by Jason Elam
The failure by comparison of this Supreme Leader to the first—that was the reason, despite his status as an ayatollah, Beheshti shunned politics and kept off the Islamic courts.
It certainly wasn’t theological differences that caused Beheshti to separate from Iran’s leadership. Like the president and the Supreme Leader and 90 percent of the population of Iran, he was a Shi’ite Twelver—a follower of Shi’a and a believer in the imminent return of the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi. Also, like the country’s leaders, he believed that it was possible to hasten the Mahdi’s return by bringing about worldwide turmoil and mass destruction. Where he parted with them was simply in methodology.
Beheshti looked at his watch and sipped his tea.
It was quite obvious that the president’s sole focus was on developing nuclear weapons. And he was willing to risk everything to get them—the stability of his government, Iran’s world reputation, the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of his fellow Persians.
The problem was that his motivations for going nuclear were so obvious. Everyone in the world knew that the first thing he would do with his newly acquired weapons would be to drop one right on Tel Aviv.
If that happened, the mass destruction the president hoped for would certainly take place. Israel, and possibly the United States, would respond with their own nukes, and most of Iran would be laid waste. Was that an acceptable cost in light of the greater goal of the Mahdi’s return?
Even if the president somehow managed a nuclear strike on America, the Great Satan would survive, while Iran would be wiped off the map.
This direction was so shortsighted! It would never succeed! There was no way the United States and all its toadies would allow Iran to go nuclear. Either they would strike, or more likely, they would use their angry little dog Israel to do their bidding.
But . . . what if there was a way to take the American military out of the picture, at least for a time? What could be accomplished then?
If that happened, Iran would be able to solicit the help of other Islamic countries who were currently too afraid of the Sleeping Giant to assist them in taking out Israel. Nuclear deals could be made with Russia, who would jump at the chance to retake all their former breakaway republics while maybe even expanding into Poland and farther west.
China, too, would most likely be willing to assist with developing a nuclear arsenal. Without the American deterrent, Taiwan could quickly be reabsorbed back into the mainland as just the first step in Chinese expansion into Southeast Asia.
And even if Russia and China weren’t willing to part with their nuclear weapons or secrets, they most certainly could be persuaded to turn a blind eye to Iran’s continuing scientific progress.
If America was laid low, by the time she was able to act, Iran would be nuclear, Israel wouldn’t exist, and the European and Asian maps would look very different. Then, if the little president or the Supreme Leader wanted to launch their great nuclear holocaust to usher in the new golden age of Islam, they would at least have the weapons to do so. If they continued to pursue their present course, they would end up with no weapons and no End of Days.
But how to accomplish these goals? How could one country bring America to her knees? The answer to those questions was one of Allah’s great miracles!
Three years ago, Beheshti had attended a symposium in New York City entitled “The Future of Global Terrorism.” He had come, ironically, with the reputation of a voice of Iranian moderation. During one of the sessions, a general from the United States Air Force spoke about electromagnetic pulse bombs and how one large high-altitude nuclear blast could wipe out the nation. American culture was so technologically dependent, it would collapse without power. Even smaller bombs could shut down large metropolitan areas and electrical grids, wreaking havoc on the country financially, industrially, and militarily.
The EMP—this was the answer to Beheshti’s prayers, and in the ultimate example of America’s stupidity, it came from the mouth of one of their own military men.
A year ago, Beheshti had presented his plan to the Grand Ayatollah, who, because of Beheshti’s former association with Khomeini, had granted him an audience. The Supreme Leader had made no comment at that time but said only that he would have a reply to him in a matter of days.
Beheshti was sure it wasn’t until after a conference with the president that the Grand Ayatollah issued his reply a few days later. “We have chosen not to sanction or participate in your plan. However, if you decide to proceed on your own, neither will we block your efforts.”
Blessings upon you for your help, O Great Leader! It’s up to me to raise all the funds myself, make all the arrangements, take all the risks, suffer all the consequences, and let you reap the rewards! Bless you for your cowardice, because now I need not answer to anyone except my God!
That very day Beheshti had started making contacts and raising funds. Someone from Hezbollah, an organization that had taken on the role of terrorist matchmaker for the past few years, got him in contact with North Korea.
Dealing with the DPRK’s weak-minded dictator had been a piece of cake. All the Dear Leader could think of was revenge against the United States, never realizing that in the aftermath of the attack North Korea would probably become no more than a Chinese colony. But because of that passion for vengeance, Beheshti was able to negotiate the acquisition of two EMP weapons and the accompanying launching devices for a much better price than he could ever have imagined.
The operational team Beheshti had put together—all brilliant former students of his—took the logistics from there. They monitored the progress and gave him daily updates. And, praise be to Allah, according to the piece of paper that Milani had delivered with the tea, America had not much time left of their fat, comfortable existence before all hell was going to break loose and their lives would be changed forever.
Tuesday, September 1, 12:45 p.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Riley tried not to flinch when a hand slipped into the back pocket of his jeans and gave him a little squeeze. He just kept smiling and stepped away as soon as he heard the sound effect of the camera clicking.
