved perimeter road of the airfield, the Hindu Kush jutting up in the distance. The mountains were particularly spectacular, a phenomenon created by the massive amounts of fine dust stirred up and now airborne from the quake. The afternoon sun illuminated the magnificent peaks and the dusty, light orange veil, surreal against a foreground of tactical airplanes, helicopters, and tanks; nature’s art, a vivid painting masking the human tragedy that lay on its slopes and in its valleys.

Normally buzzing like an active beehive, Bagram was standing down for twenty-four hours as its own damage assessments were made following the catastrophic earthquake. The combat vehicle, a jeep, was Bryan’s ticket to a Black Hawk helicopter, the crew performing preflight checks on the north end of the field. An old acquaintance was in the back of the jeep, and his escort to a devastated North West Frontier.

“Captain Craig, ets good ta see ya sahr.”

“And great to be seen, Sergeant Major MacLean,”

“Hop in sahr, aye understand we’re goin’ ta the frontier again.”

“Yes, we are,” he said, happy to be teamed with the SAS man again after so many years.

Not as concerned with secrecy this time into Pakistan, they jumped off the UH-60 Black Hawk Medevac helicopter, the pilot managing to find flat ground a quarter of a mile from the village. The flight then continued on with three CIA investigators to the militant encampment destroyed by the Predators. The flight back to Pakistan had been uneventful, and the destruction caused by the earthquake hardly evident from the air; but once on the ground, Bryan and the Sergeant Major, medical kits in hand, could see the extent of the damage. They were certain the Kalash village that was their destination, would be in shambles, along with dozens of other villages.

The first of the shocked Kalash survivors welcomed the two Westerners with tears in their eyes, their village unrecognizable. Bryan began asking for Shamema, but no one had an answer.

“Da ya know which way to go sahr?” the Sergeant Major asked as Bryan surveyed the rubble that was a village teaming with activity.

“First we’ll do our best to find Shamema, if she’s here, maybe help out some, then shove off to the lake,” Bryan said. If Shamema were unhurt, she’d be there with other first responders.

“Which way’s the lake, sahr?” Wolf MacLean asked.

Bryan looked at the GPS. “I’ve got the lat and long, so we can use the handheld,” Bryan said. He looked up and followed a track of people over a low ridgeline, some carrying injured on wooden litters. “But I imagine we can also simply get in line with those people.”

As they walked through what appeared to be the center of the Kalash village, Bryan saw the remnants of a sign sitting atop a pile of rocks, partially covered by corrugated tin. ”Hold on a sec Wolf, I need to check for something here,” Bryan said, as he set the medical bag down. Carefully stepping onto part of the razed structure’s roof, he began searching through the piled up debris.

DUSTING OFF THE BOOK, he opened it. Difficult as it was to believe, it escaped damage, all pages intact, none torn. The leather bound cover avoided even the slightest bruising, front and back remarkably unscathed. As if by miracle, the nineteenth century registry seemed to be the one inanimate object untouched by a massive earthquake that destroyed almost everything else man-made.

“I’ll be damned,” Bryan commented.

“What’s that there, sahr?”

“Some history, Sergeant Major – just some history,” Bryan said, as he balanced himself on top of the loose pile of rocks and wood.

From his new vantage point he surveyed the slopes of the hills down to a tight valley. They were very close to the epicenter of the earthquake. Confirmed as an eight on the Richter scale, it shook the region to the very core, toppling hillsides, rock avalanches razing villages. Officials predicted at least one hundred thousand dead, and more than two million homeless across the North West Frontier of Pakistan and Kashmir. It was complete turmoil and utter chaos, made worse for a land isolated by lack of proximity.  

First responders were just now arriving, not quite two days after the first major tremor, much quicker than previous events. Bryan wanted to stay and help, and he would for a time. However, his primary mission was not earthquake rescue. He had to get back to Dubai, but wanted to do what he could here first. These people needed help, and their dead Mehtar had helped him. It simply was the right thing to do. First, get the old book and its contents if possible; the answers to some questions might be inside.

It came suddenly and with surprise, although the people living in the mountains had warnings of sorts, living with earthquakes, knowing them to be a recurring event. But seismologists couldn’t predict exactly when the natural disasters would occur. So instead, the people went about their daily lives as normal, oblivious to the imminent danger. In retrospect, it struck Bryan that the event was a metaphor, the victims’ apathy similar to the denial of many where he came from, an ignorant bliss in the face of their own imminent dangers, albeit man-made circumstances. Bryan cast off the notion of worry however, “If you worry about it, then terror and fear win. But be very prepared however, and live everyday to the fullest, without fear,” he reasoned. “But most of all - be prepared.”

