Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  “Do not concern yourself, young soldier. Make your peace with Allah. The Sheik has arranged for our martyrdom to be witnessed around the world.” The cell leader’s eyes glowed at the prospect. “You are indeed fortunate. You are about to become a famous warrior of the Jihad. Generations of believers will sing songs to your bravery.”

  “Yes, Yassim.”

  Turning away from the face of the cell leader, it was only then the vision of his mother jumped into Rashid’s mind. He saw her clearly now, her wispy brown hair pulled back and her small mouth turned down. In his mind’s eye, she stared at him, shook her head slowly from side to side and began to cry.

  Rashid moved away so Yassim would not see him, but he could not control himself. His own tears rolled silently down his face.

  Chapter 51

  “Hey, lit’l lady, ease up on that trigger finger!”

  I was standing over the two sprawled figures on the floor of the office, the terrorist atop the blood-covered form of Jerod. I had figured Jerod was dead and my finger tensed, ready to fire. I was gripping the gun so hard my knuckles were white.

  “Ya know, that rifle can put eight bullets in me in 1.6 seconds,” Jerod said from beneath the terrorist, “and I’d rather you not.”

  “If you don’t cut out the ‘lit'l lady’ stuff, I might just be tempted to,” I said.

  “Dee Dee, could you put that down and help get this guy off me? He weighs a ton.”

  I dropped the automatic weapon heavily on the cement floor. The arms of the Arab lying atop Jerod had flailed out, spread-eagle style, his body completely covering Jerod’s body. I moved up beside the two and my right foot stepped into a pool of warm liquid. I looked down, seeing the blood, bright red against the gray concrete, oozing onto my bare foot, and I gagged.

  “Hang in there, Dee Dee,” said Jerod, “breathe through your mouth.”

  I did as he said, three long breaths.

  “Ya goin’ to be okay?” he asked from the floor.

  I nodded my head slowly.

  “Okay, grab his arm and see if you can flip him over.”

  I tried but couldn’t budge him.

  “This guy is heavy. We’ll do it together,” he said, seeing me struggle. “On three. One...two...three!”

  I heaved and he pushed and, with our combined effort we rolled the body over with a thud onto the concrete floor. My glance traveled with the motion of the dead man and only then did I notice the hilt of a knife sticking out of the side of his chest, surrounded by a gaping red hole.

  “Where’d that come from?” I asked, my eyes transfixed on the knife.

  Jerod pushed himself up to a sitting position, his bare chest covered with streaks of the dead man’s blood.

  “After I kicked the gun outta his hands, he pulled that thing,” he said. “I believe he intended to use it on me. It wasn’t easy, but I got it away from him. Then all of a sudden, he charged me and I got the knife up just in time. He ran into it.”

  He looked over at me as I was staring at the blood covering his chest and running down the front of his pants. His eyes did a once-over of the blood splattered down his frame and then met mine. “Yeah, when I first felt the blood runnin’ on me, I waddn’t sure it weren’t mine. When I realized it was his, I felt a mite better. That is, until I thought you was goin’ shoot me.”

  “When I came in and saw all that blood, I--I--I thought it was yours. I thought you were dead,” I blubbered.

  “Glad to see ya still care,” Jerod said and flashed that wonderful southern boy smile.

  I was so glad to see that smile again, I almost bawled in front of him.

  He got to his feet and walked quickly out the door. I heard his feet on the concrete pace into the locker room across the hall. When he returned, he was holding a grubby sweatshirt and used it to wipe off.

  “We need to get outta here,” he said. “When this guy dudn’t come back,” his hand jerked toward the dead man on the floor next to me, “his friends’ll send somebody else to find him, not to mention snoozy there.” Jerod’s head jerked toward the closet where our first visitor lay, tied up and apparently still unconscious.

  “How do they know we’re down here?”