“Thanks, Riley,” the too-old-to-be-wearing-what-she-was-wearing woman said with a wink, approaching him for one final hug.
“Anytime, and thanks for your support,” Riley replied, quickly blocking her way by holding out a signed picture. The photo was of Riley in his Warriors uniform. At the top were the words Warrior Pride, and at the bottom was printed, “Thanks for supporting YOUR team!”
Disappointed, the woman took the picture but then began giggling like a little schoolgirl as she retrieved her bebe and Restoration Hardware bags from her friends and walked down the street in the middle of the Georgetown shopping district.
Riley looked over at Skeeter, standing guard a few paces away, and shook his head with a wry smile. He barely had time to be thankful for her departure before a man and his two young boys stepped up. Riley glanced at Christel Barber; the Warriors’ young PR intern was clearly out of her depth with the size of the crowd. He gave her a light shake of his head, reminding her not to send anyone forward until he was ready.
Christel waved apologetically, and Riley smiled back his forgiveness. Poor girl.
“Say hi to Riley, guys,” the dad said.
“Hi,” the boys said shyly. Riley guessed their ages at about four and six.
He squatted to eye level. “How you gentlemen doing?”
“Fine,” they both said.
“Those are really nice Warrior jerseys you’re wearing. But who’s number 50?”
“Wiley Covington,” the younger one said as he spun around a couple of times trying to point to the Covington on his back.
“Riley Covington? Who’s he?”
“He’s you! Look,” the six-year-old said as he pointed to Riley’s jersey.
Riley looked shocked as he spotted the number on his chest. “Well, blow me down! It is me!”
The b
oys giggled. Their dad said, “We couldn’t believe it when you were traded to Washington!”
“Yeah, you and me both,” Riley said.
“I can imagine. As soon as we heard, we ran out and got the shirts right when they came out. My little one here hasn’t taken his off for what seems like weeks.”
Looking at the various shades of stain on the yellow and red jersey, Riley had no trouble believing it.
“Well, I sure appreciate having two true-blue fans like you guys,” Riley said, putting one hand on each boy’s shoulder.
“What’s ‘too blue’?” the four-year-old asked, looking at his arms.
“I’ll tell you later, Joshy,” the dad answered. “Mind if we get a picture?”
“Of course,” Riley said, turning the two boys toward their dad. “Okay, on three say, ‘Go, Warriors!’ One, two, three . . .”
The three of them said, “Go, Warriors!” as the dad took the picture.
“Thanks, Riley,” the dad said. “Say thanks to Riley, guys.”
“Thanks, Riley.”
“Keep up the Warrior pride,” Riley said as he handed each boy a picture.
Sweat poured down his back as he stood up. Of all places for Bellefeuille to put me, it has to be outdoors right on the congested Georgetown corner of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street on what feels like the hottest, muggiest day of the year! Well, he said he was going to get his pound of flesh out of me—this pound is coming out in liquid form.
Each player had a minimum number of public relations events that he had to do each year. Most were obligated for six to ten. Riley’s new contract, however, had fifteen mandatory free ones, plus an option for five more paid appearances. A player usually didn’t get to choose his events, and today was one of the worst Riley had ever been part of.
Typically, an event might be an appearance at a local school or autographing pictures at a sporting goods store or swinging a hammer at a community revitalization project. Riley was more than happy to do those kinds of appearances.
But today the geniuses at the Warriors’ PR mind trust had unleashed something totally new. Each player had been assigned a street corner where he had to stand with his jersey on and hand out autographed pictures to passersby. They were even coached in what they were supposed to say.
“Warrior pride! Thanks for supporting your team!” The PR geeks had made it very clear that the word your had to be emphasized. This stressed possessive adjective was specially chosen as a means of reminding the fans that the Warriors really were the people’s team. Yeah, if that’s true, why do the people have to pay an average of $80 a shot just to see their team play?
All the guys had laughed as they exited the PR meeting. Riley would have been surprised if today the words your team had crossed the lips of any player other than the most desperate of rookies.
Looking at the crowd around him, Riley knew it was going to be a long afternoon. He groaned inwardly. The schedule of football player by day and CTD ops training guy by night was catching up to him. He didn’t feel that he was doing either job as well as he could. Stupid things like this afternoon only added to his exhaustion.
Somehow, even as he watched, the crowd seemed to multiply. Skeeter had protested at the outdoor setting. “Too uncontrollable,” he had said. “Too many X factors.” Now, as Riley watched him scanning the surroundings, he could tell that his friend was extremely agitated.
Riley nodded to Christel. She, in turn, nodded to a teenage boy and his girlfriend, who both seemed very excited to meet the team’s newest superstar. All in all, other than botoxed shopaholics with wandering hands, I guess things could be worse. Just grin and bear it—it’ll be over soon enough.
“What’s up,” he said to the young couple.
Suddenly a man wearing a black fabric mask burst through the crowd just to Riley’s left. He rushed Riley, carrying something shiny in his right hand.
“Allahu alayla!” he cried out, then punched Riley hard two times in the side. The blows knocked the breath out of Riley, and he dropped to his knees. In his peripheral vision, he watched as his attacker ran down Wisconsin Avenue and disappeared behind the bank Riley had been standing in front of.