Regardless of the difficulty to predict the earth’s shifting faults, the Pakistani government nevertheless failed to adequately prepare for the inevitable, or quite possibly, “Humanity had failed, not just one government, but all governments collectively failed these people before the disaster, and the many other disasters that preceded this one,” Bryan privately suggested. So the earth punished them once again, as it had done twice only three years before, and twelve times before that, over an equal number of centuries. It was a certainty to return and kill again, and it did, resulting in a humanitarian catastrophe of epic proportions, an historical cataclysm.

The North West Frontier was still licking wounds from the quakes of 2005. Large seismic events that also left more than one hundred thousand dead, scores of villages destroyed and millions homeless. Structures not reduced to rubble then, had been severely fractured, finally taken down by the new earthquake and its aftershocks. Bryan was seated on a pile of that debris as he perused the valuable book he’d just recovered from the rubble of a stone house.

 Trying to preserve the artifact as much as possible, he delicately cut along the edge of the inside back cover with a penknife. The fine opening was just wide enough to carefully remove the contents, meticulously placed there many years ago, a kind of time capsule. There was a square piece of tin, which he hastily looked over, and behind it, a single sheet of paper folded twice into quarters. The metal square was somewhat familiar; almost identical to one he’d seen before, so instead he focused his attention on the old piece of paper, unfolding it. It was a drawing in pen and ink - a falcon.

“Well that’s interesting,” he said to himself, somewhat disappointed. “This is all that’s in here? It seems to pose only more questions,” he thought, as he put the contents in his vest pocket. Picking up the knapsack of medical supplies that he’d brought, he stood up just as another intense aftershock began to rumble.

Deep within the earth’s interior, its crust floated on a superheated mantle, but not as one large piece, but rather as ten major pieces, tectonic plates broken apart, in direct conflict with one another. The Hindu Kush-Kashmir quake was the result of such a conflict, a collision that had been going on for fifty million years.

Carrying the entirety of the Indian subcontinent, the India tectonic plate was crashing into the more massive Eurasian plate, initially at a speed of sixteen centimeters per year, now reduced to a third of that, yet still in motion. As the two giants met, great    forces   thrust   the   earth   upward in a “mountain generating” process the Greeks defined as orogeny. 

 The Himalaya orogen gave Asia an immense mountain range stretching from the plains of Afghanistan to the northeastern border of China and India. In geologic time it was a young topographic relief, still reaching higher, creating the world’s tallest water tower, and supplying fresh water for one fifth of the earth’s population.

With the lofty geologic upheaval came growing pains, natural stressor releases in the form of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. In recent years the movement of the Indian plate was responsible for more than the just the large quakes three years before, but also the huge Indonesian interplate earthquake the year before that as it ever so slowly slips under the Burma plate. And each major earthquake was followed by hundreds of secondary quakes and aftershocks, such as the six point two magnitude that was occurring at that very moment.

“Goddamn it,” he said as he helplessly watched the ground give way beneath him. His footing completely disturbed, he lost balance, dropping the book and bag of medical supplies. He watched helplessly as the valuable items disappeared under a pile of rocks and debris.

Luckily unhurt, he looked up to see the side of a steep hill nearest him, only a hundred meters away, begin to break up, and turn into a deadly rockslide. Bulldozing through the remnants of the north side of the village, it pulverized temporary shelters, survivors and rescuers. Screams from the injured, perhaps a dozen or so, some young, most not, could be heard as Bryan picked himself up, aided by the SAS commando.

Grabbing the dropped items, they hurriedly made their way with others to the rescue area, running across broken land as fast as they could to render help. It was an unconscious, involuntary reaction. Most people just did it.

“Hurry, people are buried. We need to get them out, quick – help us,” a man screamed in English at them as they ran hard uphill to the pileup of trees, rocks, earth, and people.

They began pulling away boulders, boards, and whatever was in the way. Rescue was priority number one, and as he pried away debris, he could see a hand, a mangled arm, and then a face. It was a woman; she was alive. They pulled her to freedom and to life; now for the next person, and so on. Amazingly, all survived. They were the lucky ones, lucky that others were there to help, or else their fate would have been sealed, like so many others before.

Moving away from the steep hillside slopes of the village, they joined an endless procession of survivors, many badly injured and being carried. Over the next fifteen hours they trudged along en masse, solemn, across a small, narrow valley, over a ridgeline and down to a glacial lake, arriving mid morning. The banks provided the flattest and best area for rescue helicopters conducting relief flights out of the earthquake zone to hospitals in Rawalpindi and Peshawar. The steep cliffs of the surrounding terrain were also far enough away from the mobile hospital so as not to pose an immediate threat to relief workers when an avalanche did occur.

