***
Now, I sit at my computer, remembering the good times with Raena and trying to block out the ending. Since then, without this film over a million Iraqis and thousands of our troops have died.
Taking the edge of the microfilm into my mouth, I slowly tear and bite it to shreds. Like with Raena Al-Ratwan, it's a piece of history ... no more.
Oscar Rat, the famous rat writer.
The End.
====
2. Oscar Returns from a Mission in Iran
====
International mail is so slow and uncertain that I received this letter only today. It was written back in September and mailed from somewhere in Iraq. It's from my best buddy, Oscar Rat, the famous -- according to him -- rat writer. He's been gone since March, on a secret mission for his pal Georgie. A matter of National Security. It read:
Dear, Charlie,
Well, old buddy, I'm finally on my way home to the US. Right now, I'm relaxing in my suite in the Green Zone in Baghdad.
My mission for Georgie was a success, although he's angry that it didn't come out the way he wanted. First, I called up the National Security Agency to report, and then had them patch me in to Dickie, asking him to put Georgie on the line.
"Maybe we should tell him later, Oscar," Dickie advised. "Georgie is playing with his tin soldiers. Last time I looked into the Oval Office, he was spitting on a clay figure of that guy Ahmadinejad from Iran."
I heard a loud "Click," sounding like Dickie closing his shotgun. He does it often when disturbed by bad news, and I bore the baddest of the bad for the head of Vice.
"Maybe you should pick a good time to tell him, then," I answered. "I'm in Baghdad right now and will be back after Condie gets here to debrief me. And I don't like to see a grown rat cry, even a two-legged one."
See, I had to tell them about what I found out on my mission to Iran. Namely, that Iran was not, and had no plans on, developing nuclear weapons. I knew Georgie wouldn't like what I found. It was news guaranteed to piss the human idiot off.
Ah, well, I'm an honest rat and had to tell the truth about something so important. What else could I do, Charlie, old buddy?
Well, I've been sitting around for over a week now. At least there are a lot of Iraqi rodents in this Green Zone, even some imported from the US -- so I'm not lonely. I found that a single rat, alone in an embassy suite with free room service, attracts plenty of female companionship. And the imported San Miguel beer from the Philippines is fantastic.
The only disturbances are an occasional mortar round landing nearby and the cavorting of naked human diplomats in the corridors.
I do miss Rava, though. My Iranian girlfriend, Rava Khargoosh ( rat, in Iranian ) has probably lost her life while getting me out of that country. I'll get to that later.
I knew Dickie and his butt-buddy, Georgie, would be mad, but I can't keep secrets from you, Charlie, old buddy. I've spent all this time on a secret mission for them. He wanted to know, for once and for all, how advanced the Iranians were in their nuclear weapons program.
Knowing that a good rat can get where humans fear to tread, he sent me on a mission to find out. Since he was so sure of himself, he even had me sent by the Israeli Embassy to avoid any embarrassing questions later.
Last July, I said goodbye to my wife and daughter and went downstairs where my special shipping crate was waiting. The alligator brothers sealed me in and I was on my way to Iran.
I'm sure you remember that crate. The one with a complete self-sufficient rat apartment inside? Complete means with diplomatic status so I don't worry about postage or getting bumped around.
Once I arrived at a secret CIA airport in Iraq, I was hurried into a C-130 and flown to the Iraq-Iran border in South Kurdistan, where beautiful Rava was waiting. Still in secret, and in the dark of night, we set off across the border, hidden in a trading convoy of aardvarks driven by Persian squirrels. They had official papers if stopped.
The huge Iranian animals were loaded with opium from the CIA fields in Afghanistan. It was only one more attempt by Georgie to overthrow the Republic of Iran so he could put his own dictator in charge of that country. Georgie can be sneaky at times.
Rava told me our destination was a steel-producing city in the Zagros Mountains -- a place called Ahvaz. According to her, there was a secret nuclear facility a few kilometers outside of town, disguised as a shutdown steel plant on the Karun river.
Our mission was to break-in and photograph vital paperwork, also to interview the rodents that worked there.
Humans are stupid ( no offense meant, Charlie, old buddy ) in that they never realize how much rats and mice see, know, and understand. It never occurs to them that rodents in a nuclear plant might be experts in nuclear physics. How else do you think we've developed out own power-plant in the deep woods behind your house?
Inevitably, when humans go home at night, educated 'meeses come out of the woodwork to study papers left on desktops overnight. Those mice and professional rats have their own offices in basements and attics where they pore over reproductions, changing and improving designs for our own use.
I knew that, with lovely Rava's help, I could find such information for Georgie and Dickie. Enough for him to get additional sanctions on evil Iran. Maybe he could even bomb the place back to its roots in the stone-age.
