Thunder, and other rumblings
We had a mighty thunderstorm tonight. It is the first one I have seen out here.

I chose that moment to take a walk to the Post Exchange, which is like a tiny little General Store, electronics shop, gift shop, and grocer, all packed into a little building that is next to what used to be one of Saddam's outdoor pools. The rain started coming down heavily as I reached the halfway point. It was cold, and the wind whipped at me with enthusiasm.

I rather enjoyed it.

The locals tell me that they haven't seen this much rain since before Saddam took power. They see it as a good sign. I had been wondering, actually, what they thought of the rain, and if it was a nusance or a blessing to see so much.

There are other words on the street, though. On the one hand, some would like the Coalition to take more responsibility for the daily security of the streets and businesses of citties and towns throughout the country. They would like to feel safe walking to market, or sending their children to the new schools. I understand their desire, but don't agree that handing the problem to the Coalition is the answer.

There are others that want the Coalition to leave. There is talk of a 1930's-style revolution, which would wrest control of the national government from the Coalition. I can testify that the Coalition agrees on one point; they want to hand the reins of responsibility to the people of Iraq. They would insist on it following an orderly course, though.

I recall a similar situation in South Korea. There are demonstrations every year, suggesting that the American soldiers leave South Korea. The Soldiers are told to stay away from the demonstrations. The soldiers do so, but some of them I have spoken to think they should attend.

"We have a common purpose," one said. "They want the American Soldiers to go home, and we want the American Soldiers to go home, too."

The fact is, no one is leaving South Korea, or Iraq, any time soon. The situations in Korea and Iraq are too unstable to just walk away now. America and the Coalition do not want to leave a house of cards in the hands of inexperienced leaders in Iraq, and American feels the threat of North Korea too keenly to leave that region.

So the rumblings will continue, and the rain will fall, but little will be washed away in the end.

It makes me wonder
Nine-toe Norman is OK. He is back among us. And he has stylish footwear.

Norman lives in the same tent as me. He sleeps on the bunk above mine. We have generally gotten along well. His snoring is moderate, he doesn't leave his undergarments on the bedpost, and he is thoughtful of people that are trying to sleep when he comes in.

I was pretty angry with him for a few days. There were people that met him at the door on his return. Someone came by my office to let me know he was here.

"Aren't you going to come out and cheer for him?" they asked.

"Why?" was my response. "He has cost his government a king's ransom in local currency, endangered himself and a local patrol, and nearly lost a load of classified equipment to a roving band of halfwit terrorists that apparently can't even shoot straight. And after all that, he didn't even accomplish the mission he set out to do. Cheer for him? I should shoot him in the other foot."

I did happen to leave the building as he was coming in, and I mentioned that I was glad he didn't get himself killed. But that was the last thing I said to him for a few days.

We are back to exchanging pleasantries as of today. I wondered, though, at why I was so angry at him. All that I said above was true, but didn't really affect me. It seemed uncharacteristic of me to be upset in such a way. I thought about it for a while, and I came up with a few conclusions.

For one, I consider Norman a friend. We are not close, but we are not at odds, and have been cooperative with each other's efforts. There has been enough loss of people whom I respect and considered friends without Norman dying, especially for no more reason than his impetuousity.

Another is that his foolhardy act demeans the security precautions we have all taken here. That I have spent so much time in body armour, accompanied by armed guards, and he goes out with not so much as a decent pocket knife, indicates his distain for my concerns. He has received the same warnings as I, and seen the same reports and briefings. Am I cowardly because I give them credence? I think not, and he has proved it.

I think on occasion about how I was no more than 50 metres from him when he made the decision and left. I think that I should have stopped him somehow or another. It is irrational, of course. Besides the fact that the intervening space was filled with buildings and walls that prevented my even knowing he was in the area, Norman would have no more listened to me than he did his closer associate that refused to ride along.

Finally, though, I think how his attack has reminded me of my own mortality. I have been reminded, as if the mortars and the bounties weren't enough, that there are numerous people that want to take my life. I am not afraid of death. I am, however, not eager to put my loved ones through the event.

Thoughts from deeper within
Nothing like a nice, hot shower after a good workout.

And this was definitely nothing like a nice, hot shower. This was a vengeful shower, in which the temperature fluctuated from scalding to tepid without notice. Added to that is the fact that this is the first workout in 6 months, coming at the end of a 30-hour shift, and you can imagine why "Mr. E" (how I cringe at that awful, hokey pseudonym) is eager to catch a nap.