In the center of four tents for triage were Shamema, three English volunteers, and an American from the International Rescue Corps, administering emergency medical assistance to the critically injured. They were surrounded by dozens of hurt and homeless, thousands more were on their way. 

Shamema looked up, brushing her light brown hair to the side, smiling at Bryan, her bright blue eyes registering deep feelings of gratitude for his being there, and maybe something more. He handed her the medical kit as he spoke, “Morphine, antiseptics, antibiotics, and a few odds and ends.”

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she answered, putting her hand on his face. He looked tired, she thought. She wanted to help him too.

“Just a start and probably won’t last you an hour,” he said, noting the medical emergency camp was already being overwhelmed.

“Yes, but at least a start,” she said, her eyes sparkling with hope.

She was a beautiful person, both inside and out, he believed.

Another rumble from an aftershock stopped them in mid conversation. Several people strolling near the lakeshore were knocked to the ground. In the distance, a gigantic ice sheet that was part of a cirque, previously cracked and dislodged from numerous tremors finally gave way and began a slide into the dark lake, the displacement creating a five-foot wall of water. The wave, and smaller ones, moved in all directions towards the banks. The panicked ran haphazardly in all directions, frightened for their lives. But as swiftly as the shockwave arrived, it dissipated, sparing more from being hurt. All breathed a sigh of relief.

Bryan calmly resumed, “Shamema, I spoke with officials in Islamabad, there’s a Chinook helicopter on the way here with more emergency equipment. I’m hoping there’ll be several flights coming here - unfortunately their resources are stretched thin.”

“Clean towels – can you please ask them to send more clean towels - and bandages?” Anything clean was at a premium.

“We’ll call on SATCOM for you, and whatever else you need,” he said, putting his arm around her small shoulders.

“Thank you again. I’ll make a list for what we need, but I must attend to them first,” she said pointing to the crowd outside the tent. “What are they bringing now?” Shamema asked, as she motioned for a man holding a child in his arms to come towards her.

Bryan stepped aside, shocked at the condition of the new patient, whose tattered clothes were covered in dried blood.

“Well besides medicines, antibiotics, I believe generators, lights, and water purification equipment. Two teams have dropped in just to the east of here – they’ve got fiber optic probes and thermal imaging cameras. Maybe they’ll find more survivors,” he said, hoping for more rescue, and less recovery, but time was running out.

“I pray that we can do more for them,” she said.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he said, as he rubbed dust stirred by the last aftershock from his eyes.

He looked at the man with the child as Shamema helped the two. A young boy; perhaps only three or four years old - badly injured and near death, eyes partially opened, mouth gaping. He was in dire need. Even the boy’s father looked as though he too needed immediate medical attention, clothing torn, soiled with dried blood and dirt. Shamema took the boy from his father; the man’s face registering complete hopelessness and loss, his wife and daughter dead, the boy was all he had. Shamema laid the unconscious youngster on a cot.

“He’s a high fever, and absolutely dehydrated - I can barely feel a pulse,” she said checking his vital signs. “What’s his name?” She asked the father in a Dardic dialect of the region.

“Latif,” the man said brushing away tears. He began speaking very rapidly to Shamema; she held his hand to calm him.

“His home and village are destroyed, most people are dead. He found his son this morning. The boy was underneath his mother, she protected him as a wall collapsed on top of them - all of his family was lost, his brothers, sisters, wife and daughter,” she said, translating for Bryan’s sake. Another relief worker approached them to render assistance, he could see the boy was critical and wouldn’t last long.

“Wa’da we got ere?” He asked with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“His name’s Latif,” Bryan said looking at the boy’s near lifeless face, his pupils partially covered by his eyelids.

“Okay little buddy, wha ’da we got? Unconscious – dehydrated – pulse, but slight.  Let’s get ya goin, we need some fluids in this litta fella, stat,” the New Yorker said as he looked for a place on the boy’s small body to insert an IV. “He’s got nowheres on ‘is uppa body that’s any good. How’s a’bout’s your leg Latif, ya tough little guy,” he said.

Bryan watched as the American went to work. He was obviously experienced in rapid treatment, as he expertly felt the boy’s legs for a good spot to place the needle. The man’s hands were big and strong, surprising for a doctor, Bryan thought. In fact, the man himself was powerfully built, like a football player, Bryan concluded.

“There we go, right ere. Tell ‘is old man ta start prayin ta Allah,” the American said as he finally found the right spot. “Come on now kid – show me what ya got – live,” he said, squeezing the bag of saline solution to encourage the flow.