As a matter of fact, that part of Iran does go back to the stone-age. Humans have occupied it since around 9,000 BC. Of course us rats had civilized the area long before that time. It would be a shame to drop an atom bomb on it, destroying all those rodent bones and artifacts. But Georgie is smart, he'll find a way out.
All Rava insisted on is that her and the other rodents had advance notice of any attacks, so they'd have time to evacuate Khuzestan Province before any attack. She doesn't give a damn about the local humans.
"Those big bastards were friends to us rats back in the old days," she told me once, "but in 7,982 BC they betrayed us. For thousands of years, rodents and humans lived together in caves. We gave them the wheel and showed them how to use fire.
"Rat's had lived here for hundreds of thousands of years before humans came on the scene. We had a complex society, though little unnecessary technology.
"When humans began building homes with dead trees, they turned against ratkind, not wanting us in their fancy wooden houses. Living naturally in caves wasn't good enough for them. Now they want to kill us guys. Stupid idiots. Well, we can get along well enough without the bastards."
See, old buddy? She didn't like you guys very much.
It gets hot in those hills, sometimes over 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the daytime. Being a sedentary big-city rat I detested riding a filthy aardvark for most of the journey, but we finally made it to our destination.
Ahvaz is a large city of about a million-and-a-half humans and twenty-million rats -- along with a huge but uncounted number of meeses. Leaving the convoy, Rava led me down alleys and across open fields until we reached the local rat city of Zeenis, where we met with Professor Gorgin Rat Zangeneh.
"I don't think we'll have any problem sneaking you inside, Oscar," he told me while trimming his whiskers with a pair of scissors. "Miss Rava knows the way and Iranian security isn't designed to keep rats out. All you have to do is go under a barbed-wire fence.
"I'll give Darya RatKar, our head physicist, a call on her cellphone. Someone'll meet you in the ventilation ducts on the south-side of the plant."
Well, Charlie, old buddy, Rava was hopping around, wanting to get our asses in gear, while I was one worn-out rodent.
"Hell no, professor," I told him, "I ain't going nowhere for a few days. Georgie can wait."
"I guess we can put you up here for a while, Oscar," he told me. "We don't have much room though. You can either stay in a room with farmer Tooraj's four nubile daughters, or in one with only Rava?"
Just joking, Charlie. I know you'll show this l
etter to my wife, Malodor. Just joking Malodor, honey.
Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to get re-hydrated from a month of riding aardvarks and stomping on aardvark crap in 160-plus heat. Meanwhile, I had to be innovative as to keeping Rava quiet. We played a lot of Iranian checkers and hide the weenie, he, he. Malodor, that last is an ethnic game where a hot dog is hidden in one of three buns and I have to guess which one.
It wasn't completely wasted time, though. A few days after I arrived, a group of American Commandos stopped on their way through. Their job was to destabilize the Iranian government by passing out counterfeit Iranian Rials -- money to you, Charlie, old buddy. Since they had a dozen or so large crates of that worthless paper, even giving some of it to our hosts, I collected a few samples of my own.
You can expect a cardboard box to be delivered to my apartment, Charlie. Do me a favor. Would you sign for the thing and tell Malodor to hide it until I get back. Okay, old buddy?
Major Johnson, their commander, saw an opportunity for us to help each other. He wanted to take photographs of the Iranian nuclear project for his own boss.
"You get us those pictures, Oscar, and I'll have some of my men carry you all the way there and back, saving wear and tear on your little paws. Okay with you?" he asked.
Being a lazy guy in general, you can figure, Charlie, old buddy, that I took the deal.
With both of us holding onto the major's pack-straps, behind his shoulder, it didn't take long for us to reach the evil nuclear facility.
Rava and I scooted quickly under the wire. A muffled “squeak” showed us a female rat hiding under a large ventilation grill against the outside of a concrete-block building. It was Dr. RatKar, waiting for us.
For the next couple of hours, both Rava and I were accompanied by local rats as we moved around the site, taking photographs with a special camera Dickie gave me. Knowing we were on the way, Dr. Ratkar already had microfilm of most of the paperwork on the site, even laundry lists.
After all the trouble getting there, the mission itself was simple. We didn't even see a human inside the plant. After rubbing snouts with the workers, a local rat custom, we were soon back outside, giving our cameras to the major.
"Thanks, Rava and Oscar," he said, asking, "You want some more of these counterfeit bills before we go? They're heavy and we gotta carry them all the way to Tehran."
Well, you know -- how could I say no?
We had trouble, bad trouble, on the way back. One of the American Commandos had a cold, and sneezed at the wrong time. It caught the attention of an Iranian army patrol, the dirty bastards.
There was a lot of shooting, during which poor Rava was hit really bad. What happened was, while I was hid ... I mean took cover in the major's backpack, Rava jumped at one of the Iranian soldiers, grabbing him by the nose with her teeth.
