“I don’t have any sutures, but I can put a couple of Steri-Strips on this puncture wound to close it. Then I’ll place a wrap over it and around the leg to help protect it. But first, I have to stop the bleeding.” She placed a heavy gauze pad on the wound and pressed for a moment. Then she said, “Here, press this while I gather the rest of supplies.”
She took his hand and placed it on the pad and pressed down for a moment before turning toward the ambulance.
“I can also give you some painkillers to lessen the pain,” Natalie stated as she rummaged around in the ambulance. “Now, this is only a temporary field dressing, so you should be seen at the hospital as soon as possible,” she casually mentioned as she stepped up and began finishing the cleaning and dressing of Yousef’s leg wound.
“I’d change this bandage every few hours today and tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, you’ll be able to see a doctor who can suture it properly. Here are a few bandages to replace these, in case you are unable to get a doctor until tomorrow,” she stated as she handed him a plastic bag.
“I will see one as soon as it is possible,” Yousef replied quietly, while looking around for anyone who seemed too interested in him. No one seemed to care.
He quickly pulled his pants back up when she had finished with his leg. Then the EMT busied herself placing sterile dressings on his ribs, being careful to wrap gauze completely around his torso to hold the dressing in place. She made it tight enough to support the badly bruised area, but not too tight to be uncomfortable.
Yousef wondered what she would do if she knew the truth about him—that he was responsible for this terrible tragedy. Would she still have offered to help him, to ease his pain? Would she have called him a poor thing? Or would she have screamed and had every survivor attack him, beating him to death? Perhaps they would have dragged him back to the flames and thrown him in.
The EMT next cleaned and dressed his head wound—the one caused by the bullets ripping through the boat’s wheelhouse—suggesting that he needed to go immediately to the hospital as the wound was deep, right down to his skull. It appeared to have cracked the skull which could lead to or may have already caused serious brain injury. Yousef said he’d go once he reached safety, knowing that the only safety for him was to escape to Switzerland and the Brotherhood’s safe house.
After she finished dressing his shoulder burn and applying an ice pack to the large lump on the back of his head, securing it lightly with a gauze wrap, she checked him for signs of a concussion. She asked again if he knew his name. Yousef acted as though he was confused and disoriented. She asked if he had any trouble seeing or if he was experiencing blackouts. He lied and said he wasn’t. He lied because he knew he had a concussion already just by the amount of pain and pressure he was feeling. Despite the dangers, he had to make good on his getaway. The EMT explained to him that she believed he had a concussion and told him he really should be in a hospital. She then helped him pull his shirt back on and placed his dislocated left arm in a sling.
Noticing Yousef’s dry lips, despite drinking a liter of orange juice, the EMT gave him a two liter bottle of water and told him to drink it slowly. She then suggested that he sit on the fallen tree a few yards away while he waited for transportation to the hospital, which she was sure would be arriving shortly.
Natalie also explained that due to her concerns about a concussion, she didn’t dare give him any painkillers after all because of what they might do to his already stressed neurological system. She did, however, hand him another chemical ice pack, which he could apply where it hurt. He thanked her for her help as she gathered supplies to go in search of victims who were unable to walk.
As she started to leave, Yousef asked her what the nearest town was. “That would be Brackel. It’s about ten kilometers to the south,” she stated.
“Where are we now?”
“We are near Horst. Or at least what is left of it,” she said soberly. She then smiled pleasantly and said, “They will be opening a refugee center in Brackel, and I expect buses to arrive here soon to take you and the other survivors to it. Just have a seat and rest until it arrives.” She then turned, throwing a pack over her shoulder and yelled to Yousef that she’d be back to check on him in an hour or so as she walked off into the growing darkness.
Yousef thanked her again and slowly hobbled off towards the semi-toppled tree. Instead of sitting down, however, he chose to lean over the tree trunk and placed his injured leg on it with the wound facing upward as he lay on his stomach. He remained lying on the tree trunk, face down, for a long time, slipping in and out of consciousness several times.
When he was lucid, he looked towards what once had been Hamburg—now just a glow on the horizon—and wondered how many people had died today. He wondered if he would become a legend to the people of Islam and if they would idolize him as the Western people idolized their movie stars. Oh, how he longed to be back among the faithful; to be with people who thought like he did. People who agreed with him and knew in their heart of hearts that Allah would be very pleased with him and his men for their bravery and cunning, for taking the fight to the infidels. Surely, now the infidels would see the error of their ways. They would leave the holy lands and the faithful who live there alone. Surely, some would convert this very day, enlightened to Allah’s brutal yet just judgment against them.