  “I dunno,” Jerod said, as he finished wiping the worst of the blood off his chest and pants. He slid another top over his head, covering up his red-smeared flesh. He had donned a soiled gray Notre Dame sweatshirt with the logo of the Irishman ready to pick a fight. “Or mebbe they just sent somebody down here to check things out and they ran into us. Either way, I don’t think it matters.”

  “At least we know there’s only two of them left.”

  “If Jose was tellin’ the truth.”

  As I watched, he began searching the body with the practiced precision of a police officer, and I was suddenly reminded of his real job as a professional prison guard.

  “How did you know to do all this?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Where did you learn to handle these guys?”

  “Oh, I did a stint as a Navy Seal in the Gulf. The skills come in handy every once in a while.”

  I shook my head and examined the face of the terrorist. I didn’t recognize him at first. This wasn’t the Arab who had been the one in charge of the cafeteria takeover, the guy Jose had called Yassim. The dead Arab was lying face up on the floor, his brown eyes wide open, as if staring at me, looking wild, even in death. The bottom of his face was edged with a scruffy, gray beard and the top by an unkempt sprout of hair of the same color. His features were ugly--broken nose and scars beneath the mouth and running down the side of his head into the right ear--a face that looked fearsome, even in death. He was about six feet tall and I would’ve guessed weighed almost three hundred pounds. Seeing his size, I wondered how Jerod had been able to overpower him. Then my glance traveled up to his mouth again, and seeing the rotten teeth, it came back to me. I could still see the vision of him, leering at my naked body along with Jesus up on the deck. Suddenly I felt a primal thrill that he was dead. I wanted to kick the body.

  Jerod’s hands moved methodically over the body with little concern for the dead, exploring pockets and checking expertly for stashed weapons. Watching Jerod work, I realized it was no accident that he had saved my life twice already.

  “Why would he lie?” I asked, when I could find my voice again.

  “What?” He was still absorbed in his task.

  “Why would Jose lie?”

  “Why not?” Jerod said, completing the search. He had found nothing else. “He had thrown his lot in with the terrorists. Why would he tell us the truth?”

  “I don’t get it. Jose was a Mexican immigrant, who had been in this country for something like fifteen years. Why would he help a bunch of Arab terrorists?”

  “I dunno,” replied Jerod immediately, standing alongside of me. “Mebbe they were able to get to him because America had denied him the good life for all those years.” He stopped and looked directly at me. “Or maybe, he just wanted the money. We learned the hard way in Iraq and Afganistan that a great many terrorists are motivated more by greed than by any religious causes.”

  I headed for the door, but his hand on my arm stopped me. The warmth of his hand on my skin was electric and comforting at the same time. I turned to look back at him

  “Not that way, remember?” he said, smiling at me again. “We need t’ use the back stairs Jose told us about.”

  I nodded my head up and down slowly, my gaze focused on his hand gently resting on my arm.

  “And I believe I have a plan!” he added, his smile widening as we moved down the hallway.

  Standing in the cramped office, he filled me in on his “grand plan” in less than two minutes. It was improbable at best, but it was a cinch I wasn’t coming up with anything better, so I said, “Okay.”

  “Yeah, but first I think that ya need to contact your friend at Homeland Security and let ‘em know what we know.”

  “You sure you don’t want to do it
?” I asked.

  “Nope. We ain’t got much time and you’re a faster typist,” Jerod said. “Besides that’ll give me time to go up the stairs and reconnoiter. See if ole Jose was tellin’ the truth. If everythin’s okay, I’ll be back to get you.” When I didn’t move right away, he said, “Get to it, lit’l lady. Ya got three minutes.”

  I moved back to the computer. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but as soon as the computer was up and connected, my fingers were flying over the keys, spelling and grammar be damned.

  Chapter 52

  When he reentered the Situation Room, copies of the newest email in hand, Samson thought the President was in the worst shape he had ever seen. Gregory maintained his position at the head of the conference table, but nothing else about him looked the same. The expression he wore was one of defeat, and perhaps fear. His mouth drooped, reversing his charismatic smile into an oppressive frown. His right hand squeezed a blue pen, his fingertips white from exertion and his thumb tapped on the pen nonstop. His gaze was fixed on the widescreen TV’s, on which the networks were maintaining continuous coverage of what the media had dubbed, “The Siege at Thurber.”