Well, if you are one of the five regular readers of this whatever-it-is, you will know that the italics indicate that this is an inner monologue. The agreement is that I can have this entry to tell you a few things he wouldn't say himself. Please note that he isn't psychotic. There isn't some kind of multiple personality disorder going on here. I am as much him as he is.

So who am I? Use whatever name suits you: Conscience, Id, Super Ego, there are many names, and you have one yourself. There are some people who have managed to silence theirs, but they usually end up on Jerry Springer confessing to having had an affair with their neighbor's cousin's zookeeper. Besides, it is always so much easier to be critical in the third person than in the first, if you catch my meaning.

So let me tell you a few things about E.

In spite of the things a few people say about him, he isn't heroic, or even all that interesting. He is, quite frankly, whiney. He constantly gripes about the living conditions, the food, the hours, the people with whom he is surrounded. He wants to go home. Has he mentioned that? Because I hear it all the time. It's a constant, inceasant drone, like a fly in the room that is just out of reach.

He is impatient. I honestly think the main reason he is unarmed is because he believes so many people could desperately benefit from someone shooting at their feet, for motivational purposes. The term, "Dance, Varmint!" pops up frequently when he is imagining these scenarios. He has a particularly difficult time dealing with people who are unfortunate enough to have missed out on any of the education that he has obtained, as he expects any adult to know as much about any topic as he does. This doesn't appear to apply to children, though. Perhaps it is because, socialy and emotionally, he is still very much the same person he was in his early teens.

He is, when it comes down to it, rather timid and afraid. He will not put himself in any sort of danger if he can possibly avoid it. When he absolutely has to, he prays at a level that would make Mother Theresa look like an agnostic. He at least has the courtesy to insist that a minimum of additional personnel be put in danger along with him, but he tends to exagerate the hazzards of helicopter flights and convoys more than they deserve. He is also afraid of heights, by the way.

When it comes down to it, there is very little admirable about him. The only truly respectable thing about him is also his greatest vice, in my opinion. Because of his enormous pride and ego, he doesn't subject everyone around him to all this. He may be a whiney, impatient sniveling little coward, but at least he keeps it to himself. The only one that has to listen to it is me.

Except, that is, for his poetry. As hard as I try, I haven't been able to get him to give it up. He writes some of the most awful verse imaginable, and then puts it, not in the wastebasket like a sensible man would, but on the internet.

But that is a discussion for another time. Pretty soon that enormous ego of his is going to keep him from hitting the "save" button on this, or he is going to lose his nerve and delete the entry. If he ever lets me write again, maybe I will do one of those, "50 Things Mr. E. Doesn't Want You To Know About Him" lists.

If only I were a Darwinist ...
One of my friends has been shot.

He is alive, and coherent, and able to speak. This is good, because he has a LOT of explaining to do.

It seems that he was supposed to be in a convoy of vehicles, so that he could go do some necessary work. The convoy, for various reasons, fell through, so he decided to drive alone.

He didn't get far.

He was ambushed. He was pursued. His tires were shot out. He took a bullet in the foot.

He managed to keep driving until he found a nearby military unit, who was kind enough to return fire on my friend's behalf. He was loaded into a helicopter and transported to a Combat Support Hospital, where they were able to put him right.

Unfortunately, his vehicle is impounded, along with several thousand dollars of equipment.

He could have been killed.

He ought to be fired.

He should at least be sent home. A war zone is no place to get the idea that you are vastly more intelligent than either the enemy or the local command.

In the next few days, I will be writing, "The Ballad of Norman Nine-Toes". But first, I am going to take a nap.

The Chicken In the Army, They Say It's Mighty Fine ...
NOTE: Time has gotten out of hand again, as the mission has gone into overtime. Therefore, I am sharing another entry from my personal journal. This is from mid-November.


So, what did you have for dinner?

It has been said that man does not live by bread alone, but it never even occurred to anyone that they might need to mention that man does, indeed, need bread. So, what was for dinner? Who did you eat with? Did you grab something on the run? Was dinner a family event, or perhaps a business meeting? Did you microwave a TV dinner or heat up a frozen pizza and sit in front of the news?