Latif’s father, a pathetic site, stood close by sobbing, hungry hands clenched near a heavy heart. He feared the worst, and for good reason, for these survivors the worst was generally the result. The unfortunate man believed his son was already lost, soon to be in a grave with the rest of his family. Then to the father’s astonishment, unexpectedly the lifeless face began to show color, and his eyes, big, dark eyes, opened wide, suddenly full of life.

Shamema was cleaning dirt off the boy’s face when cries of discomfort bellowed from his tiny mouth, cries of being alive again. Tears of overwhelming joy streamed from his father’s face. The Muslim Pashtun from North West Frontier embraced the American, thanking him over and over in Pashto and English. “Sta na shukria – tahnk you, sta na shukria – tahnk you,” he said gripping the American’s hand with both of his.

“Doctor, the name’s Bryan Craig,” he said, introducing himself to the fellow American.

“Hey, there - how ya doin – Angelo, John Angelo, and sorry pal, but I’m no doc,” he said, as he carefully examined the boy for broken bones and other maladies.

“What kind of medical training do you have then?” Bryan asked curiously.

“Firefighter – ladda twenty four, F D N Y,” he said proudly. Now it was beginning to make some sense, Bryan thought, including the man’s size and apparent physical strength.

“What brought you here, helping these folks – you know, as a volunteer?” Bryan asked, somewhat surprised.

“What brought me ere? Because they need help - yeah, that’s why I’m ere – anyway, I was a medic in the Army too – so I jumped on a plane ta help out. Tol’ my wife I’d be back when I got back. Arrived just a couple of hours ago,” the firefighter said.

“These people will be very thankful, I’m sure of it,” Bryan said looking out at the endless advance from the devastated land.

“I go where people need help, simple as that,” John added, as he too looked out at the hoards. Bryan felt pride in meeting a man with such unselfish qualities. A true humanitarian and citizen of the world, he exemplified the best of mankind as a whole, Bryan thought.

“We thank God that all of you have come to help us,” Shamema said, as she continued to care for Latif. “We would lose many thousands more without you.”

“Yeah, at least we can give em somethin they can hold onto, ya know? That man there,” the firefighter said nodding toward the Pakistani man standing by his son’s cot. “He’s gonna remember I saved his son - an American saved his only son. He’ll never forget that. That’s how to win their hearts and minds,” he emphasized. “Ya see, the best approach is to take the high road, if ya know what I mean.”

The high road, what a curious a phrase, Bryan thought.

“I wouldn’t doubt you’re correct on that one,” Bryan said, seeing the irony of a New York firefighter, one who had no doubt lost so much to Islamic terrorists; friends, perhaps a brother or father, yet here in Pakistan helping the helpless. Helping Muslims. No, helping people.

“Captain Craig, sahr, just spoke tae Lieutenant Thomas – ‘e says tha’s on the way ere, ten minutes tae pick ye up,” the British SAS man said as he entered the tent.

“Thanks Sergeant Major. Well, I should get ready to shove off then,” Bryan said, turning to Shamema. “I’ll be taking this.” Bryan held up the book.  “But, I’ll make sure that it gets back to you safe and sound Shamema,” he promised.

She silently nodded her head and smiled.

Bryan stepped outside the tent as the first Chinook was landing nearby, throwing up dust as the pilot searched for a level place to set down. The firefighter and Shamema were rushing the boy and IV to the helicopter; he wasn’t out of the woods just yet, the next few hours would be critical. The emergency flight would take the boy, and as many injured as the helicopter could safely carry, to the Holy Family Hospital in Rawalpindi, a facility with experience in caring for earthquake victims.

As the helicopter flew south and out of site, Bryan faintly heard a jet engine somewhere nearby. Looking up, he tried to follow the sound to its source, finally spotting the aircraft high up in the sky over the lake. It was an F-16 dispatched by the Pakistani Air Force for a quick reconnaissance of new damage caused by the latest aftershocks.

“Hmmm, a falcon,“ Bryan said to himself, thinking it coincidental, reminding him of the contents in his jacket pocket. He felt for the items, the piece of paper and the tin square, removing them. Studying the drawing again, he admired the artist’s quick sketch, and thought it remarkably accurate. He looked at the tin, a family portrait, and he could clearly see Afzal for the first time. Younger than Amir Kahn at the time of the time of the tintype, maybe in his late teens, Afzal looked remarkably similar. Like twins! He felt something rough on the back of the tintype. He turned it over and found writing, etched into the metal. He read it. Bryan then pulled the old book out, opening it to the back, suddenly realizing that there was more there. The book had a false back, hiding more pages. He ripped the cloth away. “There’s writing here,” he said out loud to no one. There were more pages, old pages of handwriting. Letters, a journal!