  “Sir, this just came in,” began Samson. “It’s from Dee Dee Sterber again at Thurber.”

  Without preamble, President Gregory began reading out loud again.

  “Mr. Samson,

  Interrupted by another intruder before. We’ve seen two more terorists. Both dead now. Going upstars to get to the teachers and students. Jerod’s gota plan and I only got a minute. Got from one of them before we killed him, there only be a few terrorists left upstairs, but not sure. None down here any more. Got to go now.

  One more. Got out of him that the terrorists have booby-trapped all the school exits and rigged them to blow.

  Dee Dee Sterber”

  “Come on, Harold,” blurted out Garcia, who had moved a few seats up to be closer to the President. “This sounds too good to be true. If I understand it, this teacher and this Jerod have killed three terrorists? Are we expected to believe this?”

  “Who is Jerod?” The President’s gaze alternated between Samson and the TV’s.

  “I’m sorry, sir, that’s what took me a few minutes. All we got is a first name, so we’re not sure, but we believe he is Jerod Thomas, a correctional officer employed by HBE. He also spent seven years as a Navy SEAL and served in the Iraq War.”

  “What’s he doing at the high school?” asked Dickson, who had hung up the phone and had taken a chair near the end of the table by the President. Only Settler remained where he had been, paper in hand, still pacing at the front of the room.

  “Again, we can’t be certain, but Jerod Thomas is registered as a volunteer mentor for some of Ms. Sterber’s students,” continued Harold. “We believe he may have just been in the building when the terrorists staged their takeover.”

  “Why wasn’t he working at the prison?” Dickson asked, skepticism evident in his voice.

  “According to Jim Cromer, he just came off a twelve-hour shift and left the prison around ten this morning,” Samson explained. “He usually does his volunteer work right after he leaves HBE, so his showing up at Thurber makes sense.”

  “Really bad timing on his part,” mused Gregory.

  “Could just as easily be a set up,” said a testy Garcia. “How do we know he’s not working with the terrorists?”

  “We don’t know ANYTHING for sure, Jerry,” said Samson, matching Garcia’s tone briefly, “because we don’t have anyone in that school.”

  “Well, I think we should send the HRT to take the school,” said the FBI Director. “If there are only a few left, our trained men can overpower them and save some lives.”

  “How many lives?” the President asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. There are too many factors we don’t know.”

  “What if it’s a set up?” asked Garcia again. “We have no idea who this email came from,” Garcia said. “It could just as easily come from one of the terrorists. Maybe they want us to think that there are only a few left.” His gaze shifted from one man to the other and ended on Gregory. “Or maybe they want us to think the place is booby-trapped, so we don’t come storming in. That’s exactly the kind of disinformation our people have been trained to give in this kind of situation.”

  “Which is it?” asked President Gregory sharply.

  “Sir?” said Garcia. “I don’t understand.”

  “Are the terrorists telling us that they are down to a few men to lure us in or are they planting the story that the school is rigged to blow so we don’t come? It can’t be both.”

  “I-I-I don’t know, sir,” said Garcia.

  Settler chose this moment to stop his pacing and stepped over to the end of the table. He stood next to Gregory and said, “Mr. President, I concur with Tom. I think we need to go in,” Settler said.

  “And why is that?” the President said with increasing impatience.

  “Sir, I believe that no matter which way it turns out, it’s important that we have to play this one right,” said the Chief of Staff and hesitated and then added, “if you want to have any political future after this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, sir, the most important thing is that you do not appear impotent.” Settler paused briefly and then went on. “I’m afraid that is how we look right now.”

  “I’d think that the most important thing is saving students’ lives,” said Gregory.