It gave the major time to shoot the bastard in the face, but his bullet also hit Rava. Poor Rava.
We took her to a veterinary in Ahvaz, but there was little he could do except put her in a box of tissues, hoping Allah would give her a miracle. Being a Christian rat, I fear that's the last I'll hear of her.
Professor Rat Zangeneh pulled strings to get me packed into a large pizza box and on to an Asseman Airlines plane from Ahvaz to Dubai. Since there’s an American Embassy there, I was soon on my way here to Baghdad.
Tell Malodor and my niece, Nancy, that I'll be back soon. The Embassy here has to wait for Condie to debrief me and pick up the microfilm. I hear that might take a while.
Thanks, Charlie, old bean.
Signed, Oscar Rat.
I also found this paw-scratched note in the envelope. It's in Ancient Rat, a language Oscar taught me but that Malodor, his wife -- being a skunk -- doesn't understand:
Hey, Charlie.
I've met some fantastic local girls over here. Don't ever tell Malodor, but I think I'll stay for a few months. Since I'm a local hero to both human and rodents, I'm living the good life -- and on Georgie's expense account. I'm not in any hurry to leave and go back to work. Take care of that cardboard box, old buddy. It contains a fortune in counterfeit Iranian money, he, he. The major said it’s so good it can be exchanged in any large bank.
Again signed by Oscar Rat.
So, although I know Oscar is all right, I still don't know exactly when he'll be back. Malodor is going nuts while waiting.
Charlie
This is a transcript of a conversation between myself and my old buddy, Oscar Rat. It is in his words, as far as I can remember, and the opinions are his own. Unless you believe in the veracity of virtual rodents they should be taken as pure fiction, the result of an involved and complex daydream. Warning! Sprinkled with politics, one rat's opinion, of course.Charlie
====
3. Oscar Rat, Diplomat.
====
At the time, I was sitting at my kitchen table having a typical breakfast of juice sprinkled on the finest vodka. A donut sat alone on a saucer near my other hand. It had been there since the previous Saturday.
I heard a patter of small feet accompanied by a loud fart as a furry head appeared from behind a sugar bowl. Although his normally well-groomed fur was in wild tangles and clumped with dark dirty oil, I recognized my old pal, Oscar Rat.
“You alone, Charlie?”
I looked around the room, then my entire apartment. A quick peek out into the corridor satisfied me. “As far as I can tell.”
“Thank the gods.” He stepped out from cover. “Is it okay if I clean up in your bathroom?”
I nodded, turning back to my drink. A few minutes later, as I heard thumping followed by a loud crash of something breaking, I was sorry. I knew I’d have a hell of a time cleaning up after him. Oscar has no regard for anyone else’s possessions. His wife, the former Malodor Skunk, keeps a tight rein on the guy at home. But, then, that’s his own property, to be treated gently.
He’s would almost certainly overflow my bathtub. Not that he likes to swim, simply by not bothering to turn the taps off. When he’s finished shampooing his fur, he’ll probably dump the rest of the bottle on the floor to make bubbles with as he slides across to the sink. God knows what he’s going to try to flush down my toilet, most likely the last half of the roll of toilet paper after using the first half to dry himself from the shower. Oscar can’t reach my bath towel. Naturally, he locks the door and would refuse to let me in. It’s all happened before.
That thought called for two more vodka and juices while I waited for him to return. Signaled by the sound of a hair dryer, I rushed over to see him exiting, once more looking like the Oscar I know.
I was surprised to see only a minor mess, wads of soaked tissue thrown around, sticking to walls, floor, and ceiling. That breaking sound had been a bottle of disinfectant, no big deal. Surprising for Oscar.
Back at the table, the rat dipping his whiskers in a saucer of booze and nibbling on that old doughnut, I asked him, “What you afraid of? I haven’t seen you for months. Now you show up looking like you’re running from something. And why the hell didn’t you shower at home? It’s right down the hall?”
“Slow down, old buddy. Take it easy. Hey! Do me a favor and peek outside. See if there’re any government-type cars out there, uh? You know, the cheap Fords with huge radio aerials.
I looked out at the building parking lot, not seeing anything but a normal mish-mash of mostly old autos.
“Nothing I can see. Come on, you can tell old Charlie?”
“It’s a long story, buddy. One that still might get me killed, maybe even you if they find me here.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“One or both of two girl rats, or even Malodor if she’s found out. I need you to see if she’s angry at me.”
I laughed at that. “I know she’s angry. What do you expect when you disappear for three months? Where the hell were you?”
“A secret mission for Obama. I
shouldn’t but I have to tell you, or someone. At least one of those women must have told him by now. I’ve been running and hiding in the US for a week, afraid to try for the White House.”
