by Jason Elam
Monday, September 14, 1:30 p.m. IRDT
Tehran, Iran
The car slowed as celebrants mobbed the street. Ayatollah Beheshti heard drums and tambourines all around, and dancers surrounded the car. A woman walked past the window, and Beheshti took great pleasure in seeing the elation on her face as she clapped, chanted, and ululated.
Not far away, an effigy of American president Lloyd hung from a light pole, and as Beheshti watched, a man with a salt-and-pepper beard set fire to it, hitting it with his shoe as it began to burn. In front of the burning mannequin, the red, white, and blue of the American flag was laid on the ground, and men and women waited their turn in line to walk across it.
But as Beheshti widened his gaze, he noticed that outside of this celebration, far more people stood on the outskirts looking in. Some watched in amazement and some in amusement, pointing and laughing. Others seemed to be shaking their heads in disgust. A few were calling down curses or were being restrained by friends from attacking the celebrants below. Not surprisingly to Beheshti, most of those in the larger group were young people—students from the University of Tehran just a block to his left, up Nosrat Street.
We are starting to lose this new generation, he thought, furious at what he saw. The recent elections proved that! They know nothing of the debauchery of the shah and the way he tried to turn us into a little America. They don’t know what it means to suffer or sacrifice for Allah—to make a difference with their lives. Instead, they sit in comfort, watching their American shows on their satellite televisions. They yearn for all things Western. They don’t see how they are being infiltrated—corrupted—by the very things they venerate.
Two of the young men watching began performing a mocking impersonation of the dancers, causing those around them to laugh. Soon they tired of watching the demonstration, and wrapping their arms around each other’s shoulders, they departed toward the university. Starting tomorrow, I will redouble my efforts with my young students to ensure they don’t turn out like those children of Satan.
“Let’s go,” Beheshti said to Bahman Milani, who sat in front of him driving the silver Iran Khodro Sarir. Milani honked his horn and tried to weave his way through the people who had spread themselves across Kargar Avenue. But the people were too wrapped up in their celebration to take notice.
Milani turned around, frustration on his face, and said, “They won’t move. They are ignoring me.”
A bang on the roof startled Beheshti. A smiling man looked in the window, but his smile was quickly replaced by recognition and fear. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his apology to the religious leader. Then, elbowing his way to the front of the car, he cleared a path, pushing, kicking, punching—whatever it took to get people out of the way.
Finally the car cleared the mob. The man came around by Beheshti’s window and again bowed his apology. Beheshti lowered the window halfway, placed his hand on the man’s head in blessing, and then tapped the back of Milani’s seat, signaling him to drive off.
At least some people are celebrating as they should, unlike those lying hypocrites I just met with.
That morning he had been summoned by the Grand Ayatollah. When he arrived at the Supreme Leader’s opulent offices, he had been made to wait in the outer room for two hours before he was called in.
When he entered, he saw that Iran’s president was there as well. The two leaders had just finished an elaborate lunch, and the president seemed to make a special effort to wait until Beheshti was inside before dabbing his mouth with his napkin and rising from the table. That was just the first of many disrespects shown that morning.
While the president and the Supreme Leader sat down, Beheshti was made to stand, as if he were an inferior being interrogated.
“Is this attack on America your work?” the Supreme Leader asked.
“You know it is, sayyid. I spoke to you of it, if you will remember.”
“I remember you bringing me some ridiculous idea, and I also remember telling you not to follow through with it.”
So this is the way it’s going to be. “Begging sayyid’s pardon, but your exact words were, ‘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.’ I took that as an implicit go-ahead for the plan; I would just be on my own in carrying it out.”
“Is that what the Grand Ayatollah said—go ahead with the plan?” the president asked, taking over the fight as if he had just been tagged. “Or did you just assume that was what he meant?”
“It seemed clear to me—”
“Is it what he said? Answer the question!” As the president said this, a projectile of spit flew out of his mouth and landed on his shirt.
Pig! “No, it is not what he said!”
Firmly established with the upper hand, the president turned up the attack. “So you took it upon yourself, a mere cleric, to launch an attack upon America, virtually destroying their most important city, then causing additional havoc with multiple incidents across the country. Do you know the danger we are in, and how much worse it will get if your part in this is ever discovered? We are not a terrorist nation!”
Beheshti had to bite his tongue at that last statement. How much money do you funnel off to terrorism? What percentage of this country’s GDP is designated to disrupt the West in any way possible? But instead of saying what was truly on his heart, Beheshti said, “Of course not, Mr. President. If a trail ever led back this direction, I would make it very clear that I acted on my own in a rogue capacity. You could do with me what you willed.”
“Do you think you would be believed? Don’t you know the world would simply determine that we were setting you up as a scapegoat? And by the way, we do not need your permission to do with you what we will.”
And so the conversation went for an hour. Accusation after accusation, disrespect after disrespect. Of course, they gloated over the pain caused to America. They rejoiced over the green light this gave them to launch the centrifuges in Natanz so they could begin transforming their low-enriched fuel-grade uranium to the highly enriched weapons-grade. They exulted over what they saw as the impending destruction of Israel.
