"The FBI with the help of the CIA is trying to stop a Chinese family operation out of Beijing and Washington, D.C. that is smuggling rosewood and ebony timber out of Madagascar. The illegal consignments of endangered timber is being shipped to the U.S. from China. The illicit trade of these rare trees has resurfaced in Madagascar, a country already reeling from corrupt military rule. Rosewood is prized for its ruby color and, because the Chinese have helped to make this a poverty-stricken country, is being smuggled out of the island at a rate that, some say, could put the country's survival under threat.
This same family operation is also smuggling teenage girls into the U.S. and Europe as victims of human trafficking. Most of these girls are 13-17 years old. They have been lured with false promises of well-paying jobs but will be sold as barmaids, waitresses, casino girls, salon workers, you name it, all titles masquerading under the umbrella of sex slaves heading to Canada and the U.S. They have been manipulated by people they trusted, and most of their parents have no idea where they are. They will be forced into prostitution, domestic servitude, farm or factory labor, or other types of forced labor.
Supervisory Special Agent Howard Watson and his team must stop these atrocities."
Lorna Hunter was brought up in Los Angeles. During her first year at UCLA she lived through the Rodney King “can't we all just get along” joke of a trial. She later suffered through the controversial trial of O.J. Simpson. She was hardened by the thought that “you can't trust the police”.
After graduation from UCLA and armed with a degree in Economics, Hunter accepted a job at Howard University in Washington, D.C. because “it was far enough away from Los Angeles but still in the U.S.” She moved from the projects and her drug dealing father and brother as quickly as she could. She believed that if her mother was still alive, the life her family was living would surely kill her.instead of the cancer that took her young life. Lorna proved however, that the fruit does not fall far from the tree.
As the rock-laden cart carried him and the four men to the surface of the volcanic crater, Peter Samadu was finally able to feel the sun's rays. He could also feel the scowl on the mercenaries' faces that were waiting for them with AK-47 assault rifles. Peter and the men had been down in the crater for more than ten hours. No extra water or food was provided - only what was given 10 hours prior. As soon as he and the men jumped off the cart, they started coughing from the sudden burst of clean air that hit their lungs. Their bounty, in this case, the cart that held the kimberlite rocks, was wheeled away from them. They could go home now.
Peter headed for the path that led down the mountain slope. Three miles later, he could hear the rush of the Bushimaie River and the smells that signaled home. A lean-to stood on a wedge of land in which The Company said his family could live. He shared this shanty with his parents, five sisters and brothers. The wedge of land had belonged to his family 130 years before The Company came.
Peter's mother waved to him as he came into sight. He picked up his pace until his 12-year-old heart told him he would not make it. He then thanked God for his time on earth.
Janet J. Forrestal had been with the Philadelphia FBI office for almost three years before she went on an actual stakeout. Prior to that, her job had been mostly limited in scope, like sitting at the front desk taking walk-in complaints, or appearing at job fairs and college recruitment events. Now she was going into the field with other agents - show time! She proved her mettle quickly by assisting in the captures of a pedophile that had been on the lam for six years, and a serial rapist specializing in prostitutes in Philadelphia's Central City area.
Although she never divulged her secret, Janet had wanted to be an FBI agent ever since she was a kid. She didn't know a single woman agent prior to her appointment, but she quickly got to know the eight women agents stationed in the New York and Philadelphia bureaus. The reason? The FBI's new public relations campaign was trying to illustrate how diverse the FBI had become. Janet would just shake her head at this exhaustive and expensive exercise. It was not as if she wouldn't be noticed. She was 5'10" tall, red-haired, and owned damn near every freckle east of the Mississippi River. On top of that, she was Black.
"Yep" she thought, “I have finally made it into the big leagues. Why are Headquarters sending agents to Philadelphia to "assist" with a case that my partner and I are close to getting a handle on?
Something is up.”
Bakassi Peninsula, near Limbe, a village in Cameroon, a republic in Western Africa.
The boy unpacked the box and handed his father, grandfather, two uncles and two older brothers the AK-47 assault rifles. “How did it come to this? When will this fighting stop?” he asked himself over and over again. His mother was dead. His two sisters were dead. His younger brother was dead. His grandmother was dead. “When will the killing of my people end?” He was thinking that if he ever got out of this place, he would obtain enough guns to stop the enemy. He would make them pay for all his pain.
The fighting sounded closer. His father yelled for them to run. If they could just reach Cameroon Mountain they could duck for cover behind the trees and at least have a decent chance of lasting through the night. The shell of a building peeked from behind thick moss. It was about 100 yards away. They ran as fast as they could. When they reached the edifice the boy quickly realized that one of his uncles was not among them. The boy's father called and called but gunfire quickly drowned out any words. The boy peeked through the planks substituting as a wall and became aware of a man on the ground waving furiously. It was his uncle. His father saw him too, but they had to wait. Two hours later when the gunfire quieted, the boy's father ran to the man on the ground. By then the uncle was dead.
The boy was only 14 years old. He was a boy without money, without dreams, without hope.
He was now a man with a gun.
(Dasht-E-Kavir, a remote desert 200 miles southeast of Tehran)
The night of April 24, eight American servicemen died when their helicopter and a transport plane collided as they were leaving a refueling area after their operation had been called off... ...Pentagon officials, including the senior military officer who briefed reporters, refused to discuss details of the plan beyond the point where it was aborted in the darkness of the Iranian desert.
However, other sources revealed the helicopters were to have taken commandos to a landing near Tehran where the raiders would have linked up with waiting vehicles that would drive them through the city. With darkness as their ally, the commandos were to surprise and overcome the Iranian Fundamentalists students at the American Embassy, locate and round up the 50 hostages held there, and then speed to an airstrip outside the city to board a waiting transport plane. But something went wrong.
Before the mission could begin, one helicopter developed spiraling problems. A plane's hydraulic system went awry, and the plane could not get off the ground. Disaster struck. The rotor of the other helicopter sliced into a transport plane.
Ammunition that was aboard both planes started exploding, lighting up the desert night like the Fourth of July. Only one man aboard the transport plane could be rescued. Five others on the ground were badly burned.
Eight were killed.
White Sox for Women is an upbeat exploration of the Chicago White Sox and more.
It is a quick trip into the game that includes small doses of history about women in baseball, the Negro Leagues, and, yes, the White Sox.
It expresses also a sweet joy for baseball that is infectious and charming. It is a playful and pertinent exploration that strives to share the author's love for the game with reader's looking for a summer love.
Who Am I?
I am a product of Chicago.
I graduated from Chicago’s Harlan High School, attended Wilson Junior College, Columbia College, and acquired a BA in Marketing from an on-line university in Idaho. My mother, Sarah, was born to a part Creek Indian mother and a Black father who migrated to Chicago in 1927 from the Buckaloo Mountains of Alabama. My father, Norman, was a first generation American born to Russian immigrant parents.
My mother, Sarah, was born to a part Creek Indian mother and a Black father who migrated to Chicago in 1927 from the Buckaloo Mountains of Alabama.
My father, Norman, was a first generation American born to Russian immigrant parents. I am the mother of two adult children. I have written, produced and directed three one-act plays on off-off Broadway in New York, including winning the Village Gate One Act Festival in 1993.
I wrote, directed and produced, a 3-city PBS aired television program called Live From The Warehouse, and wrote, produced and directed Herb Kent’s‚ Dusty Records, a syndicated radio program airing in 22 cities.
Joe Weber - Reader and Fan