I woke before the alarm. There was the physical urgency to rise, but the delicious sensation ofthe fresh pillowcase against my cheek held me supine. I looked at the red glow of the alarm clock, blinking its way to the metered cacaphony of the appointed moment. Ten minutes until I was supposed to rise, nearly twenty minutes before the BBC kicks in from far away across the foam crested gray Atlantic.

There is a wind blowing in Washington this morning. It is quite real and matter of fact in its insistence. Its tug makes the actual temperature, in the 50s, seem quite chill. There is another wind blowing, a political one. There is a leaked CIA report, highly classified and highly critical, the leak intended to cover someone’s ass or tell the truth as they see it. The Agency is sensitive about that, after their operators and analysts were hung out to dry by the insiders who blamed them for not finding the weapons of mass destruction we were promised.

I wandered in that soft land between the dreams and hard reality what the day might bring. There were eighteen children of Itay who would be going home cold, in bags, and eight Iraqis would join them. The campaign is going well for the insurgents, the unholy alliance between the true believers and cynical secularists. They are on to something, the steady drumbeat of violence is perplexing the hapless giant. The Arab world looks on in curiosity and wonder at the courage of the occupied. The helmetted young people with their guns blink at those passing in the street, scarce able to tell the difference between hostile al-Tikriti and friendly Kurd. Tense. Waiting.

One-a-day, like the old Vitamin commercial. Kill one a day, or a group, if they are lucky. No sustained combat. The death of a thousand cuts. It takes little courage for the secularists with their Radio Shack attacks, and only a little dedication for the fanatic to attain martyrdom. The roadside bomb is a favorite and almost effortless. Identify a route that the Occupiers use and place a command-detonated charge in a pothole or by a curb. Wait with patience and anticipation until the sand-colored troops roll by and press the button.

There are plenty of munitions, and a population who for years were trained to do nothing and to say nothing and to see nothing of the thugs who ran their lives. When Saddam took power he read a list of names from the podium at the Baghdad hotel, and he had his opponents dragged out and the most prominent among them tortured until they confessed heir lack of faith to Party and Country. He taped it carefully and played it for the faithful. “Believe in Me” he said. “I am your father and your state.”

Then they were killed, the first of hundreds of thousands to die and be buried in a process so vast it required bulldozers and industrial support.

We always said the Iraqis were first-rate combat engineers, an interesting skill to cultivate among your own people. They can move some sand.

Our response to the ceaselesss steady beat of the daily killings is to call for the accelerated trasnfer of power to the Iraqis. As if speeding the process would make us safer, or at least make the dripping stop. Operation Iron Hammer is part of our effort to make a strong statement to the residents. The troops rolled up with loudspeakers to warn the residents to evacuate, which is to say, that they told their targets to move out of the way so that they might hit an empty building and no one would be hurt.

Our leaders say we will not be intimidated. That is such patent nonsense that I marvel at the words. Of course we will be intimidated, over time, or become frustrated and lash out or crack down like the French in Algiers. Of course we will. It is human nature and the nature of the nation-state.

But we must kill Saddam to declare victory and abandon the field. Sadly, all the truth is there and the Administration does not lie about the important point. Iraq is the central front in the War on Terror. The incongruity of the attacks in Saudi Arabia in the heart of Ramadan, attacks on Believers by Believers is so simple. Osama wants to bring down the House of Saud, or at least its corrupt and aging leaders.

The next generation of Princelings contains fellow travelers. Crown Princes believe that the time may nearly be at hand. With the resources of a Nation-state, the movement can become the true sword of Islam, to sweep with purifying fire through the ranks of the Occupiers and their dupes.

Because the Pakistani weapons program was bankrolled by the Kingdom, and is not Islamabad’s alone.

Because the rockets that the Kingdom hides are real. They do not have the range to cross the oceans, but they have the capability to strike anything in that small corner of the world. And then what will we have? What works will we have wrought in our crusade to corner the Jihadists?

The world is filled with possibility so long as Osama and Saddam are at large. These two icons, so different in their outlook joined in grim purpose. What chills me in this wind rising this morning is that they are all right. If Osama can bring down the Kingdom he may gain access to Allah’s sword. If Saddam can hold out until the power is transferred on an accelerated basis he might very well have his revenge on those who helped the Occupiers. And the President is right. If we do not stay the course and bring them to heel, we may just permit the wind to blow here once more.

So come the dripping misery of the water, drop by drop, death by death. Grant us wisdom in this ill wind rising. Grant us the ability to be ruthless and yet kind. Let our young people’s souls not corrode in the awful tension, waiting for the next drop to fall. The wind rises and it brings the scent of fear.

I can feel it.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra