A Welcome Letter
It’s interesting, how a brief note can impact and challenge everything you believe.
The warm spring day was the kind that made it easy to forget about last fall’s devastating quakes and the Day of Contact. I walked out to the mailbox, grabbed the mail and scanned the stack. I separated the junk mail, from the bills. That’s when I spotted Jeremiah’s letter, glad to see he’s still alive.
I wondered if Jeremiah had survived the 9.4 quake since his home was in San Luis Obispo. Seeing his note surprised me and, reminded me of the intriguing experience we talked about years earlier.
I’ve often wondered if he’d ever get permission to write about it. Jeremiah is a talented reporter who writes interesting, thought provoking articles. He is a gifted writer. I was curious to see how he is doing and what he had to say.
From the Desk of Jeremiah Jackson
P.O. Box 100001
Flagstaff, Arizona 86004
April 23,
Bob,
Trust this finds you well. I’m fine. I was away from home doing research when the quakes struck. I doubt the world has ever experienced so much change in such a short time. That’s why I’m writing.
Do you remember the incident I shared when we were fishing at Diamond Lake back in ‘96? I believe that was the year you started your editing/publishing firm. I’m referring to the events in Turkey and Langley. It’s hard to believe it’s been over thirty years.
I received a surprise letter just before I left on my research trip, granting permission to write about what happened. The letter came from the Deputy Director himself. He’s still with the CIA. I thought he would be retired by now.
I think permission is a bureaucratic mistake, but I’m jumping on this while I have it in writing. The only restriction is, I have to change the names of the Langley principles.
So much happened during those five weeks. Events that I believe have a connection to what has taken place since the Day of Destruction and Contact. I’m convinced that Turkey/Langley are the backstory, the prequel to what is now unfolding.
I wrote the first draft when the events were fresh. The working title is Morningstar Deception. My goal is to complete Morningstar by early summer or fall. If you’re interested in an editing job, I’ll send you the revised draft as soon as I finish the self-editing. This fourth generation A.I. software still can’t beat a qualified human.
You suggested when we were fishing to include some of the background research information. I decided the simplest way to do that was to add Dr. Russell’s summary paper as an appendix.
A lot of the information is no longer available. Many of the books are out of print. Bookstores have pulled unsold copies. Online information is hard to find or shadow banned. Most of the information is now in private collections. Thank you for the suggestion.
Bob, I believe there’s a common denominator between what’s going on and what happened back then. I explain more in my book, Understanding, one man’s journey. I’ve sent you a copy under separate cover.
If you have the time and are interested, let me know. If your schedule doesn’t allow you to take this on, I understand.
I miss our fishing trips. I would love to break out the rod and reel and drop a line; but I don’t see that happening in the near future. I’d like to sit down with you to share my insights. I look forward to hearing from you either way.
Jeremiah
jerjackson923@gmail.com
I reflected on what he told me that day; I was hooked, wanted to see more and how he thinks Turkey relates to current events. What he said while fishing, if true, is beyond incredible. What choice did I have? I emailed him, “Count me in, send what you have.”
I was shocked to read all the manuscript’s details. However, the bigger surprise was his journey in Understanding.
Chapter 1
Saturday, August 19, 1995
11:15 pm
Igdir, Northeastern Turkey
The solitude of my dreamless sleep exploded in a flash of light. My groggy senses screamed, “wake up;” surging adrenaline yelled, “danger, something is wrong.” I had no idea just how wrong. Before I could process what was happening someone yanked me from bed, threw me face down in the ancient carpet. Even with the surge of adrenaline, I wasn’t able to respond quick enough.
A heavy boot between my shoulder blades pinned me to the floor. Someone pulled my flailing arms behind my back. Plastic zip-tie cuffs tightened around my wrists.
I cried out, “What do you want? If it’s money, my wallet’s on the dresser.” No response. Whoever had me, knew what they were doing. They’d neutralized me from any type of defensive action, let alone offensive movement. My brain screamed, “trouble!” I thought, no kidding genius. I endeavored to see beyond the blinding light. All I could focus on was a pair of polished boots in front of my face.
A thick accented voice, that I assumed belonged to the boots said, “Jeremiah Jackson, the Director of the Foreign Ministry has requested for you to be accompanied back to Ankara. There you’ll fly out of Turkey. We will leave within the hour. Until then, you will be in our protective custody.”
The boot left my back and the pressure on my arms let up. Ordered to stand, I managed to get up. They removed the plastic cuffs when I didn’t fight back. With anti-American sentiment running high in the country, the primary concern of these officers wasn’t for an American journalist’s comfort or safety.