Meals are an event here. Meals are scheduled to be served at the same times every day, so events can be planned around meals. Now and then, someone has a package from home that gives them the flexibility to eat something different, and eat it whenever they want, but generally life here revolves around the set of prefab trailers affectionately known as the Chow Hall.

Ask any servicemember here, from any nation, about the best part of their day, and there will be three answers. The first will generally be mail call. Think about how much you enjoy getting a letter or a box from the postman, and then try to imagine how much more it would mean to you eight thousand miles and 11 months away from the people you love, and you will start to get the idea.

The second will usually be shift change. Working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week for a year, with two weeks off, makes quitting time a sweet thought. Now, add in the uncertainty of the shift change, since an event could trigger a delay, factor in the hoops through which one must jump to schedule that two-week break, and sprinkle in surprise tasks, equipment failures, and a thousand other people facing the same troubles as you, and you understand how the time away from the desk can be precious.

The third, more often than not, is mealtime. Meals are a brief break from the efforts of the day. You can usually choose with whom you will have your meal, and you can talk about anything, even work, if you must.

Another reason mealtime is so popular is that everyone has a menu entry that they consider to be the best item out here. When that item pops up on the little white sign in front of the door, it is a time of celebration, one of those brief, happy moments in life that get you through the others. It can be a double-edged sword, however. There have been those moments when the little white sign has told little white lies, and a brief moment of elation is turned into just another choice between the lesser of two evils.

In Baghdad, chicken is for dinner. Chicken is served in every way imaginable.
With so many different nations represented, chicken seems to be the Esperanto of ingredients. Chicken here gets baked, boiled, fried, sauced, broiled, steamed, roasted, spiced, coated, smothered, pressed, dunked, and occasionally nuggetted. It has been served in soups, stews, casseroles, salads, pies, and in the standalone configuration. When they are too small to have been let outside alone, they are called Cornish Hens. If the truck hit a pothole, it is stew.

Of course, no one really minds having a lot of chicken. There are some out here that don?t even have that much comfort. Everyone learns to make due with what they have on hand, even if it gets a bit monotonous. The alternative, of course, is the MRE.

The Meal, Ready to Eat, in its khaki plastic pouch, is the stuff of legend. The contents are reassuringly consistent: Entree, some form of cracker or bread, hot sauce, salt, pepper, brown plastic spoon, beverage powder, and a small folded parcel of toilet tissue. The accoutrements vary from one to the next, but Meal #10 will always contain ChiliMac, Cheese Spread, Wheat Bread, and Cocoa Powder. Everyone has their favorite, not so much for the main item as much as the accessories. But you would be hard pressed to find more than a half of a handful of people that would prefer their favorite MRE to a hot meal at the Chow Hall.

When you sit down with your family tonight, or pull up a chair next to a business associate, think for a minute about the event in which you are participating. Even if you are just grabbing something at the drive-through on your way to wherever it is you need to go, take a moment to think about the ritual of food, it?s surprises and comforts. We remember it here, and it has taken on a whole new meaning.

Heroes, stories, and the guy with 3 hearts
If someone were to ask me to suggest a likely candidate for the title of War Hero, I would have to say you couldn't make a much better choice than a man with three hearts.

Inside Battery A, hunkered on a site beneath the skeletal beginnings of the unfinished Great Mosque, it?s easy to find a soldier who has taken shrapnel.


?To date, we?ve had 26 attacks,? says 1st Sgt. Stephen Smith. Three were ambushes.

The troops trained at close combat in the Kuwaiti desert in the spring, but the soldiers are still surprised their artillery battery wound up here, patrolling a wasp?s nest.

?It?s just a fluke,? Smith says.

At the risk of practically giving away a sure-fire Pultzer by putting this in the hands of the blogosphere, may I direct your attention to the following?

At the risk of sounding like Glen Reynolds, I would ask you to read the article in its entirety.

This may end up all over the internet by tomorrow. If so, then I have done my part. This is a story that deserves to be told, and one that a lot of people need to hear.

I need to caveat what I am about to say. It is not my intention or desire to belittle anyone, or to reduce the significance of their experience in this conflict. I am in no position to judge anyone's courage or valour, nor, quite frankly, are you. Courage is a very personal matter, perhaps even more so than any religious or other moral conviction.

Having said that, I have followed the reporting of events in this war in several of the Coalition nations. At present, the only heroes the public has seen from this war are a group of people who were put in a bad position because they failed to take care of their own equipment, and whom the adversary did not kill when they had the chance.