Yousef didn’t lie to himself; he knew that the people of the Western world would do their best to vilify him. To claim he had no right to do as he had done and that he was just a terrorist from a perverted religion! They may even attack suspected terrorist-supporting nations, but whom should they attack? Dozens of nations in the Middle East had supported him and his mission to bring the world under the one true God—Allah! Would they begin by attacking every Islamic nation? Would they try to kill every Muslim in their own country first, in an effort to eliminate the truly faithful who might be hidden among them? Yousef doubted they would do anything. They would threaten, but in the end, they would do nothing! They were trapped by their own political correctness and the guilt of the progressive liberals who foolishly thought that being powerful meant they were evil. It was perhaps the best propaganda that the founders of the Brotherhood had ever created. They had spread it through college campuses during the sixties and the seventies of the last century, and now it was paying major dividends. It was leading the infidel sheep to slaughter, and they were none the wiser.
The night had grown black except the glow to the east, but still no buses had arrived to take the injured to Brackel. Yousef began entertaining the thought that he would have to walk to Brackel, when Allah the merciful and resourceful provided the transportation he needed. Several official government cars and trucks pulled up. Dozens of men and women exited the vehicles carrying medical supplies, leaving several of the vehicles running in their haste to attend the injured. One or two of the responders may have looked Yousef’s way, but without a second glance they continued on into the carnage to meet with other first responders. Yousef assumed that because his head was wrapped in bandages, they knew he had already been treated and went to help others. One man, though, began talking to the people who had gathered near Yousef, while holding up a photograph, asking if they had seen the person. Each one shook their heads or didn’t respond at all.
Several military vehicles then drove past choosing to drive farther into the carnage before stopping to help those in need. Then several dozen more military vehicles arrived and dozens of soldiers joined in the battle to render aid. Some of the soldiers even had dogs with them to help in the search and rescue of victims. Few, if any, of the new responders looked at Yousef, which suited him just fine.
The growing crowd of the walking wounded around him was beginning to make him very uncomfortable. He knew he could not wait much longer for the bus to Brackel, his fear of discovery growing every minute. Fighting back panic, Yousef managed to gain his feet as the man with the photograph passed not too far from him showing the picture to anyone wh
o would look, asking if they had seen this man. Yousef skirted around the man and hobbled over to the handful of government cars that were still running. Quickly checking over his shoulder for anyone paying attention to him and finding no one, he slipped into a car and quickly drove off. His plan was to drive as far as the next town after Brackel and then steal another car. From there he’d drive to the Swiss border where he could take a day tourist bus into Switzerland. He’d use the safe house in Bern to recover from his injuries.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The following day, the New York Times, unbeknownst to the managing editor, ran a retraction of the Howard, Clarett and Bains attack article and replaced it with a story about how President Starks’ chief of staff, Jason Combs, was under investigation for illegal use of campaign funds. The article went on to point out the new Porsche, purchased by Combs in an all cash transaction according to the car dealership records, was proof of what he allegedly spent the money on, since his salary and savings together didn’t add up to enough cash to pay for it.
What truly pissed off the managing editor was the fact that there was no byline. No one took credit for writing the article, so he had no one to fire. He was livid! He spent the day grilling every reporter, every page editor, every copywriter, the computer input clerks, the printing manager and his entire staff, and still he had no one to fire. The only explanation was that it had just appeared there. Reviewing the proofs had proved that the article was not on the front page or anywhere in the paper just prior to printing, but when it came out of the press, there it was—three columns wide and above the fold on the paper’s front page.
The following day, once again there was an article dealing with possible corruption in Washington. The target of the attack was Steven Howard. The article stated that he was about to be indicted for insider trading. It didn’t mention it was a rumor; it stated it as if it were a fact. It even listed several SEC and Justice Department officials as the source for the information. Every official mentioned was a supporter of President Starks.
Because of the nature of the article—stating Steven Howard was going to be indicted—it got the attention of the Kilauea Corporation’s Board of Directors and the company’s lawyers. They did a quick fact check by actually going to each of the officials mentioned in the article and asking them directly if they were about to or if they had filed any charges. They all denied the facts stated in the article, categorically denying they had said any such things.
Armed with the official denials, Kilauea Corp.’s lawyers filed a hundred million dollar lawsuit against the New York Times, naming the managing editor, the publisher, and the reporter whose byline appeared with the article in the suit.
The paper, true to its liberal bias and hatred for capitalism, claimed that the officials had changed their minds at the last moment and that they stood by their story based on the information that they had at the time. They did, however, print a retraction the next day. It was on page 17 of section H at the bottom of the page that held the religious articles and editorials about religion.
It wasn’t lost on Steven that the ones who were the most anti-capitalist were, in actuality, the capitalists who had already been successful and didn’t want any newcomers raining on their gravy train parade.
When the Kilauea Corp. lawyers filed discovery on the reporter’s notes, the paper clammed up, claiming freedom of the press and confidentiality of their sources. This was duly noted by the lawyers and they upped the amount of the suit to a half-billion dollars, claiming damages for the loss of future business.