 

We Got The Bastard - a prologue to the next post

DECEMBER 25, 2001

HINDU KUSH MOUNTAINS

HANIF ZAR WALI WAS TWENTY-TWO when he was found hiding in back of a stone Pashtun outhouse. Filthy, hungry and near hypothermic, he was curled up asleep under a pile of dried goat bladders that were used to carry water. He’d been there for twelve hours, and was awakened by the warm splatter of urine from a man now accustomed to relieve himself outdoors rather than in.

The sudden movement of the pile got the attention of the Special OPs commando, who without interrupting his stream, lowered the business end of his M4 assault rifle and kicked away the bladders, revealing prey. The sleeper’s eyes opened to see a bearded hunter looking down at him, expressionless. The Navy SEAL continued on with his job at hand, but now had a tan, well-worn boot placed firmly on the dreaming man’s throat. Hanif Zar Wali tried to speak, uttering “Baaz,” before the SEAL shifted his weight, spun the rifle, and dropped the butt squarely on the sleeper’s forehead.

The Terrorist Got Hit In The Field: So What! - an excerpt from Falcon On The Tower

 JUNE 7, 2008

DUBAI

It was early morning and the sun was just beginning to rise, shining on the Persian Gulf. Bryan was looking out the window of his Burj al Arab hotel room and thinking about the leads on the terrorists he had so far. His cell phone rang. It was DJ.

“Mornin boss – aye’ve got some answers for ya,” DJ said. “Aye got three matches an aye’ve forwarded everthin ta the FBI. They’re workin to find the two o the blokes now.”

“I thought you said there were three,” Bryan said.

“Yeh, aye did say that, but one of em doesn’t make sense,” DJ said. “’is name’s ‘anif Zar Wali.”

“Zar Wali’s dead,” Bryan exclaimed, waking up Shannon, who was curled up on the sofa under a blanket.

“Aye told ya it wouldn’t make a bit o’ sense. But another thing - aye thought the bloke looked familiar when aye saw his mug shot an aye was right - e was at yer bloody camel race.” Bryan checked his Email for the JPEGs.

“Are you sure?” Bryan asked, in disbelief.

‘Look et the next JPEG boss, aye pu’ a beard on ‘im. Maybe ye’ll recognize ‘im now?”

DJ was right it was the same man; they matched. Bryan was looking at a ghost.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be damned - that’s why I thought the son of a bitch looked familiar,” Bryan said. “Well it’s a certainty that Hanif Zar Wali’s dead, so who’s the look-a-like?”

“’It’s my conclusion boss. Has ta be his identical twin. It’s the only possible conclusion, aye mean FaceScan es always right.”

“And he’s associated with Rowley, no doubt about that,” Bryan said. “Shannon, dig up everything you can on Mister Mohammed. Let’s see if we can link these two. Thanks DJ.”

 “Ya got it, boss. Cheers,” DJ said, hanging up.

The news was disconcerting to a degree, calling for more unanswered questions. The first thing was to investigate Hanif Zar Wali’s twin, bring him in for questioning if possible.

“Obviously we want to keep this quiet,” Shannon said.

“Yeah, I don’t want Rowley suspicious.”

“Tell me more about Hanif Zar Wali,” Shannon asked, now fully awake.

Bryan delved into story of Hanif Zar Wali for Shannon. “He was picked up in the early days of Enduring Freedom - same time frame as Abdul-Malik.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Northeast, in the foothills of the Hindu Kush. He and Malik both were thought to have been at a camp that we took out. They may have been two of the only survivors.”

“Right, now I remember something about that – Hanif Zar Wali died in the infirmary at Gitmo. It was thought initially that his death may have been caused by abusive tactics of the CIA or military interrogators,” Shannon said, now vividly recalling the details. “That caused a stir.”

“Yeah, until they figured that he’d suffered a concussion when he was first captured in battle and had a brain aneurism waiting to pop. The NIS got involved – JAG was lookin into possible charges against a Navy SEAL,” Bryan said as his thoughts went back to Afghanistan seven years before. “During a hearing in front of the investigators, it was asked how the militant was apprehended, you know – what sort of force was used.”

“They were in a combat area, aren’t you supposed to use force?” Shannon asked.

“It was a Marine Corps JAG with a bug up his ass, fishing for anything – he was standin there demanding, ‘What did you do to subdue him?’ The reply was that Zar Wali had been hit,” Bryan said with a short chuckle.

“Did you say the SEAL responded that he hit him?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said, but the SEAL’s counsel, a Marine Captain, jumped up and said ‘Well I believe that it’s already been stated, under oath, that poor Mister Zar Wali was found asleep in back of an outhouse and was apprehended after having been given a butt-strike.’”

“What’s a butt-strike?” Shannon asked.

