The Anvil of the Craftsman: Jon's Trilogy, #1

Chapter 1:  The Art of Condescension

Britteridge College

Sheffield, MD

December, 2005

In the previous ten minutes, Jon Wayne Anthony had found a parking spot on a campus with not nearly enough of them, dropped an overloaded briefcase and laptop on his cluttered desk, and taken the stairs up one more flight to the Admin offices. Pausing here on the fourth floor of Roberts Hall, he gave his ensemble one last quick check.

Jon’s attire was nicer than usual today, but he still looked the part of a casual academic. His light brown hair and close beard set off his rounded, thin glasses and lent him the aura of a student. A wool jacket and loosely knotted tie made him up as enough of an adult for his students to call him Mister Anthony. Straightening, he paused for a breath as he opened the door to Dr. Wainwright’s outer office, at what he knew was precisely a quarter to eight in the morning.

Being Dr. Wainwright’s secretary meant Judy Spencer inherited to a degree the power of the inner sanctum she guarded, Anthony thought. The woman was by all appearances personable enough but had a smile holding little warmth for anyone not able to office here on the top floor of Roberts.

Good morning, Jon. You’re running early. There is coffee on if you’d care for a cup.

Thanks—but I’m plenty awake this morning, Anthony said, knowing she understood why.

Doctor Wainwright’s expecting you, of course, she said and smiled again, seeming almost amicable this time. Have a seat for a few minutes.

Anthony nodded and picked a chair across from the double door where anyone coming through would see him. To appear nonchalant he placed his sweating right palm on the thigh of his trousers, preparing it for the handshake he knew was coming; it needed to be warm and dry.

It had started twenty-four years ago with Sister Millie’s first-grade class back home in Muncie, as a succession of nuns elevated him through the ranks of St. Mary’s Elementary and High Schools and saw him graduate. He’d then displayed the temerity to apply for and win an academic scholarship to the Lutheran Valparaiso University and still felt indefinably guilty. His mother had not been as thrilled as Dad, who appreciated the economics of his decision.

Valparaiso held up its end of the bargain, though. He was preparing for his senior year there, with dual majors declared in Theology and Education, on a summer Friday in ’96. It was the day Mom and Dad had their accident on the 31 outside of Plymouth, as they had been coming to see how their son was settling into his first apartment.

An only child, he had to attend an avalanche of duties after his bad time; it was two years later when he finally finished his undergraduate degrees. Two semesters afterward, he gained admission into the graduate school at Britteridge College. The ivy-covered halls on the hill overlooking Sheffield, Maryland, had been his home for the last half-decade plus. Anthony nearly winced at the thought of the campus being home as he waited. Here, graduate work was a sentence.

As an Ivy League private college founded by endowment in 1865, Britteridge was renowned as one of the elite institutions of higher education. Generous in its postgraduate stipends and lauded for the quality of its alumni, it also distinguished itself with the viciousness of its faculty politics.

Before coming here, he had little exposure to politics, as Robert and Mary Anthony had not been political people. Both managers in the factories of Muncie—Dad for General Motors and Mom for Westinghouse—they had been far too busy for such things, even voting now and again each for different candidates. Anthony had been much the same as he started work on his Master’s in Theological Studies. Well before he had handed in his thesis the realities of the place settled in. However he wished otherwise, the eternal sea of hierarchy was unavoidable now as he pursued a PhD.

On the Britteridge campus, education and politics merged. They had ever since an unpopular war fought thirty years and more ago, one over before he was born. Students, some of them anyway, protested the conflict on this campus with notable enthusiasm. They burned their draft cards and anything else the college was willing to sacrifice. Inevitably, those who never left ripened slowly from students to graduate students through staff and into tenured professorship. From there to even department head, the grim thought reminded him.