I poured myself and Oscar more drinks, carrying them and him into the living room and settling down before asking, “Well, then, tell me about it.”
“It began last December. I heard a knock on my door about ten one night. Opening it, I saw the Alligator Brothers. You know them. They work for the Secret Service.”
“Yeah. Dangerous guys, those alligators.”
“They told me the President wanted to see me, ASAP. I didn’t even have time to wake Malodor or Nancy before being hustled into a limo and driven to the airport. A large airplane was waiting. It was dark so I’m not even sure what kind.
“I didn’t even see the President. He was in a meeting so I had to talk to a faceless suit who wouldn’t identify herself.”
“It must have been important,” I said. “I wonder why Obama didn’t have you wait around, though?”
“Who knows with politicians. I get a feeling THIS administration doesn’t want to be seen dealing with rats, unlike the last one.
“Anyway, my mission was ... look outside again, and in the hallway. Please, old buddy.”
It’s wasn't like Oscar to be so security conscious. He must have been really frightened. I did as he asked, even checked the stairwell doors. Looking at Oscar’s own closed apartment door, I thought of waking his wife to tell her he was there. Na. Better find out more first, I decided.
“It’s safe, Oscar.”
“Well, my mission was to convince tribal rats in Georgia, the country not the state, to let Israeli warplanes through their country when they bomb Iran. Human diplomats had already bribe ... convinced human leaders there to okay it.”
“Why won’t the rats go along with that deal? I should think they’d do what Georgian politicians decide.”
“It’s a complex issue, Charlie. See, even though Georgia broke away from Russia when the USSR collapsed, humans in two sections of that country, South Ossetia and Abkhazia, retained Russian citizenship. No big problem, since the military airports are in another province, outside T’Bilisi, the capital. The problem is that ALL the rodents are still loyal to Russia.
“The US and Israel are afraid of sabotage if they ever try to take off from there to bomb Iran. The guy I talked to said Iran was also aware of the problem and sent their own contingent of rat diplomats to keep those planes on the ground. They’re supposed to have smuggled bombs and rat-sized weapons in from Russia and Iran.
My job was to spread American money around to combat sabotage. Spreading other people’s tax money around is a job I’m well-suited for.”
He jogged my memory. “I remember when the Russians shelled those two places. It was in all the news programs. How they killed all those innocent Georgians. Macon was in such a mess it was declared a disaster zone. The Georgia National Guar....”
“What the hell you talking about? Like most of you American humans, you’ve got the two Georgia’s mixed up. The country, Charlie. NOT the state. Jeez! Humans!
“And it wasn’t the Russians that attacked. Georgia shelled its own residents -- the ones holding Russian passports -- and were driven back by the Russians according to a treaty they both signed earlier. It’s a long story, but American newspapers and television deliberately gave the wrong slant to the story. The Russians were only following the treaty to the letter, not invading. Politics.
He shook his shaggy head at me, then gulped up the rest of his drink. Signaling me to pour another, he continued.
“I was to work with the Israelis. They would have their head of Rodent Affairs meet me at Soganlug Air Base outside T’bilisi, the capital. Apparently, both the US and Israel have rented large sections of that base.
The US once told Israel they weren’t to be allowed to fly over US controlled airspace in order to bomb Iran. That could be Israel’s answer. It was well within their warplanes’ fuel capacity to fly from Georgia, over Azerbaijan or the Caspian Sea, and then into Iran. The US could roll its collective eyes and say, ‘Gee. I never thought of that. We don’t control any of that space’.”
“Sneaky, ain’t they? I said. And, of course, since neither country is supposed to have troops or warplanes in Georgia, they can deny even seeing each other.”
“That’s the idea, Charlie old buddy. Except the entire world knows it with the exception of US citizens. Back to my mission. Given a shrink-wrapped wooden pallet of boxed bricks of mixed currency, along with two frickin’ armed human guards and an accountant to watch it, I was dumped onto a B-52 at Edwards and on my way to Georgia.”
“Did you feel like General Sherman?” I joked. “When he was marching through Georgia.”
“Not even remotely. All the frickin’ way, my eyes alternated from those damned guards to the treasure pallet. I had to get some of that candy. I had to.”
“Doesn’t Obama pay you?”
“Not by the frickin’ pallet, he doesn’t.”
Oscar spent a few moments cleaning his whiskers, only to dip them again in the saucer. Knowing that rodent, he was either trying to organize his thoughts or dreaming of all that money.
“When we landed at Soganlug Air Base I was whisked into the city and dropped off outside an alley. I admit I was frightened, not knowing a word of Georgian and damned little Ruski-speak. That and in a strange country. Bracing ratly shoulders, I scurried into the darkness.