What just happened? Riley thought as he gasped for breath. He grabbed his side where the man had hit him, felt a strange sensation, and pulled his hand back. It was completely red. Screams erupted around him as the shock began wearing off the crowd.
Skeeter arrived just as people started rushing to Riley’s aid. He pushed Riley all the way to the ground and stood over of him. With his HK45 out, he looked like he was just dying to shoot somebody.
“Everybody back! Now!”
Two burly men stood their ground.
“Who are you?” one of them demanded.
“None of your business! Just back off!”
“We’re not moving until you show us some ID!”
“All the ID you need is sitting in my hand,” Skeeter said, waving his .45. “Now back off and do something useful like calling 911!”
The two men finally backed up a couple of steps; one took his cell phone out.
All the while, Riley watched, unable to say anything. Finally, he started getting his breath back.
“Pach, you hurt?” Skeet asked, not looking at him.
“I must be, man. I’m bleeding like a dog!” Riley said through gasps. Pain shot through his ribs.
“Hang in, buddy!”
All around, people were slowly pushing forward, and Skeeter had to keep threatening with his gun.
A security guard came running out of the bank with his gun drawn and trained on Skeeter. “Drop the weapon,” he yelled.
“Yeah, drop it, or I swear I’ll put a hole smack-dab in the middle of your head,” another gun-wielding man said as he stepped out from the crowd.
“Lower your weapons,” Skeeter yelled back. “I’m a federal agent assigned to protect this man!”
“Show me your ID,” the security guard commanded.
“I’ve already been through this! I ain’t showing you jack until the cops come! Now lower your weapons and call 911!”
“He’s with me,” Riley managed to croak out, his mind running through what had just happened. Hearing his words, the two men reluctantly holstered their guns and moved toward Riley.
“Stay back,” Skeeter, who had not holstered his gun, demanded. The men stopped in their tracks. “Go back and control the crowd before they start pressing in!”
The two men complied and started pushing the mass of people back. Riley heard concerned fans calling out his name as well as more than a few hysterical screams.
So this is what it feels like to be stabbed, Riley thought. I’ve been shot, blown up, beaten, and cut but never stabbed. All in all, I’ve felt worse. . . . Either that, or what I’m feeling is just shock setting in. Wow, I never noticed the beautiful golden cupola on top of the bank building. Here I was standing right next to it, and I never even saw it.
“Excuse me! Move aside; I’m a doctor!”
Riley turned to see a woman push her way through the crowd and approach him.
“Stay where you are,” Skeeter yelled, aiming the gun right between the lady’s eyes.
“I’m a doctor, and this man’s hurt! Now either shoot me or move out of the way, because I’m not stopping!”
Skeeter hesitated, then stepped aside.
“Got a knife?” the doc asked.
“Yeah,” Skeeter replied.
“Well, since you probably won’t hand it to me, I want you to cut his shirt top to bottom. And be careful; he doesn’t need you slicing him up too.”
Riley couldn’t take his eyes off the doctor. She met his eyes for a moment, then turned back to watch Skeeter.
When Skeeter was done, the woman carefully lifted the left side of Riley’s shirt and examined the damaged area.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Covington?” she asked.
“Been better.”
“Well, you’ve been better because right now
you have two deep puncture wounds. You know, from what I read, you seem to have a hard time making friends wherever you go.” Then, turning to Skeeter, she said, “Hey, Andre the Giant, give me your shirt!”
Skeeter whipped off his shirt, revealing a very well-sculpted, thoroughly scarred torso.
“Wow,” the doctor said as Skeeter handed her his shirt. “It’s guys like you who keep docs like me in business.” She folded up Skeeter’s shirt and pressed it against Riley’s side. Riley winced in pain. “Easy, tough guy, help should be here any moment.”
Even as she said that, the sound of sirens cut through the air. While the security guard and the other guy formed a path in the crowd, three sets of tires could be heard screeching to a stop. A moment later, the cops ran through the gap. The security guard met them and explained the situation and who Skeeter was. Two of the cops ran off in a vain pursuit of the perpetrator, and the other two helped with the ever-increasing mass of people.
Fifteen seconds later, two white-shirted paramedics ran in, wheeling a gurney between them.
“What’s up?” asked one of them with tattoos covering his arms and creeping up his neck.
“Two stab wounds, unknown depth of penetration or organ damage,” the doctor answered. “He’s also bleeding like a sieve. We’ve got to transport him fast.”
“We drive to keep them alive,” tattoo guy said as he hit the one-hand release, dropping the gurney to ground level.
As Riley was lifted on, he looked at the people who were watching the action. Some looked genuinely concerned; a few were even crying. But a vast majority were on their cell phones narrating the events to their spouse or buddy or kid.
Why do people like to see trouble? Is it the blood? Is it the gore?
Well, whatever it is, consider this just another part of the big freak show, folks. You all were the lucky ones; you’ll have a story to tell your kids and grandkids. “I was there when Riley Covington got stabbed right on the street corner by some lunatic.” Glad I could make your day like this.
Now, do I give them the coup de grâce? the icing on the cake? Sure, why not?