?It?s crazy around here, sir,? says Cpl. Wayne Santos, pulling guard duty out front. He pulls back his Kevlar collar to expose a bulging lozenge of a scar. ?I was lucky, because I?ve got a 1?-inch hole that goes through the back of my neck.?

The Soldiers of 4/27 Field Artillery, the subject of the article linked above, could not have reasonably expected to be thrust into the level of conflict in which they find themselves. Artillerymen don't generally engage the enemy at close range in this fashion. But because they are well trained in the basic skills required by any soldier, because they respect themselves and their commerades, and because the leadership of that battery was unwilling to accept anything less than a full effort, they are not POWs. They are standing toe to toe with the adversary in the most active kill zone in this sector (under 25 Kilometers or so from where I sit now), and they are not backing down.

[PFC Jonathan] Mayberry was restricted from normal duty for one month after his second attack, but he?s still in Iraq. Soldiers typically leave a theater after attack injuries, but Mayberry says his unit is too small and sees too much action for that.

?I wish it were that way,? Mayberry says. Then he pauses. ?But I don?t know. I?m serving my country ... maybe if I got some leave.?

He says he?d be too worried about his fellow soldiers to stay back in Germany while they fought. He says he couldn?t even stand being on restriction.

PFC Jonathan Mayberry has received the Purple Heart, probably the most famous of America's awards for Vaolur in the face of combat, twice since his arrival out here. According to the US Air Force, it is an award the American military bestows in recognition of wounds or death as result of an act of any opposing Armed Force, as a result of an international terrorist attack or as a result of military operations while serving as part of a peacekeeping force. PFC Mayberry didn't sign on for this mission to get a Purple Heart. Of the people I know that have received that award, none had made it a goal. And I would be willing to bet a month's pay that he didn't say to himself, "This is cool! Let's see if I can get another one!" As far as I have been able to determine, he hasn't called any attention to himself. But that is generally the way heroes operate. He was uninterested in leaving his team behind, even after being wounded twice.

It isn't the two Purple Hearts that makes him a hero, but the one that he brought with him to the conflict.

Almost Paradise
My current weird schedule, I have opportunity to vary my experience a bit. Today I had a pleasant walk from the tent to the office, tucked away in a room that, I am told, was once a kitchen. The wind was light and cool, and the sky was just going into a deep blue, with copper on the fringes of the horizon.

Its ironic to consider, if you take Biblical geography seriously, that this place is as physcally close to Paradise as it gets. I am about equidistant from the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Somewhere in the neighborhood, so the story goes, is Eden and the Tree of Knowledge. Babylon, where people first tried to reach the sky, and where the variety of languages are reported to have originated, is about a relaxed Sunday drive from here.

So near, and yet so far.

The word on the street is that the local populace is getting tired of the attacks. For the last few months, more Iraqi people have been killed in these blasts than Coalition forces. They are starting to prefer the new Dinar over the American Dollar, and some shops will not anything but the local currency. The local police and protection forces are growing. The first class of women graduated from the training program this month, and will take their place alongside the men in the struggle to return this land to peace.

So near, and yet so far.

The violence continues. Not far from where I am, in a place I have walked through on occasion, another explosive took another 20 lives, mostly innocent local bystanders. Rumors continue to be spread, and conversation over a shisha pipe or a coffee often carries more weight than statements through a microphone or a television camera. In the British sector, they would rather have the Americans. In the American sector, they would rather have the British. In the Italian sector, they would rather not have anyone. There is talk of civil war on the horizon. The Shia are preparing for the Sunni to attack. The Sunni are preparing for the Shia to attack.So near, and yet so far.

But is it really so different than anywhere else in the world? Sixteen were killed and twenty wounded here last night. But how many were killed in Los Angeles, or Cairo? People are upset that prices are rising here. But who isn't upset that prices are rising? Today, thousands protested here because they want free elections to be held earlier. Students protested in Haiti against the current government, and in Seattle thousands more protest the lack of affordable housing.

So, Iraq is close to Paradise, but still far away. And yet aren't we all? We have those who love and nurture us near at hand, and others cry out in pain, or injustice, or fear, or simple frustration. Just go out your front door and listen.

A turning point is approaching here, I believe. Ordinary people are preparing for change in this area, and it is change for the good. I'm not saying that the work here is over, but I am saying that I can see that the wind is changing, and things could be getting better here sooner, rather than later.

