Prologue
OperationDesert Storm
NortheastSaudi Arabia, 50 kilometers from the Iraqi
border
February16, 1991
The young man’s screams resonated through the mobile army
surgical unit, drowning out the piercing wails of the
brutal winter sandstorm. The desert winds rocked the
trailer in rhythm with the corporal’s cries.
“Can’t medivac him out til morning,” whispered an aide to
the senior medic. Both knew it was too risky for the flight
from Germany to land before the winds died down. “Should I
get the chaplain?”
“Bishop,” the medic responded. “Get Bishop.”
The trailer door blew open, flapping against the aluminum
siding. A tall, muscled man with grizzled hair strode
in, “I’m here,” his only greeting as he rushed to the young
man’s side. Despite the storm, his uniform was pressed and
immaculate. Dr. Franklin Bishop was an officer’s officer.
He laid a gentle hand on the soldier’s writhing abdomen,
noting the absence of legs below both knees. Lifting the
sheet, the doctor saw that the amputations had not been
surgical. The burned skin on the corporal’s thighs was
black, the fever of infection would no doubt kill him by
morning. “Ten mg of morphine stat,” Bishop ordered. The
opiate would make his last hours more comfortable.
As the pain medicine gradually dulled the young man’s
agony, his screams became words. Whispered words that only
Bishop, leaning his head close to the soldier’s lips, could
hear.
“Many children. Dead. Innocents. Stop the resonator.
Stop the murder.” The soldier’s next words dissolved into
gibberish as he fell into a deep sleep.
Bishop stood erect, shaking his head. Resonator? Murder?
The soldier’s body shook and shivered, his breathing grew
more labored. Bishop clasped his hand and gave it a firm
squeeze. In the morning he would call Miller. See what the
Company man could spill. For now, Colonel Bishop’s duty was
to stand by this brave young man’s bedside so that he would
not die alone.
The trailer was eerily quiet except for the howling winds.
Cocking an ear, Bishop was certain he heard the winds echo
the soldier’s words: resonator…murder…
Chapter 1
Thursday, December 23, 1999
Each winter, hot dry winds sweep from the deserts across
the LA basin, and for a few days, blow away the hazy smog,
exposing the glittery beauty of the City of Angels.
Newcomers delight in the unexpected clarity, the ability to
see snow-capped Santa Monica Mountains and azure Pacific
Ocean emerge against a lavender sky. But those who stay a
while soon learn why some call these Santa Anas devil’s
breath, others, murder winds, and not just because they can
whip parched chaparral into explosive fuel feeding deadly
wildfires. No, it’s something about the winds’ effect on
the inhabitants of the city’s hills and canyons, making
senses sharper, on edge. As Raymond Chandler once wrote,
while these winds blast, anything can happen. Anything.