“Same thing the Major wanted to know. And the Marine Captain went on to describe it as a ‘Method of delivering a good ole shoein’ when your fists are full of rifle and a boot’s also otherwise occupied – as in the case of the Navy SEAL, who had his boot on the combatant’s throat, one fist full of his rifle and the other full of his gun,’” Bryan said, now laughing.

“What?”

Still laughing, Bryan continued, “The Marine Captain, a Southern guy from Alabama, was just makin a fool of the investigator, then said ‘A butt-strike is just a good ole fashioned shoein’ with the rifle. You simply bring the non-shooty end of the implement into contact with the head, balls or other interestin’ part of whoever is in one’s bad-graces at the time.’ Case closed.”

  “Maybe his twin doesn’t think the case is closed though,” Shannon said.

“Getting revenge, a new caliphate, to reclaim old territory – what’s the common ground?” Bryan asked.

“You just answered your own question Bryan. It’s all common to fanatical Islamists.”

“Fanatical was the best way to describe Hanif Zar Wali,” Bryan said. “Maybe this twin is just as fanatical.”

“Weren’t tapes recovered from the camp?”

“Videos of both Malik and Hanif training along with other recruits. More accurately, it was Hanif that was actually conducting the training. He’d been a hard core terrorist with plenty of training, a member of the Pakistani army, and assignments that included cross training with U.S. Special forces prior to 9/11.”

“And he was a double agent?”

“He looked and played the part of the best of the best Pakistani soldier, but was really working for the other side. Very intelligent and highly skilled, he would’ve been extremely valuable if we’d been able to keep him alive. Strange event happened though.”

“What’s that?” Shannon asked.

“Before goin’ to Gitmo, he’d been detained at a Pakistani facility and they had an uprising there – a few other detainees escaped – a guard was killed, and when order was restored they found Zar Wali unconscious. He’d been perfectly fine prior to that,” Bryan said, stopping for a moment. “He came to, but was never quite the same – in and out of consciousness all the way to Gitmo. Doctors said he was delusional and died very shortly after arriving of a ruptured brain aneurism.”

“Maybe that was a good thing. At least he wouldn’t have been released. Think about how much worse it could have been now,” Shannon said.

“Oh, he never would have been released. Trust my face on that one, Shannon,” Bryan assured her.

“Just curious about one thing that you never mentioned though,” Shannon said.

“What’s that?”

“Did you know the Navy SEAL, I mean did he work for you?” Shannon asked earnestly.

“Why, do you want to do a profile on him?”

“Just might, you know, you never can tell,” she said with a wry smile from the corner of her mouth. “So did you know him?”

“You can say that.”

“Who was he?”

Bryan looked at her coldly, unblinking, emotionless. “I was the Navy SEAL.”

The Attorney General and The Wax Argument

THE FRENCH philosopher René Descartes imparted one very crucial philosophical lesson that can be applied as a practical manner to the crisis of leadership before the American people, particularly when considering the circus trial soon to come to New York.  The lesson had to do with the limitations of the senses wherein Descartes devised something he called the Wax Argument, and it goes exactly like this:  think for a moment, of the physical composition and properties of a piece of wax at room temperature; in essence, the shape, color, texture and smell of the wax.  Now take that very same piece of wax and place it on a skillet, which is then set atop a burning stove. Watch what happens to the wax – the observable properties have changed completely, but in actuality it is still just a piece of wax. The lesson: the nature of the wax can’t accurately be grasped by the senses, but instead one must use their mind.

“And so something which I thought I was seeing with my eyes is in fact grasped solely by the faculty which is my mind.”

              Descartes couldn’t be clearer – what you see is not necessarily what you get, or in the case of President Obama, what you see and hear is not what you get at all.  The special relationship that the president has sought with the American people as his poll numbers have withered below fifty percent approval, has reached a certain level of ambiguity that very little of what is offered as sincerity from the White House mouth piece of the day can actually be taken in earnest. Think of Eric Holder if you're stumped for an example of blazing ambiguity, if not borderline incompetence. Watch the video and use your mind.

The overused word heard time and time again as of late is “dithering,” but in reality the mind tells us “deer in the headlights.” Surely so many missteps in such a short period of time couldn’t have been planned - the exception of course being the Administration’s seething attack on the CIA. The subjugation of CIA interrogators is nothing more than appeasement to the far left as Mr. Obama’s mainstream center evaporates, pure and simple. Give the left the revenge they seek. Chalk one up for the Obama team. 

Like the kid in the sandbox who bullied and when caught blamed others for his misdeeds, blaming everything on the previous administration is boorish and beginning to wear thin, as does the revenge arrows left in the quiver.  What happens when all the arrows are gone and promises fall on deaf ears much the way as with the boy who cried wolf?  (same bully in the sandbox) For this Administration of arrogance the follow up to the rhetoric is naïve if not deconstructive, or perhaps more to the point, outright destructive.