A few more minutes passed until the hallway door swung open again, and he swiveled toward the entrance. It was his graduate adviser, Dr. Stephen Mills. The professor grinned and waved him back into his seat when he started up, giving him a wink out of Judy Spencer’s line of sight. She greeted Mills with an official air. Good morning, Doctor. Doctor Wainwright asked me to have you go right in.

Thanks, Judes. Mills opened the nearest of the double panels. Anthony glimpsed his department head inside. Already ensconced in the comfortable office was the man first in line to the throne of Theological Studies, Dr. Will Henderson. The door closed behind his adviser, and the wait resumed. The campus bell tower started ringing the top of the hour when Mrs. Spencer’s phone buzzed. Anthony knew he was on.

She waved him in with the phone still to her ear as a beep from another line demanded her attention. Anthony nodded and moved to the door, pausing for a deep breath before he entered. Dr. Wainwright’s office was more spacious, and far better furnished, than the typical workspace at Britteridge. He sat behind a massive Civil War-era desk, cleared for the greater part. The necessities of the day, Anthony could see, included a preliminary copy of his dissertation. Wired into its faux lambskin cover, it rested in arm’s reach of Wainwright’s overstuffed, oversized leather chair.

Dr. D. (for Darby) Richard Wainwright MA, PhD, ThD was sixtyish and heavier than his physician would like. Poised atop his thick shock of unruly gray hair was a pair of reading glasses. Just to his right was Dr. Henderson, looking as dutiful as ever. Off at the left edge of the big desk, Dr. Mills seemed less comfortable than a few minutes ago. Anthony noticed the expression on his face but could not place it yet. Wainwright glanced up at him.

Anthony! Good morning—grab a seat, son, he intoned.

Good morning, sir, Anthony answered with deference. Doctor Henderson, Doctor Mills, he added while settling into the visitor’s chair someone had pre-positioned at the focal point of the three men.

Well, Jon, first of all I wanted to say we’re pleased with what we’ve seen of you to date. Wainwright reached forward, sliding the dissertation closer. Doctor Mills, we know, speaks highly of your work—and we hear good things about you from your students as well.

Thank you, thank you very much. Doctor Mills has been everything I could ask for in an adviser. His adviser shifted at that, prompting a seed of worry sprouting in Anthony’s mind. He tried to focus on Wainwright instead, as the worst thing possible now would be to lose concentration.

Wainwright shifted back in the big chair, placing both his hands on its arms before moving them to meet across his stomach. That’s expected, Jon. Steve’s graduate students have done some impressive work here in the past. The department head looked out the window at a sudden break of early morning sunshine in the gray winter sky. It’s what we do here, Jon, and it’s something we want you to understand today. Academe, as we see it here, is a calling. We have an obligation to keep it moving forward, this field of study, and all the other programs here on campus. We’re here for the students, of course, but we’re preserving the academic ideal also.

Wainwright’s gaze returned to Anthony and bored in this time. "We’re here for the future of Theological Studies, Mister Anthony. Studies build on past knowledge and bring new light for future research to build on. The scholastic objectivism we need to maintain the standards we hold ourselves to is vital and central to it all."

Henderson reached forward and picked up Anthony’s work, paging through it. You’ve, uh, put quite a lot of yourself into this, Jon. A unique perspective on so many topics you address.

I did want a touch of personality, and originality, sir. The themes I used, the ones I see binding the great faiths together …. Anthony began, until Wainwright lifted a hand a few inches to cut him off.

The man heading his panel then raised himself higher in his heavy chair. Jon, before we get too far into this I want to lay out our perspective. We frankly have some problems with the structure of this work of yours, though we found it very neatly put together, and I daresay we all agree. Nevertheless, the themes on which you’ve concentrated are a departure for us, at least as far as the scholarly content we’ve become used to expecting from someone at your level.

Henderson transitioned to what Anthony could see was the point of the discussion. The questions and answers he had been rehearsing in his mind for days now became background. A new reality forged by Wainwright and Henderson settled in its place. Mister Anthony, we’re not comfortable with the personalization you’ve brought to this dissertation. The writing is good, your points well-considered, but you have submitted something too far removed from the objectivity scholarship on this scale demands.

