His observations led to more research, which in turn revealed an astonishing link between the weapons tests and geological activity, but he shared his findings with no one. He knew others were also watching and had perhaps been doing so for decades.
Meanwhile, a cluster of cells began to thrive and multiply in the warm and dark embrace of Collette Chiron’s womb. It would yet be two months before she and her husband would discover that what grew there was no miracle.
She would make just one more journey to Lourdes, but her supplications would once more go unanswered.
Part One: Reflection
One
May 2003
Between heaven and earth, a veil.
It was an illusion—more accurately a mirage—and Nick Kismet was not fooled. Nevertheless, his eyes were drawn to the shimmering curtain of superheated air rising from the earth, pooling in mid-air like the surface of a vast lake somehow turned on its side. The Airbus A320 speared onward into the heart of the distortion and the convection waves magically receded.
Spring was now half done and already the desert days had become brutally hot. At sunrise, temperatures of nearly ninety degrees Fahrenheit were reported; by midday, the mercury would reach well into the triple-digit range. And yet, with the fall of night, the day’s heat would radiate back into space to plunge temperatures in the austere environment to the opposite extreme. Indeed, it was a place of extremes.
That’s why they call it the desert , Kismet thought darkly.
He hated this place, hated the arid nothingness and the severe temperatures and the scouring sandstorms. He loathed the constant thirst, the ever-present smell of scorched iron, and the way his clothes felt like sandpaper against his skin. Yet, there was much more to his contempt than recognition of the physical hardships imposed by the harsh conditions.
This was the place where he had almost died.
The desert extremes did not adequately represent the totality of the environment. As the plane sailed onward through the roiling air mass, shedding altitude and cruising speed on approach to its destination, Kismet began to see more green in the brown landscape below. The Tigris River was a barely visible ribbon, glinting in the sun, but its benevolent effects, courtesy of an ancient network of irrigation canals, were visible all around the city. From a distance, it was hard to believe that this place was still a war zone.
The aircraft began to vibrate as it struck pockets of disturbed atmosphere. The turbulence was not unlike slamming into potholes on a paved road, and as the plane made a particularly violent drop, Kismet was grateful for his seat belt. He overheard snatches of conversation from some of his fellow passengers, mostly relief workers from UNICEF and other international agencies, wondering if the plane was taking ground fire.
He smiled humorlessly at the notion. If the civilian aircraft was indeed under attack from anti-aircraft artillery batteries, or even small arms fire, there would be no time to wonder. The plane would simply break up in the air over the city. Yet it was only right that the volunteers be concerned. For most, this endeavor would represent the greatest peril they would ever face—stepping willingly into one of the most violent places on earth in order to do nothing but good—and they certainly had every right to be apprehensive. If he did not share their trepidation, it was only because for him, this would not be such a singular event. As the soldiers with whom he had once served were fond of saying: “Been there, done that.”
It had been twelve years and three months, give or take a few days, since Kismet’s first journey into the desert. He had not come quite so far north that time, but in some ways he had gone much further. Yet that crucible of violence, from which he had escaped using only his wits and the devil’s own luck, was not what he would remember most about his experience in the desert.
Meanwhile, a cluster of cells began to thrive and multiply in the warm and dark embrace of Collette Chiron’s womb. It would yet be two months before she and her husband would discover that what grew there was no miracle.
She would make just one more journey to Lourdes, but her supplications would once more go unanswered.
Part One: Reflection
One
May 2003
Between heaven and earth, a veil.
It was an illusion—more accurately a mirage—and Nick Kismet was not fooled. Nevertheless, his eyes were drawn to the shimmering curtain of superheated air rising from the earth, pooling in mid-air like the surface of a vast lake somehow turned on its side. The Airbus A320 speared onward into the heart of the distortion and the convection waves magically receded.
Spring was now half done and already the desert days had become brutally hot. At sunrise, temperatures of nearly ninety degrees Fahrenheit were reported; by midday, the mercury would reach well into the triple-digit range. And yet, with the fall of night, the day’s heat would radiate back into space to plunge temperatures in the austere environment to the opposite extreme. Indeed, it was a place of extremes.
That’s why they call it the desert , Kismet thought darkly.
He hated this place, hated the arid nothingness and the severe temperatures and the scouring sandstorms. He loathed the constant thirst, the ever-present smell of scorched iron, and the way his clothes felt like sandpaper against his skin. Yet, there was much more to his contempt than recognition of the physical hardships imposed by the harsh conditions.
This was the place where he had almost died.
The desert extremes did not adequately represent the totality of the environment. As the plane sailed onward through the roiling air mass, shedding altitude and cruising speed on approach to its destination, Kismet began to see more green in the brown landscape below. The Tigris River was a barely visible ribbon, glinting in the sun, but its benevolent effects, courtesy of an ancient network of irrigation canals, were visible all around the city. From a distance, it was hard to believe that this place was still a war zone.
The aircraft began to vibrate as it struck pockets of disturbed atmosphere. The turbulence was not unlike slamming into potholes on a paved road, and as the plane made a particularly violent drop, Kismet was grateful for his seat belt. He overheard snatches of conversation from some of his fellow passengers, mostly relief workers from UNICEF and other international agencies, wondering if the plane was taking ground fire.
He smiled humorlessly at the notion. If the civilian aircraft was indeed under attack from anti-aircraft artillery batteries, or even small arms fire, there would be no time to wonder. The plane would simply break up in the air over the city. Yet it was only right that the volunteers be concerned. For most, this endeavor would represent the greatest peril they would ever face—stepping willingly into one of the most violent places on earth in order to do nothing but good—and they certainly had every right to be apprehensive. If he did not share their trepidation, it was only because for him, this would not be such a singular event. As the soldiers with whom he had once served were fond of saying: “Been there, done that.”
It had been twelve years and three months, give or take a few days, since Kismet’s first journey into the desert. He had not come quite so far north that time, but in some ways he had gone much further. Yet that crucible of violence, from which he had escaped using only his wits and the devil’s own luck, was not what he would remember most about his experience in the desert.
Similar Books