Are the convictions and the executions of the 9/11 five a fait accompli, as Mr. Obama and Mr. Holder have both stated, a forgone conclusion, or simply more examples of wax. One would think that a trial of such magnitude in which all defendants are pleading not guilty and receiving the same legal considerations as any citizen, would allow for the introduction of any and all evidence possible by the defense to thwart the prosecution, including possible examples of torture. The question then surfaces – who is really on trial?  Is it Khalid Shaikh Mohammed and his band of fellow al-Qaida conspirators, or the Bush Administration, so as to satisfy the insatiable appetite for scorched earth revenge by the fringe left? The price for such revenge will be high and the damage severe. A win at any cost?

             That the CIA had used waterboarding on KSM, there is no disputing – a   total of 183 times in fact, at least according to a 2005 US Justice Department memo released in April 2009.  The memo was confusing, but the number 183 did not represent the total number of sessions that KSM was dragged  from his cell kicking and screaming, but the number of times water had been poured on his face. The admitted mass murderer could very well have undergone ten sessions of eighteen pours, or eighteen sessions of ten pours. I don’t really care – having been waterboarded myself while undergoing SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) training when I was a Navy fighter pilot. (The exact same techniques used on all Special Ops forces and pilots were taught to interrogators.) It’s just not that bad. My kidney stones hurt much worse than the waterboarding.

What I do care about are the atrocities that Mohammed admitted to and the plans he had for future terrorist attacks. The list is mind boggling and scope of the evil, chilling.  There were a total of thirty plots in addition to 9/11; the one that stands out most in my mind was the gruesome beheading of Daniel Pearl by KSM personally. I saw the video.

Either unwittingly, or via duping (I hope not maliciously), the Attorney General Eric Holder, and therefore the president have provided a circus forum for the 9/11 defendants, KSM in particular, to spew the venomous vile demonstrated during the military trial at Guantanamo in 2008. As KSM can be expected to do in a federal courtroom of much greater visibility, during that trial the al-Qaida terrorists fired their lawyers and used evidential procedure to go so far as to even question the presiding judge.  Poking a finger in the air, Mohammed scolded the judge, Colonel Ralph Kohlmann, "How can you, as an officer of the US Marine Corps, stand over me in judgment?" I see Jack Nicholson in the role as Colonel Kohlman. To the Attorney General he would bark, "You can't handle the truth." Or is it the other way around? Are KSM and the others being brought to New York because they are in the same grave danger as was Private Santiago? Is there a code red ordered?

At the end of the Gitmo day, Mohammed and his co-conspirators collectively decided they wanted to plead guilty to all charges, which would apparently have ended the trial, the prosecution, and seemingly put a curtain to the case in its entirety. Not so fast. In comes a new administration with a new agenda, and without al-Qaida defendants to showcase grievances against the previous administration if guilty pleas are accepted and the case is closed. FUBAR at its most vulgar.

"What I'm absolutely clear about is that I have complete confidence in the American people and our legal traditions and the prosecutors, the tough prosecutors from New York who specialize in terrorism" – Barack Obama

What about the rest of the detainees in Cuba? A number of detainees are still being held without due process or the promise of ever being tried at all, in New York Federal Court or Military Tribunal or by Commission. Has Holder opened up the proverbial can of worms with a multi-tiered system for prosecuting al-Qaida? During his appearance before the Senate Judiciary Committee, Holder seemed to uncomfortably, if not incoherantly argue with himself over that sticking point and the decision to put KSM on trial in New York. Clearly he had zero cogent criteria to invoke. On one hand he is imploring the sanctity of our judicial system and the rights of terrorists captured abroad, and on the other, indefinitely denying a jury trial to many more still being held at Guantanamo. Watch the video again above or read the transcript from the questioning and answer session below : 


Transcript, via NPR—of all sources—of Sen. Lindsey Graham’s (Chameleon-SC) pummeling of Attorney General Eric Holder (ZANU PF) on Wednesday, during the Justice Department oversight hearing held by the Senate Judiciary Committee.

SEN. GRAHAM: "Can you give me a case in United States history where a enemy combatant caught on a battlefield was tried in civilian court?"

ATTY.. GEN. HOLDER: "I don't know. I'd have to look at that. I think that, you know, the determination I've made—"

SEN. GRAHAM: "We're making history here, Mr. Attorney General. I'll answer it for you. The answer is no."