"With all due respect, sir, my work centers on what people of faith believe to be the essential questions of their lives. Beliefs are powerful, life-shaping elements at the very core of what they become. My beliefs formed my conclusions, the evidence for which I …."

It’s idiom, Jon. Wainwright’s brow furrowed. "We must guard against the idiomatic. It detracts from a necessary … erudition to the level of achievement you pursue. We must be interested in fact here, not belief. We study, we do not preach. We present instead of judge."

You’re judging now, sir. We judge every time we decide. Anthony regretted the words almost as he formed them, but for just a second they helped vent a pressure wave, the surge of emotion he felt building up inside him.

Yes, Jon, we’re judging now. Wainwright motioned to Henderson, who returned the dissertation to the desk. But you know that’s why you’re here, of course. Wainwright slid the document back to center and spun it around to face Anthony. Sorry this can’t be the day you had expected. As we said, there are changes in your submission we would like to see. That is to say, Doctor Henderson, Doctor Mills, I recommend pending extensive revision Mister Anthony’s dissertation be withdrawn from consideration for defense.

The floor seemed to drop away from Anthony. Wainwright had just pronounced him one degree removed from expulsion.

Mills’ emotion was genuine. Doctor, I can’t—

Wainwright again motioned with an outstretched hand and silenced him, as was his talent. Mister Anthony, we need a few moments as this is a mere suggestion at this point. I do need to confer with your board. Would you wait in your office downstairs? We will do everything we can to be brief.

More than relieved to be excused, Anthony stood. Of course I will, sir. Doctor Henderson, Doctor Mills. Mills nodded, and Anthony could tell by the man’s pale complexion his adviser had also been blindsided. Anthony moved to the big doors and through them, forgetting even a pleasantry for Mrs. Spencer. He was in a surreal fog, and it did not fully settle until Jon was in the stairwell and opening the door to Third Floor. This was neither the day he had expected nor one for which he had been prepared. He made it to his tiny office—complete with leftover plumbing from what had once been a janitor’s closet—and stood at his desk, staring down at the sheaves of papers covering its workspace. Jon Anthony then realized he had no idea what to do next except wait.

Wainwright saw what was coming. It was everything Mills could do to wait until he heard Anthony go through the door leading to the outer hallway. "Dick, for God’s sake, this is bullshit." Henderson’s right eyebrow rose.

Wainwright settled back into his chair. Steve, he intoned, I know you like the boy. I know this isn’t sitting well with you. He changed tack a long time ago, and we’re not holding you responsible.

Mills bounced in his seat, reaching out to plant a finger on the dissertation. "This is good writing. This could easily be publishable in any number of journals. It’s original, perceptive stuff, and just because we don’t see many like it doesn’t mean he has—"

We don’t see this type of submission because we’re an institution of higher learning and not a publishing house, Wainwright cut in. We don’t encourage opinion here, Steve, and you know it. We study. We describe. We compile, and we let society draw what it will from the results.

Mills settled down. "He did all that, except he comes to conclusions he decided are evident. It is a dissertation in theology, for God’s sake, man. It’s understandable within the scope of his premise."

Wainwright knew Mills was loyal to his candidate, and this would play out as it already had. Moreover, he knew most of all the assurance of being in complete control. We’ll need your vote on this, Steve. I will continue to recommend suspending consideration of the boy’s dissertation pending the text’s extensive revision.

Mills shook his head. I do not concur, Doctor. Ask him for a revision, if you insist, or a clarification. He could draw more on his research and less on his conclusions, but in my view it’s a solid piece of work.

Wainwright swiveled toward their remaining vote. Will, it’s going to be up to you. I think we’d both benefit from your perspective on this. Mills looked as if his self-control was about to suffer catastrophic failure.