But did they give me any credit for that? Never! Beheshti thought as he took hold of the grab handle above the door to steady himself as his car cleared the Kargar-Azadi roundabout. I have brought America to her knees in a way no one else could. 9/11 was about a couple of buildings and a few planes. Now that first attack will be forgotten as a small coin is lost in a cavern of riches.
And that, ultimately, is what that meeting was all about. It was jealousy, pure and simple.
Beheshti’s cell rang. He reached into the deep pocket of his robe and pulled the phone out. “Yes?”
Nouri Saberi’s voice was on the other end. “The package is in the neighborhood. It should be delivered tomorrow afternoon.”
“Very good,” Beheshti said, then hung up the phone.
As he held the grab handle again for the turn onto Jomhuri-Ye-Eslami, the one-way street that took him to his mosque, he couldn’t help but let a smile creep onto his usually stern face.
America may think things are bad now, but they are about to get a lot worse. Praise be to Allah, the Mighty, the Powerful, for not letting one small setback destroy his divine plans.
Monday, September 14, 6:20 a.m. EDT
New York, New York
Four years ago, Keith Simmons had been up in his cabin near Silverthorne, Colorado. For most of the night he had been awake, glued to the news, watching as a wildfire gradually made its way toward him. Out in the driveway, his Range Rover was packed and ready to roll at a moment’s notice.
When dawn arrived and the morning had just started to lighten, even before the sun made its appearance through the trees, Keith had gone outside to hose down his roof one more time. He had walked out the door and then stopped. There was an eerie silence—all the animals had fled; all the birds were gone. As he closed his
eyes and focused his hearing, he faintly picked up the snapping and popping of the oncoming flames.
When he breathed in deeply, he experienced the deep, tangy smell of the smoke—wonderfully rich yet utterly unnerving. Then, in the brief window between the time he opened his eyes again and when they started to burn and water, he saw the most beautiful, frightening colors out to the east. The low blackness faded to pale brown, which gave birth to a burnt orange, which yielded itself to a dirty yellow, which finally lost itself in a rich, dark blue that spread seemingly forever above his head. That blue was what gave him hope that day—the promise of something bigger and better waiting for him if he could just survive.
This morning, in the heart of the city, as he followed the colors up the identical palette, he locked on to the patches of blue that managed to peek through the smoke. Gotta try to remember that God is in His place. He’s still on His throne and He hasn’t forgotten about us. His mercies are new every single morning!
Yet even with that assurance, Keith found himself on edge. He was distracted, unable to focus or to concentrate on his prayer. The reason for that struggle was obvious to him.
The noise—complete, unceasing. Unlike back at his cabin when the eerie silence had lent the sunrise peace and focus, the din arising from the streets below made Keith dread the sun’s appearance. He did not want clarity as to what was happening below.
Keith had grown up in the city, so noise was his default mode. Even after he had signed with the Mustangs and moved out to the suburbs, he always had to have a television or a radio going—something to satisfy his deep-rooted need for ambient noise.
But this noise was different. There was the low mumble of thousands of voices mixed with the screams of the injured and dying. Every now and again, a loud rumble would roll through the streets below and up to the freeway as another explosion rocked a neighborhood or another building collapsed in flames started by a downed aircraft. Together all these horrific musicians blended into a soul-draining symphony of hopelessness and despair.
In the first light, from his vantage on the elevated thoroughfare, he surveyed the damage to the city. The fire nearest them must have burned itself out sometime in the early morning hours because now it just smoked as the structures smoldered. But the same wasn’t true other places. He could see fires everywhere through the towering high-rises around him.
The most disconcerting thing about the fires was that no one was doing anything about them. Here, in New York City, fires burned as if they were out in the most remote, inaccessible reaches of the Rocky Mountains. As far as his eye could see, smoke poured into the sky, eventually merging with the gray cloud that hovered over the city.
On the streets below, there was a mass of movement. It looked like many residents were already beginning their migration out of town. Many were loaded with backpacks; some pushed pilfered shopping carts. Others just milled about, unsure where to go or what to do. Many more seemed to still be sleeping, stretched out on the sidewalks, apparently afraid to remain in the dark confinement of their buildings.
Interspersed with these groups were bands of people carrying boxes and bags of items they had looted. Keith couldn’t help but smile as he saw two teens struggling to carry an enormous plasma television box. Serves the idiots right to be wasting all that energy on something that is already internally fried!
A shoe scuffing the pavement caught Keith’s ear, and turning, he saw Coach Burton walking toward him. Without saying anything, the coach came and stood next to Keith, arms crossed, looking out over the city.
After what seemed like a long time, Coach said, “Thanks for last night.”
Keith assumed he meant for bringing him the information and helping to keep the team under control. “No problem.”
Again, silence.
