by Glenn Beck
“They handed down a life sentence for Calley, but a few days later Nixon intervened on his behalf and had him transferred to Fort Benning for a term of house arrest in a two-bedroom apartment. Three years later he was released for time served.
“I’m not sure if anyone was ever punished, not really—except for Hugh Thompson. Some congressman tried to get him court-martialed. He held a press conference and said that Hugh Thompson was the only one at My Lai that day who should be charged with a crime. Hugh got death threats and hate mail, and people drove by and threw dead animals onto his front porch.
It was thirty years before anyone in power ever bothered to officially call Hugh Thompson a hero and a patriot for what he did. In 1998 they gave him and his crew the Soldier’s Medal. That’s the highest award the U.S. Army can give for bravery in action not involving direct contact with the enemy.”
“And what about you?” Julia asked quietly.
“What about me?” Campbell repeated. His voice was weak; it was like he was fading away from where he’d been.
“Yes, Mr. Campbell. What happened to you?”
“I got off, all right.” He struggled against his restraints. “But don’t you see? I never really got away.”
• • •
Later that night, Everly Davison hung up his uniform, walked out, and never came into work again.
He watched the newspaper for days afterward, but Julia Geller’s story never appeared. When he called her up to ask about it, she told him that her editor had turned it down, saying there was nothing new in Morgan Campbell’s story, and certainly nothing that the paper’s dwindling audience would be very interested in reading about. In its place they ran a puff piece about some local beauty pageant for rich little girls and their pampered mothers.
That should have been the end of it, but something was sticking in Everly’s mind.
He kept thinking about Hugh Thompson, and the truth, and about doing the right thing, no matter if it meant you might never live it down. He thought of that old woman who’d died at the hands of those storm troopers for hire, of the guard who’d spoken up and been fired, and of the promotion he’d taken as a result.
Everly Davison picked the phone back up and called Julia Geller. He told her that he had an idea for another story, one that, if there was any justice left in this world, might just make the front page.
12
The Missing 9/11 Terrorist: The Power of Everyday Heroes
Orlando International Airport
August 4, 2001
Jose Melendez-Perez stood and observed the first row of customs agents screening passengers seeking admittance to the United States. From afar it all seemed pretty routine: Name, passport, nature of trip. Then give them a stamp and let them through. But Melendez-Perez knew better. This job was far from routine.
He checked his watch, his eyeglasses slipping a little down his angular nose. He stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache and reflected on how his job was not unlike combat: moments of extreme intensity, followed by long periods of quiet during which even the best were challenged to maintain their focus and discipline.
Seventeen hundred hours, he whispered to himself. After two combat tours in Vietnam and twenty-six years in the U.S. Army, Melendez-Perez found no need to transition to “civilian time.” His life was about protecting the United States of America—be it with a gun in some far-off land, or with a badge right here within shouting distance of one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world.
The muted television in the operations center was tuned to Fox News. The big stories of the day played out in a seemingly endless loop: large protests at the G-8 Summit in Genoa; Robert Mueller confirmed as FBI director two days earlier; a small car bomb attack in London, perpetrated by the IRA. The biggest news seemed to be about President Bush’s recent visit to Kosovo and NATO’s commitment to send peacekeeping troops to Macedonia to quell a Muslim uprising in the former Yugoslav republic.
Melendez-Perez thought back to the recent security briefings. There had been a few warnings in the aftermath of the G-8 Summit, but nothing that warranted a state of heightened security.
Melendez-Perez’s supervisor walked over and handed him a file. “Got a Saudi. No English. Incomplete I-94 and Customs Declaration. You got secondary.”
Melendez-Perez nodded. “Roger,” he said.
Incomplete arrival or departure forms and customs declarations were not unusual—especially among those who didn’t speak much English.
Walking to the holding room, he rehearsed the usual process in his mind: question the traveler; check his credentials; determine his eligibility to be admitted into the United States. Question, check, determine eligibility. Routine, but important. Never one to be complacent, Melendez-Perez put on his game face and ran through his checklist of tasks.
First task: secure an interpreter. He looked up the on-call Arabic translator and saw that it was Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He called, explained the situation, and put him on standby. The next step was to review the subject’s information. Melendez-Perez opened the file and scanned the important details.