He’s preaching, Steve, Henderson said with a sideways motion of his head. We can’t call it scholarly.

Mills knew he was losing, Wainwright saw. He admired the man, but relished this moment as well. He could also see Mills knew he should probably stop now, but knew the man would not—not before one last bit of venting.

Mills narrowed his eyes. I levered him into our last office on Three. That didn’t help, did it?

Henderson ignored the goad. It has nothing to do with it, Steve. We settled my advisees in the basement. Everyone ended up with room to work. We have no vendettas here. Mills looked away.

Wainwright straightened and put his hands together on the desk. Doctor Henderson, your opinion, if you please.

Mills tried one last time. Jon came to believe in the things he was studying, Will. It may be a less liberal attitude than you like, but it’s not a sin.

Henderson straightened as well and turned toward Wainwright. I concur, Dick. Pending extensive revision, I vote to suspend consideration.

Swiveling toward Mills, Wainwright shrugged. We’d like to have unanimity, Steve, but we respect your opinion. We will let you break it to him. We know you can bring him back into line. It will take some work, but I have every confidence you can do it.

Mills stood, and Wainwright noted the man was pale. Doctors …. he managed and turned to leave. The doors closed behind him.

Wainwright sighed. Henderson snorted with derision and gestured at the dissertation. I look forward to seeing what comes out of this. Wainwright tossed it into his outgoing basket. Mrs. Spencer would see it filed and tagged.

Maybe we can put his name out to the seminary recruiters, Will. He could be filling tents in another year. Henderson smirked, leaving him in the office. Wainwright retrieved Anthony’s preliminary draft from the Out basket and moved it to his recycling bin instead. Filing space was not here to waste, after all.

Chapter 2:  Familiar Faces

Decembers in Iraq, the Major had decided years ago, were his favorite month. The weather was at its coolest now with daytime highs of about 10° C. As was his habit, he tried to keep himself thinking metric instead of reverting to his native Fahrenheit. The clothing of the season made it easier to blend in, at least as easy as it would ever be for a man his size in Baghdad. At an even six feet, he was a full 195 pounds with few carried as fat. His black hair, cut close but not mil-spec, had streaks of gray. His face—sometimes with a light beard, sometimes with a mustache—was now clean-shaven. Subdued browns and grays without print or pattern made up the palette of his working wardrobe, from his loose sweatshirt to his khaki photographer’s vest.

A small, rugged digital camera came out from there, one with a satisfactory range on its optical zoom even before digital magnification applied. The vest, worn for bulk, was not for extra lenses and certainly not for film. Some energy bars and a half-liter bottle of water were the cargo besides the ever-present Iraqna cell and Thuraya satellite phones. More of his load was under the sweatshirt, the odd bulges shrouded even more by his vest.

At his right hip, a Milt Sparks holster inside the waistband of his khaki trousers held a Don Williams-customized Browning P-35 9mm pistol. Three more mags were in his vest, but at his left a combination carrier housed a spare magazine and a small but powerful flashlight for fast access. In front of them, a folding knife clipped on his belt. He liked being able to carry additional gear with comfort during Decembers in Iraq because he sought every edge he could get. Hunting here demanded nothing if not careful preparation.

The game this morning, as it had been for the last several mornings, was Persian, or at least that was his operating assumption. Converting intuition and supposition into confirmed intelligence was part of what he did here.

The man he was shadowing managed even more nondescript attire than the Major was attempting. Intelligence sources reported the target to be Iranian Revolutionary Guard. He used the unlikely name, for the majority Shi'a Iranians, of Abu Bakir Raad, and his file folder in the USSOCOM database was growing in both size and intolerable intrigue.