More to follow.

A brief experiment, and somewhat of a change of heart
Yesterday I wore local clothing.

Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a big deal. When you find yourself in a place that is not much like your usual location, it is often a good idea to take a hint from the locals regarding dress, maintenance of equipment, behaviour, and other activities. For example, cleaning a rifle in the Middle East is different than cleaning a rifle in Greenland. A local will know which parts should be oiled, and which parts should be wiped with an oiled cloth, and which parts you just spit on and wipe down. That is because they are used to the debris and dust of their particular environment.

However, I wasn't cleaning a rifle. As I have mentioned before, I am unarmed here. I did nothing more complicated than put on a dshdasha, which is sort of like a heavy, long nightshirt, and a shemaugh, which is a scarf that is tied up on the head. Think turban, but with a red checkered tablecloth from an italian resteraunt.

The clothing caused me no trouble, as far as clothing goes. I keep it for travel purposes, and it is rather comfortable. I also rather enjoyed the idea of going to work without pants.

My problems, actually, came from the Americans.

It is significant to note that I have no issues with America, or Americans. Fine people, Americans. Inovative, driven, outgoing, friendly people, generally speaking. A lot of the world's progress in the last 220 or so years either comes directly out of America, or as a result of trying to compete with America. Additionally, with all due respect to the other nations of the world, nobody, and I do mean nobody, fights a war like Americans. It is almost as if each servicemember takes it as a deep insult that another military would dare oppose them. When Americans go to war, they make it personal.

The reaction to my outfit, though, was a bit troubling. I can sum it up in one sentence.

"Dammit, you're gonna get yourself shot walking around like that!"

I heard it a lot, but I didn't hear it from the British, or the Australians, or the Koreans, or the Polish, or the Italians, or the Spaniards, or the Mongols, or, for that matter any other nation's representatives. Just the Americans.

So what dies it mean, that the Americans showed a genuine concern that someone would open fire on me, or joked about doing it themselves. Is there any significance? I think so. I think that the American servicemembers here do not trust the local populace.

E.?

Yes?

That is, without a doubt, the stupidest thing you have ever written here. Of course the American servicemember doesn't trust the local populace! The local populace, if you recall EVERY NIGHT FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS, is trying to KILL the American servicemember, not to mention you.

Yes, I know. But it isn't the entire populace. It's a few disgruntled extremists, with a few Al Qaeda and some guys trying to turn a fast buck mixed in. Now may I continue?

Of course! Don't mind me. Please, do go on.

As I was saying, the American servicemembers, or at least quite a few of them where I was that day, do not appear to trust the locals. It is these same American servicemembers who are now training these same untrusted locals to be the new Iraqi security force. It is these same servicemembers who run the checkpoints, and search for the terrorists, and hunt for the weapons of mass destruction.

Now, I will grant that it wasn't every American. I will grant that it may have been just an off day, except that I have experienced this sort of thing before, when I have worn my "traveling suit". However, it is somewhat disturbing to think that I could be judged by the cut of my shirt, rather than the content of my character.

I am not ready to say that the US should turn this operation over to the United Nations. I have seen how the United Nations handles situations such as this, and they quite frankly would bollocks up the works if they took the reigns now.

I will say, though, that perhaps the Coalition should discuss the option of a more equitable disbursement of responsibilities. I am suggesting that Australia, and the UK, and Spain, and Poland might take the wheel for a few miles on this trip, and see if we can get there without hitting quite so many potholes.

In which we take a deep breath
Well!

It has been an interesting week. Let me drop a few things out, stream-of-consciousness style, in hopes that my disjointed brain will give you enough detail that you get an idea, but not so much that I receive a visit from the Men in the Dark Sunglasses.

We had a project. A directive, actually. It was a daunting task, and we had 48 hours to get it done. Everyone worked until they just about couldn't stand, grabbed a quick nap, and jumped back into the fight. I had my doubts at times, as I was dividing my time between fixing errors and making sure things ran smoothly in the absence of all the people working the project. In the end, though, the project was completed on time, and successfully.

I was, at one point this week, in an area in which an explosive device could have been planted. Working dogs were brought in to ensure that this was not the case. Naturally, I had nothing to fear from dogs who were trained to sniff out explosives. I have no weapons here, so I have no gunpowder residue. I hadn't been near any blasting recently, nor had I handled volatile substances.