“Sounds like we’ve got protein bars to last us the day and drinks if we really ration, and if we turn down all the people sleeping in the cars around us—something I’m not sure I can do. But either way, if we’re still here tomorrow, we’re going to have to go out looking for supplies like you suggested. I think you’re the one who should coordinate that effort. Think you can do that?”
“Sure, Coach,” Keith said, feeling anything but sure.
“Good. Get together a team—make sure it’s got both coaches and players—then figure out a plan so that you’re ready to hit the ground running at first light tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
They stood there silent again. Gunfire rang out from somewhere down below them. As Keith watched, a young man ran out from an alley. People parted around him like the Red Sea, letting him pass through. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around him. He waved the gun at a nearby couple, and a huge smile spread on his face as the woman screamed and the man cowered. Keith then saw the man taking the full backpack off of his shoulder and handing it to the gunman. The youth fanned his gun at the onlookers, causing them all to shrink back, and then he tucked the gun into the front of his pants and strutted away.
“Be careful down there,” Coach said.
“Will do.”
After another minute of silence, Coach Burton walked back to the first bus.
“What did Coach want?”
Keith turned to see Afshin walking up to him. He stopped next to Keith, put his hands into the small of his back, then leaned way over backward, sending audible pops rifling through his spine.
Considering how stiff he felt from sleeping on the bus, Keith felt a momentary twinge of spinal envy. “Wants me to prepare some foraging teams for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Afshin said with his eyebrows raised. “Don’t you think that everything will be cleaned out by then? I think we need to go today to get what we can while it’s still there.”
After what he had just seen on the street below, Keith wasn’t so hot on going today or tomorrow. But he had to agree with Afshin’s logic. “I’ll go talk with Coach in a little bit. Then we’ve got to think about pairing guys up, Assistant Head Forager-Guy.”
“A title I aspired to my whole childhood. Now that I’ve achieved it at such a young age, what’s left to strive for?”
Keith smiled. “Yeah, you truly are a shooting star, my friend.”
As the sun continued to rise, Keith was able to see the crowds below in more detail. From his vantage point, he could see people crying and holding on to each other. Others, surveying in the morning light the damage done to their neighborhood, began calling out curses—one man in particular was shaking his fist at the heavens, then at anyone who walked near him.
There were still bodies in the street, and people gave them a wide berth—obviously expecting the city or the department of sanitation to eventually come along and clean them up.
One thing that surprised Keith was the number of businesspeople who came out carrying their briefcases or their satchels, intent on a day down at the office. Whether it was denial or just the desperate need for normalcy, he couldn’t tell. Either way, eventually they would have to face the reality that business and commerce were not important anymore. Survival was the one and only priority.
Keith could hear movement in the bus behind him and knew that soon it would empty out—the guys inside wanting food, drink, and a bathroom, not necessarily in that order.
Next to him, Afshin shook his head at what he saw. “I don’t know, man. This is just insanity. What are we doing here? How did we get in this situation?”
When he saw that Keith wasn’t responding to him, Afshin asked, “Dude, what’s going through that brain of yours?”
Keith was silent a moment longer as he breathed deep the smoky morning air. “I hate road trips.”
Monday, September 14, 10:45 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Tara passed out Starbucks cups to everyone around the table, ignoring the inevitable questions.
“Is mine skinny?”
“Do I have soy milk?”
“Did you remember the four extra shots?”
“Come on, gang,” Scott said, coming to her rescue. “You guys are like a bunch of baby birds complaining that mama didn’t regurgitate the right kind of worm.”
“Thanks for the visual,” Khadi said, checking her drink and then replacing the plastic cap on her cup with a disappointed look on her face.
“Don’t mention it. Now, say thank you to Tara, everyone.”
“Thank you, Tara,” everyone around the table said together.
“You’re welcome,” Tara answered with as much meaning as they had put into their thanks.
“But, seriously, did you remember my extra shots?” Joey Williamson asked, setting off a whole new round of questions.
“Knock it off, or I’m going to make you pass the drinks again!” Scott said, trying to get control.
“Oh, man, and I had to sit next to Evie today! I hate soy,” Virgil Hernandez said.
A week ago, the complaining about the drinks had gotten so bad that Scott had made them all pass their drinks to the person on their right. They were all so thrown off-kilter by not having their “usual,” the whining had stopped for several days. Not that I can blame them for whining. How can someone as bright as Tara find a way to mess up the order every single stinkin’ day of the week? Scott thought, taking a sip of his and cringing at the latte’s flavorless nonfat milk.
“Please don’t make us pass our drinks again. We’ll promise to be good, Scottybear,” Evie Cline said.
“I asked you not to call me that anymore. It’s beyond creepy.”
Evie pretended to pout. “I can’t help it. You’re just so big and cute and cuddly. Don’t you think so, Tara?”
Scott’s face flushed, just as he saw Tara’s do the same. “What I think is that we should get down to business,” Tara said, looking down and shuffling some papers.
Evie winked at Scott.
Okay, I’ve got to put an end to this whole Tara thing once and for all . . . although her face did flush too. I wonder what that means. Maybe I should let it ride out a little longer.