The intelligence pegged Raad as an enabler: specifically, he provided resources both material and human to whomever in Iraq could trouble most the Coalition and emerging government. According to the available information, direct involvement did not fit the elusive Raad’s style. The Iranian instead preferred empowering those who could best keep his anonymity intact through martyrdom, sometimes knowingly, and sometimes not. Raad, so the current thinking went, had killed a hell of a number of people in Iraq. About some his shadow could not care less, but there were many more for whom he did.

Some good close-ups were shot as his target moved through the Baghdad marketplace, and they included those to whom Raad had spoken. The operative moved when he perceived any attention to himself. Slipping through the throng and doubling back, he rested now and again to confirm he was the only hunter in the crowd. The city was still a dangerous place for a Westerner to be despite the progress made since the cataclysm of 2003.

Saddam was in prison waiting his turn at the gallows. Back home in the US, political will was building for a troop surge, and the USAF covert agent agreed with the consensus:  they could go long, go big or go home. The Major was a military man and wanted to win, and naturally felt more comfortable with more of his own people on hand. This scenario, though, was lately a luxury and one that he was usually denied. Closing the distance to his target enough so he could magnify the frame for a good quartering facial, he braced his hand against the corner of a building and leaned in until the jitter indicator disappeared. The digicam recorded another image as the man talked to a marketplace vendor. Wars against men such as Raad were slow, careful, and quiet. They proceeded by building a network of familiar faces. The operative knew this man’s face now:  the distinctive nose, the line of the jaw, the set of his eyes. The subject he watched was in a marketplace, and at the same time in an arena. If the man was Raad, he had come to participate in a war. It was the big American’s job to accommodate him.

Baghdad with the rest of Iraq was ground where nations contested an undeclared war. The United States and its coalition partners wished to enable democracy, endeavoring to build a stable, prosperous nation in a region that held so much potential to throw the world into conflict. Iran wanted the expansion of fundamentalist Islamic government and the neutralization of its traditional enemy. Iraq also constituted an inconvenient buffer zone between Iran and allies to the west in Syria. And beyond Syria, of course, lay tiny Israel, the destruction of which remained at the heart of so many Middle Eastern strategies.

Nearer, Sunni and Shi'a Muslim rivalries made the Catholic and Protestant struggles in Northern Ireland look like a playground spat. Neither had Baathist elements wielding power in the days of Hussein forgotten the benefits of empowerment. Life was cheap in Iraq—even at times inconvenient. Blood vengeance was traditional, and those cycles of violence stretched back across generations.

His current assignment here was longer than most, almost three years. He had deployed here previously, first as a fresh face with an AFSOC Special Tactics Squadron helping in the recovery of pilots in ’91. In ’94, he had returned, ostensibly as a team leader though not many would ever know his role in that visit. His Air Force Special Operations experience had morphed into a career with the United States Special Operations Command, and he had served much of it in Iraq. Only on occasion did he visit one of the six other nations comprising the Gulf region.

The people of the Middle East and the hunt were now both part of him. He would rotate stateside when it was unavoidable. Gathering what support he could from superiors or assistance from contacts would always bring him back here. At this point, it was what he did. Rest did not come easily to him, and the Major felt no need to understand why anymore. The concentration, goals, setbacks and most of all the victories were all that mattered until, of course, the day came when he received orders informing him he was finished here. After that day, he was unsure of what the future would hold.

He was acquainted with men like himself who were now private contractors making huge salaries compared even to his officer’s pay. They were risk-takers, professionals cashing in and sometimes dying before they got to payday. It happened to those who went too far into the fray lacking the support he still could call on if the need arose. They had made their choices. He had made his.

The target turned and took a step. Raad’s shadow returned his focus to the present as the Persian began to move away once more.

The American realized the man now beside him had not made the usual noise of a native marketplace purveyor or patron. Here, when people moved, they shuffled, stepped or bustled. This man had appeared barely making a sound, and it put the Westerner on alert, a surge of adrenaline tingling through him he consciously tried to subdue. He slipped the camera into the pocket of his trousers, leaving the lanyard loop accessible just above the hem.