It is unfortunate, though, that this should be the one day, out of the last half-year, that I had beef jerky in my pocket.

I have, in addition, been doing long-distance consultation for people in Hawaii, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and Germany. My particular vocation makes me the target of a lot of questions, and this week seemed to provide me with more inquisitive people that usual. As they say, "When it rains, it pours."

The worst part of this week, however, has been trying to catch up on corespondence. I have four inboxes filled with messages. For some reason, the one associated with this site attracts advertisements from people that sell anti-depressants and psychotropic pharmicuticals pharmisuticals pharme chemicals. This bothers me a bit. I thought I needed meditation, not medication.

And so, if you have not heard from me in a week, please don't take it personally. I am digging as fast as I can.

The war before The War
Well, I once again find myself with enough time on my hands to do some writing. I hope to knock out a little poetry later today, and maybe start a short story. In the interim, though, I have some 'splainin' to do.

A couple of days ago, I mentioned an conversation I anticipate having with my grandchildren, should I manage to get out of this one alive. My expectation is that one day some little sprout will be on my knee asking me, "Grandaddy E., were you in The War?" My response, as you may recall, was, "No, I wasn't in The War, but I was in the war before The War."

Now this may not be entirely true. It may be that I will also participate in The War. There may be a war between this one and The War. But there are two things of which I am certain: We, as a world, are drawing to a point in history in which a conflict is inevitible, and this current collection of conflicts is not it.

I am almost certain that there will be another chapter in this Global War on Terror. I think that history will look at this conflict, the war in Afghanistan, and the next one or two, as different phases of the same war.

Unfortunately, The War will not, I fear, be over a cause so noble as eliminating terrorism from the world. The lines are currently forming two distinct groups. On one hand, there is Western Society. On the other is Non-Western Society.

Western Society is enamoured with a particular concept of civilisation. It involves a particular code of ethics, and a particular mode of behaviour. There are things which Western Society will tolerate, and things which it will not. It has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on making sure innocent people are not wrongly prosecuted. It shows, and expects, a great deal of mercy. It is, for the most part, monotheistic. It consumes a majority of the world's resources, but produces a majority of the world's advancements.

Non-Western Society is a kalidescope of ethos and behaviours. It has a variety of beliefs and dogmas. it is monotheistic, polytheistic, and non-theistic. However, it generally has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on non-recidivism. It produces a majority of the world's products, but consumes a lesser amount of resources. And as varied as Non-Western Society is, it has one common bond. It does NOT want to conform to Western standards.

Al Qaeda, Tupac Amaru, Aum Shinrikyo, and a host of other organizations have their various agendas, but none of them are particularly compatible with Western Society. Additionally, the amount of groups is growing.

I'm sure this sounds alarmist, but I believe that hostilities are eventually going to be touched off by one side or the other. And, as unlikely as this may sound, it will probably be the current quest for Peace in the Middle East that gives us the required spark.

There are those in the West who believe that Peace in the Middle East can only come through Democratization of the Arab World. Iraq provides an excellent opportunity for the West to get its foot in the door, in a manner of speaking. Once other copuntries see that Democratization is a good thing, they will begin clamouring for more of it in their own countries. And there you have it, the Road to Jerusalem, paved by Babylon.

Some will see this as Zionist. Others will see it as Imperialist. Few will see it as altruistic. The West tends to overlook the flaws in Democracy, because we believe that the strengths outwiegh the weaknesses. We tend to forget that the Non-West does the same with their various systems.

It will not require any super-charismatic leader to rise from some downtrodden country, uniting the various factions into one massive Army of Doom. No one has to be particularly united at all, or even coordinated, to start off. As a matter of fact, the more diverse and disjointed they are, the harder it will be for the West to defend against it. All it takes is a number of organizations, or nations, deciding that the sting of a thousand hornets can be as deadly as one spear.

And then we will see The War. One faction or the other in this conflict will strike heavily enough to encourage cooperation among the non-Western nations. The impetus could be a successful assault by some smaller nation, or it could be a devastating attack on the host nation of some organisation. It seems likely that the Communist nations (what is left of them), will side against the West. I can't even begin to predict the outcome. I can't even begin to predict the date, although logic indicates that it is likely to be in the next 50 years. I am, of course, open to debate, and perfectly willing to be wrong, so if you have another, more palatable course of events, let me know. I am ever the optimist.