SAMPLE A CHAPTER:Synopsis - Prologue - #15 - #17 - #18

A Sneak Preview of a chapter from Geometry

Chapter 28 - Gentlemen, Start Your Jihads

"So, Dad, how come there's so many different Gods?” Karen poured a cup of coffee. She had only recently started drinking it. Not because she liked it, but because it helped to take away the morning fog, remnant of the night before’s partying. And it was growing on her.

"There aren't,” Stan looked up from his Stars and Stripes to see his youngest daughter holding up her head with one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Great. One more drug for you. He passed her the half and half.

Done with the real news, Stan opened the paper to the comics. It was good to see the same old silly pictures and dumb storylines of the same comics he had grown up with all the way over here in Germany in his American newspaper.

“Whatever,” Karen rested her foggy morning head on her hand, “So how do you know whose is real?”

Stan had enough on his mind. Where is this coming from? Why is my girl intent on discussing philosophy and religion at dawn when she can’t even hold her head up yet?

“I mean, what’s the point of church? Why are all those people wasting their time?” Karen took the front page from him and looked at the picture: Jimmy Carter, looking worn and tired, like she felt this morning.

"That’s why I’m not a preacher anymore, baby,” Stan put his paper down, “Too many people wasting my time, wasting God’s time, wasting their time."

Karen flipped over to "Random Notes From Rolling Stone," her favorite part of the Stars and Stripes.

“Jiihad and all this other shit. Ain't God," Sam said with a trace of disgust, draining the last of his second cup.

Stan rose and put a hand on Karen’s head. He sighed to himself. Politics and religion. What about English and Math, girl?

“So, how do you know so much? You got a lock on God?” Karen smiled up at her Dad weakly and took another sip of the bitter cup before adding another drop of half and half.

“No. Never. But he’s got a lock on me,” Stan kissed her on the head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That afternoon, at the Abrahms building, the building that housed the offices of many high ranking V Corps brass, a bomb went off. It wasn’t the first American building to be bombed that year, and the suspects were the same ones as before. The Red Army Faction, remnant of the Badder-Meinhof Gang, a pro-Communist, anti-American renegade band of young Germans who saw violence as a way of being heard. They wanted the U.S. out. They wanted their country back. It was supposed and proven that some of their support was from Arab countries that held an equal distaste for all things American, as well as support from East Germany and the Soviet Union. They didn’t care who they killed to make their point. In fact, killing was making their point. They weren't large in number, and their cowardice and outlaw behavior were roundly criticized by the German press, politicians, and people. The few gang members who hadn’t been rounded up yet were still carrying the message of “death to America.” No murders this day, though. Just some shattered glass, a charred floor, some frightened officers and clerical personnel, and a couple of cuts from the glass. And a growing concern that the Cold War was getting warmer.

“Stan, what happened?” Carol had been on the phone since early afternoon, getting the details from wives who knew anything. But Stan would know more.

“Lemme get in the door first, baby,” Lt.Col. Shelby took off his hat and hung it on the same set of hooks he’d been hanging it on for years. Even the screws that mounted the hooks to the wall would get taped to the back of it before it got packed.

“It was those Red Army punks again. Same style. Same weak explosives. Same kind of target. But this one pisses me off. Abrahms is just a couple blocks from the High School,” Stan went to the kitchen as he spoke, ready for the evening’s martini.

“Alan’s been talking about it all day. I guess they heard the blast at school. So no one was hurt?” Carol pulled the olives from the refrigerator.

“Not bad. Not this time,” Stan leaned against the counter and stopped pouring the vodka.

“They’re small, right? The Red Army Faction?” Carol looked at him, knowing he was trying to squeeze it into a compartment, figure it out and shelve it.

“Yeah. And really just kids,” Stan put the lid on the shaker and went about his ritual of first shaking his drink with his right hand, then switching to the left for the final few shakes.

“Well, no one was hurt. That’s the important thing,” Carol smiled and put a hand on Stan’s chest.

“I guess. What’s for dinner?” Stan didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He’d been talking about it all day. With other MI guys, with connections he had at Abrahms, with some young lieutenants under his command.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Guys. Settle down. It’s not war,” Stan had heard the lieutenants getting riled near the coffee maker about the bombing.

“Hey, Colonel,” LT. Daniels, the one who had been honest on his recent evaluation and was on his way out of the service because of that honesty raised his styrofoam cup toward his CO, “But it sure as hell feels like war, sir, when they’re bombing our fucking buildings. Sir.”

“Ease up, Lieutenant. The German authorities are working with the MPs and this thing will get worked out. It was probably the Red Army punks again,” Stan grabbed a styrofoam cup.

“Round the little bastards up and make an example of ‘em,” LT. Davidson chimed in.

“That’s what’ll happen,” Stan flipped the spout and let the coffee fill his cup.

“It’s Bundes everything with these Germans, sir. Have you noticed? Bundesbank? Bundeswehr? Federal, sir. Federal train, federal army, federal this, that, and the other thing,” Daniels handed his CO a packet of powdered cream.

“Just like us, Daniels. Federal reserve, federal post office. And you are in the federal army, Lieutenant,” Shelby tore the packet open.

“For a little while longer, anyway, sir,” Daniels tried to smile.

“Sorry, son. You’ll be alright. You did the right thing. You’ll get a good letter from me,” Shelby stirred in the powdered cream with a plastic stirrer.

“Still, sir," Davidson handed the CO a napkin, “It's not like we’re here just for the Commies. We’re really here to have to keep these clowns down, too. Like they didn’t get it the first time. All caught up in their German pride and their heritage and their bundes shit. They’d probably do it again.”

“Sit down, assholes,” Shelby took a seat at the lone table in the coffee room, a metal table with four folding metal chairs. Willy Daniels and Ira Davidson both took a seat. They liked the CO. The old man was fair. And to be called “asshole” by the old man as he asked you to sit was something special. It meant he was going to talk to you like a real man, not like a subordinate.

“Name the first three things that come to your mind, Willy, when I say, ‘America,’” Shelby stirred his coffee, not looking at the boy who would soon be trying to find a job.

“Baseball. Hot dogs. Apple pie,” Daniels smiled at Davidson, not just because he thought his answer was clever, but because the CO had called him Willy.

“Great. You watch commercials. That’s the best you can do?” Stan gave him a mock sneer that made Willy laugh sheepishly and lower his head. “You’re up, Ira. What about you?” Stan turned to Davidson.

“Well, sir...I’d say duty, honor, and country,” Ira looked at the Colonel, hoping his answer was the one he was looking for.

“That’s good, Ira. But we all know you went to West Point. You don’t have to rub it in,” Stan laid the stirrer on the napkin, “Lemme put it to you this way. What do you feel when you see the flag go up the pole in the morning and the bugle plays reveille?”

“Pride,” the lieutenants said in stereo.

“And what do you feel when the flag comes down at night and they play taps?” Stan sipped the scalding liquid.

“Pride,” they looked at each other.

“And what do you think Germans feel when they sing Duestcheland Uber Alles?” Stan rolled up the stirrer in the napkin and tossed it from his chair into the trash can near the coffee maker. He knew they wouldn’t answer, “And what do you think the Germans feel when they see their flag go up the pole?” The boys were still silent.

“Pride that divides, gentlemen,” Stan rose from his chair, “And what do you think some Germans feel when they see our flag go up in their country and they hear our reveille in the morning?”

The lieutenants didn’t rise with their CO. Willy thought he had something to say, but stopped himself.

“We’re guests, men. Never forget it,” Stan took his coffee with him and left them to their silence.

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