I had no choice but to cooperate. One wrong move and I’d rot in a Turkish jail or worse. The officer by the door rested his hand on the butt of his sidearm. I began stuffing my belongings into my bag. The officer in charge grabbed my Nikon and notepad and said, “I’ll take those.”
Without thinking, I protested, “That’s mine!”
“Not anymore, this is for your safety.”
I watched my camera stripped of the film, wasn’t a thing I could do. The officer took my notepad and slipped it into his shirt pocket. So much for freedom of the press, oh wait, wrong country.
“Catch,” the officer ordered, tossing the camera at me. I caught it before it hit the floor. Years of overseas reporting conditioned me to keep my mouth shut, yet I wondered,
What is going on? Nothing made sense. I had done nothing wrong, I’m very careful in foreign countries. Sometimes I push to get a story; not this time. I’d played the game conservatively, obeying all the rules.
“Will you at least tell me why I’m being deported? What did I do wrong? Why’d you take my film and notes?”
“For the last time, you aren’t being deported. We are here to safeguard and escort you back to Ankara. Our only concern is for your safety.”
“Right,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that?” the officer shot back.
“Uh, nothing, just clearing my throat.”
“Next time, do it more quietly.”
I had no choice but to submit; I was trying to process everything. I figured I must have seen something or someone I wasn’t supposed to see. I can reconstruct my notes from memory, not a big deal. But there are so many details in a single photo. Wasn’t it Confucius who said, “A picture is worth a thousand words?” What did I inadvertently see?
Sitting in ‘protective custody,’ I tried to replay what I’d observed. Across town, events unfolded, which I later learned started before mine. Events that were about to change, upend and alter my life.
Saturday, August 19, 1995
10:00 pm
What started as protests over the American air bases, have spread throughout Turkey. Many of the protests have turned into riots. There are now calls for the Turkish Government to close the American Air Base at Incirlik. Incirlik is critical to the Americans and is a vital part of the Turkish economy since 1954. Both governments are working together to restore calm. More tomorrow. Kara Kensington.
As Kara finished her report to National News, the senseless violence troubled her. She looked forward to heading to Ankara in the morning. She had observed brilliant reporters grow cynical and callused over what they witnessed. She had said she would quit if that began happening to her.
Maybe it is time for a change. Perhaps I should take that teaching job. Oh, I’m just tired and hungry. I’ll be fine in the morning. Even though it was almost 10:00, she decided to head to the cafe she spotted earlier.
As she walked out of the hotel, the man in the blue shirt caught her attention; he looked her in the eye and quickly turned away. Jeremiah’s mentoring words came to her, I don’t need him in my head right now; he dumped me, broke our engagement. Why couldn’t someone else have been my teacher? But, I’m stuck with him—how did he put it? Always keep an eye out for tails or stalkers, especially in foreign countries.
The way Blue Shirt broke eye contact wasn’t natural. It was too obvious the way he tried to act like he wasn’t looking at me. Stay alert, now’s not the time to get careless.
Kara looked around as she walked, keeping an eye out for trouble. She paused in front of a store, feigning window shopping, sneaking a glance back to see Blue Shirt.
There he is, about 75 feet down the street, he stopped when I did.
She glanced up the street and picked up her pace; so did he.
Kara told herself not to panic, deep breaths. She was now walking at a fast pace, so did her stalker. She thought, Just a couple of blocks to the cafe. Some shops were closed or closing. She was alone, a foreigner on the crowded street with Blue Shirt stalking. Kara looked back up the street and thought, Just get to the cafe.
That’s when she made a mistake. She thought the cafe was just around the corner. Wrong corner, she turned into a dead end alley.
She pivoted to retrace her steps, and froze, too late. Footsteps echoed across the cobblestones. Blue Shirt blocked her exit. Kara’s eyes, in a panic, swept the alley for a way out, nothing.
The man’s sinister smile was something from your worst nightmare. He stalked forward, his predatory eyes darting back and forth like a coiled Cobra about to strike. Kara stepped back, still hunting for an escape. Everything shifted into slow motion for her as the attacker advanced. He took forever to withdraw his hand from his jacket pocket.
She focused on the flicker of light from his knife, as the blade sprung out. Kara tensed, his muscles tightened for the attack. She steadied herself as he lunged at her. She spun to the right; the blade slashing air. Kara twisted around, mustering every ounce of her 115 pounds into all of her martial arts training. The man was unprepared for her rapid defensive response, in a heartbeat her movement turned offensive.
With a slashing chop across his extended forearm, she managed to dislodge the knife that went clattering on the cobblestones. Blue Shirt stopped, surprised, his wicked, shifting eyes screamed, “You want play rough? I’m going to enjoy this.”