Twisting his back against the brick wall behind him, his attention snapped to the man speaking in Arabic. Did he know the most direct way to Haifa Street, near the river?

I am sorry—my Arabic is poor, the officer lied. Might we speak in English?

Of course—I am looking for the best way to Haifa Street. Can you help me? The olive-skinned man casually backed into an alleyway. A cart laden with clothing rolled past them, with the Major’s peripheral vision catching at least one more moving into position just off to his right and behind him. Playing his part, the military man stepped just into the mouth of the alley as he assumed they expected.

It’s to the south of us, and before the river. I am not as familiar with Baghdad as I should be, he lied again.

His new companion smirked. No, my friend, you are not. He lifted the front of his sweater to reveal the butt of a Russian pistol concealed there. The second enemy came another step closer.

You must come with us, the voice behind him said.

Raad’s shadow turned his head and looked into the cold eyes of the man who flanked him, with a third behind that one now. Moving with them down the alleyway allowed him to keep his distance and appear to comply with their demand. At the halfway point, he could see a car had pulled up blocking the exit, with only the driver inside. The team was complete, and midpoint was far enough inside the alley.

Now. Without warning he stopped moving forward and twisted into a thrusting back kick. It connected with the man behind him just below the diaphragm and on the intake of breath. The leg came down as the thumb of his right hand swept the sweatshirt up and away from the Browning pistol. Its sharp report sounded almost instantly after the weapon swiveled out of its holster, and just as his adversary behind him crashed to the ground. The 9mm hollow point centered the second trailing man in the chest, and he stopped struggling to pull his hand out of his pants pocket, one gripping a pistol. The big American pivoted, and his right hand clutching the Browning smacked into his left in a two-handed grip. Round two exploded into the forehead of the man who had been leading the way, just as his Makarov’s muzzle was emerging.

By the time the third body hit the concrete alleyway, the car’s driver had seen enough. The only part of the vehicle in sight was the dented back bumper, pulling away. Pistol shots in Baghdad still attracted attention, so the operative resisted his urge to search the men. He saw enough in their complexions, in their facial features, in their neatness and attire. These had not tried as hard as Raad to be inconspicuous.

Unless the officer was mistaken, they were also Iranians. He clicked the safety into place on the P-35 and slipped it back into the reinforced mouth of its holster, walking to the end of the alley where the car had parked. On this side, at least the shots were more likely to be taken as a vehicle backfiring. He wanted to be well away from here already but forced himself to move casually instead. Raad, he knew, was already gone. But if again the Major was correct, so was a satisfying majority of the Iranian’s security detail.

Chapter 3:  Winter Kill

Jon Anthony’s office door was unnumbered but posted outside with his name and schedule for the remainder of the dwindling semester. Two weeks of classes yet remained:  a time of reviews and final exams, with grading and reporting that would finish the year. Winter Break, as it was termed to avoid offense and respect cultural diversity, would run until the second week of January. A soft knock sounded.

Yeah, he answered, and Mills came in. His back to the door, a dejected Anthony was reviewing term papers for Comparative Religion 205, one of two courses he taught for Dr. Mills: the return being a stipend allowing him to live in an apartment instead of his Civic. The one place near his desk able to accommodate a visitor, an armchair upholstered with cracked vinyl, was clear of its usual clutter. Anthony turned in his office chair as Mills sat.

I’m sorry, Jon, his adviser said. Doctor Wainwright and Doctor Henderson favor a suspension of consideration pending extensive revision of your dissertation.

Anthony nodded. Before he had even made it out of the office, Wainwright had said as much. It was general knowledge that Henderson marched in lockstep with Wainwright when it came to administrative matters on the fourth floor. He could have, according to whispered department lore, been the man’s conjoined twin before some miracle of medical science had separated them. What just happened? I mean, why?

"Well, to listen to the good Doctor, he’s upholding the standards of Britteridge