  Samson stared at the man hunched above the President. Dean Settler appeared even more gaunt than normal, the skin on his face hanging loose as if it could actually slide off.

  “What if the building blows up and kills everyone?” Gregory asked.

  “I’m not sure that matters, sir,” said Settler. “In the public eye, you cannot be seen to be sitting on your hands. Americans want their President to take decisive action against these terrorists.”

  “Even if it costs innocent lives?”

  “Even at the cost of innocent lives, sir. They want their leader to be strong and not concede.”

  Sitting to the side, Harold watched this exchange as the two men faced each other, ignoring the others in the room. Settler was in his element now. As he made his rational argument, a calm seemed to descend upon him. After the exchange, Harold thought Settler’s face sagged less, as if air had been pumped into his features and brought them new life. Even after three years in this White House, Samson found it strange that when Settler plotted political strategy, he divorced himself from all other reality. When he was saving Ryan Gregory’s presidency, nothing else mattered, not even the lives of innocent children.

  “Go on,” said Gregory, the impatience in his voice replaced by curiosity. “And what of the five hundred students and teachers?”

  Settler finished. “For all we know they may die even if we do nothing. And if some die in the process, Americans will blame the terrorists, not you, sir.”

  Ryan Gregory sat and nodded slightly, still silent.

  “Mr. President,” Samson interrupted, “I realize that we cannot make deals with terrorists, but is it possible that we could postpone the execution? We have less than an hour. If we delayed Akadi’s death, it might stall the terrorists and give us the time to put a stronger plan together.”

  Settler, still standing over the others, shook his head. “That would only make you look weak, sir,” he said.

  “My teams are ready now, Mr. President,” announced Tom Dickson.

  Gregory turned his gaze directly on the Director of Homeland Security. “Harold, do you think postponing the execution will cause them to do anything different?”

  “It might buy us some time,” Samson answered, “but no, sir. I now don’t believe the terrorists counted on freeing Akadi. Oh, they wanted us to, but they knew, going in, we don’t negotiate with terrorists. They probably made up their minds to be satisfied with the media coverage to show the world the true face of the Great Satan.”

  “And wh
at about the students?” asked Gregory.

  Samson sighed loudly and looked at the President. “My guess is that they are probably to be sacrificed on the terrorists’ altar, along with the true disciples of Allah.”

  “Then we don’t have much choice, do we?” said the President.

  “I’m just suggesting we give Sterber and this Jerod a little more time, sir,” responded Samson. “What do we have to lose?”

  “Critical time!” screamed Dickson.

  Just then the speakerphone beeped loudly. “Mr. President, I have a call for Mr. Samson from James Cromer at HBE.”

  “Harry?” said the voice through the speaker.

  “Yes, Jim,” answered Samson quickly.

  “Are you with the President?” asked Cromer.

  “Yes, Jim, go ahead,” said Harold.

  “Harry, I just thought you should know,” began Cromer and then added, “And you too, Mr. President. The Fox News truck that was here covering the execution just left the designated area and is supposed to be heading for Thurber. According to the guard who cleared them to leave, the reporter, Claudia somebody, said they just got a tip that there was going to be a lot bigger story at the high school. According to the guard, some anonymous tip actually said, ‘A real explosive story.’”

  “Okay, Jim, what about the other news crews?” asked Harold.

  “They seemed to be staying put--at least for now. Harry, what the hell is going on? We’re a little busy around here but my guys heard about the threat on TV? Is it for real?”

  “Yes, Jim, it’s very real,” said Harold Samson.

  “No shit,” started Cromer and then corrected himself. “Excuse me, Mr. President. Sir, do you want me to postpone the execution?”

  “No, warden, I do not. Stay your course and we will be in touch.” Ryan Gregory pushed the disconnect button. Without waiting, he took one look at the bank of TV monitors and turned to the FBI Director. “Dickson, move your team outside the school. Get ready, but don’t go in until I say so. I want them close enough to be seen from the school, but I don’t want some trigger happy kid to go in blasting until I authorize it.”