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "Well, I think—"

GRAHAM: "The Ghailani case—he was indicted for the Cole bombing before 9/11. And I didn't object to it going into federal court. But I'm telling you right now. We're making history and we're making bad history. And let me tell you why.
If bin Laden were caught tomorrow, would it be the position of this administration that he would be brought to justice?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "He would certainly be brought to justice, absolutely."

SEN. GRAHAM: "Where would you try him?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "Well, we'd go through our protocol. And we'd make the determination about where he should appropriately be tried."

SEN. GRAHAM: Would you try him—why would you take him someplace different than KSM [Khalid Sheik Mohammed]?

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "Well, that might be the case. I don't know. I'm not—"

SEN. GRAHAM: "Well, let—"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "I'd have to look at all of the evidence, all of the—"

SEN. GRAHAM: "Well—"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "He's been indicted. He's been indicted already." (Off mike.)

SEN. GRAHAM: "Does it matter if you—if you use the law enforcement theory or the enemy combatant theory, in terms of how the case would be handled?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "Well, I mean, bin Laden is an interesting case in that he's already been indicted in federal court."

SEN. GRAHAM: "Right."

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "We have cases against him." (Off mike.)

SEN. GRAHAM: "Right, well, where would—where would you put him?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "It would depend on how—a variety of factors."

SEN. GRAHAM: "Well, let me ask you this. Okay, let me ask you this. Let's say we capture him tomorrow. When does custodial interrogation begin in his case?
If we captured bin Laden tomorrow, would he be entitled to Miranda warnings at the moment of capture?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "Again I'm not—that all depends. I mean, the notion that we—"

SEN. GRAHAM: "Well, it does not depend. If you're going to prosecute anybody in civilian court, our law is clear that the moment custodial interrogation occurs the defendant, the criminal defendant, is entitled to a lawyer and to be informed of their right to remain silent.

The big problem I have is that you're criminalizing the war, that if we caught bin Laden tomorrow, we'd have mixed theories and we couldn't turn him over—to the CIA, the FBI or military intelligence—for an interrogation on the battlefield, because now we're saying that he is subject to criminal court in the United States. And you're confusing the people fighting this war.

What would you tell the military commander who captured him? Would you tell him, "You must read him his rights and give him a lawyer"? And if you didn't tell him that, would you jeopardize the prosecution in a federal court?"

ATTY. GEN. HOLDER: "We have captured thousands of people on the battlefield, only a few of which have actually been given their Miranda warnings.

With regard to bin Laden and the desire or the need for statements from him, the case against him at this point is so overwhelming that we do not need to—"

SEN. GRAHAM: "Mr. Attorney General, my only point—the only point I'm making, that if we're going to use federal court as a disposition for terrorists, you take everything that comes with being in federal court. And what comes with being in federal court is that the rules in this country, unlike military law—you can have military operations, you can interrogate somebody for military intelligence purposes, and the law-enforcement rights do not attach.

But under domestic criminal law, the moment the person is in the hands of the United States government, they're entitled to be told they have a right to a lawyer and can remain silent. And if we go down that road, we're going to make this country less safe. That is my problem with what you have done.

You're a fine man. I know you want to do everything to help this country be safe, but I think you've made a fundamental mistake here. You have taken a wartime model that will allow us flexibility when it comes to intelligence gathering, and you have compromised this country's ability to deal with people who are at war with us, by interjecting into this system the possibility that they may be given the same constitutional rights as any American citizen.

And the main reason that KSM is going to court apparently is because the people he decided to kill were here in America and mostly civilian, and the person going into military court decided to kill some military members overseas. I think that is a perversion of the justice system."


         I'm scratching my head. Trials for some and commissions for others, and for others, held without charges. What happened to transparency? The administration has already gutted their case before it’s begun. Once the notion has been endorsed that the Government has the right to imprison some never captured on any battlefield, denied due process and trial, as Holder is doing both implicitly and explicitly, the rationale to bringing Khalid Shaikh Mohammed to trial in New York has been torpedoed.

“Courts and commissions are both essential tools in our fight against terrorism . . . On the same day I sent these five defendants to federal court, I referred five others to be tried in military commissions.  I am a prosecutor, and as a prosecutor, my top priority was simply to select the venue where the government will have the greatest opportunity to present the strongest case with the best law. . . . At the end of the day, it was clear to me that the venue in which we are most likely to obtain justice for the American people is a federal court.” Eric Holder

Where’s the legal opinion to back such a notion? Through inexperience and arrogance the administration is walking through a minefield of its own making and ultimately, as well as unfortunately those that will suffer the most as a result will not be the terrorists, but instead the interrogators whose reputations will be further sullied by a circus show trial and the families of the victims who will have to relive the murders of their loved ones, once again lit up by the lights of  an unscrupulous media.  It’s all just wax.