He lunged at her, right into a knee in the groin. Doubling over, he lashed out, reaching for her. Before he could grab her, she latched onto his extended arm, drawing him closer, she shifted her weight spun around and flipped him over her back. His head made a loud sickening smack as it connected with the cobblestones.
The sound of his head striking the cobblestones caused her to think, Oh no, I killed him, then she saw a shallow breath. Kicking the knife into a pile of trash and garbage, she left him sprawled next to the garbage.
As she exited, she peaked around the corner, looking for others. Her senses heightened. No one paid her any attention as she tugged her coat collar against the cool night air.
That’s it! This is the last assignment. I’m sick of the violence, tired of always looking over my shoulder, watching for trouble. I’ve had enough, no more! I’ll pursue the teaching position in Canada.
I don’t want to end up dead in some backwater alley. I want my life to count. I want to live in peace with no more violence. Oh, I’m so wound up, I’m no longer hungry, I think I’ll head back to the security of my room.
On her walk back, Kara imagined every third male stalking her. She walked up the stairs to the second floor. It seemed even the squeaky stairs were following her. As she turned from the landing toward her room, she froze. Her door was ajar. What if the attack wasn’t a random robbery? Heart pounding, she listened for any sounds from her room, silence.
Walking as quietly as she could she approached the door. She couldn’t hear a thing. She pushed open the door with her foot.
Someone had ransacked the room. She looked around, checking to see if anything appeared missing among the chaos. As she stooped to pick up her things, she heard the telltale squeak of the stairs. Multiple squeaks echoed down the hall. She knew the destination of those feet.
Not knowing what she was walking into she’d left the door ajar. With no where to go, she stepped into the bathroom, turning off the light. She stood in the dark, listening to the footsteps between the pounding beats of her heart. She heard the hall door swing all the way open and low male voices in Turkish. Terror gripped her as she heard the bathroom doorknob begin to turn.
Like a frightened, cornered animal, she tensed, ready to spring. Maybe I can surprise them, get to the hall and run for safety. With explosive force, the door flung open, blinding light froze her. She stared down the barrel of a drawn gun.
The police officer called to his superior. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or afraid. The commanding officer spoke passable English. Kara kept questioning, “Why am I being forced out of the country?”
She almost laughed at her persistence and the irony. A few minutes earlier, she wanted to leave this god-forsaken place. Now she was fighting to stay.
Kara didn’t like being pushed around. She thought her reaction was like that science law, Oh yeah, for every action there is an equal reaction. She shoved back as much as she dared under the circumstances.
The officer’s effort to explain that this was for her safety did not work. She was getting madder by the moment. When he took her camera and notebook, she knew this wasn’t about her safety. Something else was going on.
The officer removed the film out of her camera and flipped through her notebook. She smiled to herself, the officer didn’t realize the film he ripped out was a fresh unexposed roll. Her last exposed film rested in her travel makeup bag that she carried in her coat pocket.
She brushed her hand against the outside of her coat, feeling the bag. She had learned the discipline of always unloading the camera as soon as she took the last picture, securing the film. She clenched her jaw as she seethed at the thought of who taught her to do that. Go away, leave me alone Jeremiah!
A little before midnight, officers ushered her out of the hotel to a waiting car. As the car door opened, she was shocked to hear a familiar voice, “Hello, Kara, imagine meeting you here.”
“You! You rotten thief … somehow you’re responsible for this, aren’t you? Why won’t you leave me alone?”
I had no idea what she talking about, I hadn’t seen or talked to her in almost four years. At least I had pretty clear idea of her feelings toward me.
“Oh, Miss Kensington, I almost forgot, this is for you.” The officer handed her a telegram, I watched her read.
KENSINGTON UPON ARRIVAL IN THE STATES YOUR SERVICES AND RESPONSIBILITIES WILL NO LONGER BE NEEDED BY NATIONAL NEWS STOP JAMES TROUT SENIOR EDITOR
She scrunched the telegram in a clenched fist and dropped into the car. For a few seconds, she sat in silence, her animosity toward me for the moment gone. I assumed the telegram wasn’t good news.
In disbelief, she muttered, “Why’d they fire me? I’ve been sending them good stuff. They told me yesterday’s story and photos were great. Something funny is going on.”
“Yeah, only no one is laughing. Tell me, Kara, what kind of trouble are you in? Not only have you got yourself fired, but I assume you’ve also got yourself an all-expense-paid trip out of Turkey.”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, call it a lucky guess, this isn’t my personal sightseeing car, you know.”
“I can’t believe it, miracles still happen. Amazing, even the Turks have gotten wise to the great Jeremiah Jackson and given you the boot!”
The venomous hatred in her voice indicated what she thought of me. It seemed wise to give her as much space as possible, which wasn’t much in the old Fiat’s back seat, I slid over toward the driver’s side door.