*****
“Mr. President, I don’t know where the story came from. I was completely blindsided by it. That asshole Drudge ran it without checking any of the facts. He didn’t even ask for a comment from me. It’s his usual hatchet job,” Combs stated firmly.
“I’ve spoken with Justice. They are furious that someone is quoting them and saying that they’re investigating me. It’s a complete lie! Ernest Holms says he’ll stop anyone who even tries to investigate,” Jason Combs explained to the president, while the man stood in his office and glared at him. Ernest Holmes was the attorney general and he ran the Justice Department for the Starks administration.
“Jason, I thought I told you turn up the heat on Senator Bains, and what do I find? You, all over the Internet and the damn newspapers. If this makes the evening news, your days are numbered here. I can’t have anyone looking at us too closely. I’ve taken you into my confidence, and I’d hate to have to let you go. So don’t blow it!”
The president turned to walk away, when Combs suddenly found a backbone. Combs quickly stood up and slammed his chair against the back wall of his office and began venting his anger. “I’d hate to think that you forgot who got you fucking elected and how they did it, Mr. President!”
The comment caused Starks to spin in the doorway and face Combs again, whereby he continued, “I’m not some wet behind the ears staffer fresh out of college. Without my friends, you’d still be a senator without any hope of ever becoming president. So don’t stand here and lecture me about ‘doing the job or else.’
“You need to remember the knife cuts both ways, and I’m part of your administration for the duration. I’ve got too much riding on this. So I’ll get to work, and I’ll do my best to frame that bitch, but you need to lay off. I’ve got enough to deal with without having to look over my shoulder for you every time the world doesn’t do exactly what you want it to,” Combs blurted out brusquely.
The president stood staring at Combs, his face a mask of rage. “You seem to forget who the president is. You work for me and at my pleasure. If you don’t please me, I will throw you out on your ass so fast your head will spin, and I’ll make sure you never work in Washington again. Am I making myself clear?” the president spat venomously.
Combs stepped around his desk. His hands were balled up into fists, his face twisted in rage as he stepped forward. The president’s Secret Service man stepped forward and blocked Combs’ path. Combs stood on his tiptoes and glared over the man’s shoulder at President Starks.
Starks made a show of pushing the Secret Service man aside saying, “I can take him!” So the agent stepped aside, raising an eyebrow in amusement, and Starks stepped toe-to-toe with Combs. They stood, staring each other down. After a moment, Starks laughed; and Combs slowly relaxed and grinned himself.
“For a moment there, I thought you just might throw the first punch, Jason. It takes a hell of a lot of balls to yell at me. I’m proud of you. I think you’re really growing into this job,” Starks said as he placed an arm around Jason, and then whispered, “If you ever do that again, I’ll see to it you spend a few years in a very dark place with a very big, black nigger who’s really into anal sex. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. I do,” Combs mumbled as he stepped back. “Do you understand, sir, that if you don’t treat me with the proper respect, I’ll bring you down so fast your head will spin?”
Jason leaned in close once more and smiled as he continued, “I’ve got the names, dates, files, amounts and records to do it, all safely tucked away, waiting to be mailed to someone like Drudge, just in case I happen to have an accident or I lose my pass to the big boys’ club.
“Oh, I believe Roger has them, as well. Neither of us trusts you to do as you’ve promised. So, if you’re thinking of changing your mind, don’t!” Jason whispered so quietly that the president was still thinking about the words when Combs stepped back from him.
“I’ll get the job done, sir. You can count on me. What should I tell the G7, sir? The memo is on your desk,” Combs blurted out sarcastically, knowing full well that Starks hadn’t read the memo and wouldn’t sign off on the G7 plan unless he got paid.
The president gave Combs a look of pure malice, but he didn’t say a thing. Instead, he turned and walked away, giving a slight wave over his shoulder as if dismissing Combs, along with his concerns and threats. But what he was really thinking was there wasn’t a need to kill
the golden goose just yet, but at some point Combs would outlive his usefulness, and then he’d have Bascome (with help from the NSA), make sure the man had a fatal accident. In the meantime, he’d have Bascome find those fucking records so that Combs would be just another paper tiger!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The phone rang while he was watching the non-stop reports about Hamburg on CNN International. He let it ring several times before answering.
“Yes?”
“Your Majesty, I believe you may have seen the results of our mission to the west. It is more than we could have hoped for!” The man’s voice was almost shrill, his excitement strong.
“I have seen the news. What do we really know?” he asked, minus the excitement of his caller.
“We know that the estimated blast radius is over fourteen kilometers. And we know that before the blast, the area was home to over three million people and there was an influx of another three hundred thousand each workday. We also know that at any given time, there are at least one hundred thousand businessmen and tourists visiting the city. The first basic estimates are placing the dead at over two hundred thousand!” The man practically screamed into the phone, his excitement was so great.
Reprisal!- The Eagle's Sorrow Page 22