Mohammed al Qahtani had departed Dubai for London, checking one bag, before arriving here in Miami on Virgin Atlantic Flight 15. Melendez-Perez knew that many Saudi nationals connected from Riyadh or Dubai through London in order to visit Disney World. Nothing unusual here, he thought, as he stepped into the small waiting room, quickly scanning the twelve faces to identify his subject.
“Mohammed al Qahtani,” he called, staring directly at the man who was the best match for the picture in the file.
Melendez-Perez watched as Qahtani lifted his dead eyes from gazing at the floor and locked his black irises onto him. The subject wore a black, long-sleeved shirt, black pants, black shoes, and a black belt with a silver buckle. He had a wild black mane, thin facial hair, broad shoulders, and a scowl that could probably melt ice.
“Please follow me,” Melendez-Perez said, indicating the way with his hand. He led Qahtani to a small room that resembled an interrogation cell, but he left the door open. The illusion of free will, he thought as he ushered the Saudi into the room.
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Three months earlier: May 11, 2001
Mohammed al Qahtani dug his foot into the sand like a bull about to charge a matador. His basic training instructor stood nearby with a stopwatch. Qahtani’s heart raced with anticipation.
“Thalatha, ithnan, wahed . . .” Three, two, one . . .
Qahtani sprinted toward the mud pit covered in barbed wire—navigating it with ease, spitting grit as he charged forward to the rope climb. His powerful shoulders and long arms helped him scale the wall in record time as he flipped over the backside and high-stepped through a series of old tires.
Qahtani knew that he was on a record pace, and, if he finished that way, he would likely be chosen to go the front lines to fight the Northern Alliance. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to demonstrate his personal courage and fervent dedication to Islam.
After that it would be up to his commanders to decide if he would be chosen for another mission—one that had been whispered about in tents and caves for a long time, but one that no one outside of senior leadership seemed to know much about. Qahtani didn’t care about the details. If it was important to the cause, he wanted in.
Inshallah. God Willing.
Orlando International Airport
August 4, 2001
Melendez-Perez leaned across the small gray table and put Dr. Shafik-Fouad on speakerphone. At the sound of the interpreter’s voice Qahtani smirked, as though a familiar accent implied he had an ally.
“On the phone is Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He is our interpreter. I am Officer Melendez-Perez of United States Immigration and I am empowered to ask questions of you so that we may determine whether you are able to be admitted to the United States.”
Melendez-Perez waited while Shafik-Fouad translated. Qahtani’s icy stare remained steady, as though he were a boxer attemptin
g to intimidate his opponent.
“Why don’t you have a return ticket?” Melendez-Perez asked.
Qahtani stood and pointed his finger at the immigration agent.
“I have no idea where I am going next. How can I buy return ticket when I don’t know where I will be?”
As Dr. Shafik-Fouad interpreted, Melendez-Perez’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard these kinds of responses before. In Vietnam, assassins were often not told of their final destination or target. This ensured that they would have no intelligence to share if they were compromised. While this Saudi in front of him was a long way from a Vietcong mercenary, Melendez-Perez felt the resonance of a familiar chord.
He pressed ahead.
“Who is picking you up at the airport?”
“A friend.”
“What’s his name?”
“He is arriving at a later date.”
“Then how is he picking you up?”
“He arrives in three or four days.”
“Then who is picking you up?”
“I am traveling for six days.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“I forget the name.”
“If you don’t speak English and don’t have a hotel reservation, you will have difficulty getting around Orlando.”
“There is someone waiting for me upstairs.”
The rapid-fire questioning from Melendez-Perez, translated by Dr. Shafik-Fouad, had either confused Qahtani or trapped the Saudi in his own lies.
Not wanting to lose momentum, Melendez-Perez kept pushing.
“Who is waiting for you?”
“No one is waiting for me. I am to call him when I get to where I am going.”
“What is his phone number?”
“You do not need to know these things! This is personal and you do not need to contact him.”
Melendez-Perez stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Panjshir Province, Afghanistan
Three months earlier: May 18, 2001
His obstacle course time the previous week had indeed impressed his superiors and Qahtani had been granted his wish to be sent to the front lines. Now he was running again, sprinting at full throttle, his wavy black hair tousled by the hot May winds of Afghanistan. Today the mud pit and old tires had been replaced by Northern Alliance troops—and they were not far behind.
As he scrambled downhill, the mountains north of Bagram, Afghanistan, cast large, black shadows against the gray twilight. Darting along the rocky goat trail with his AK-47 rifle, shale and pebbles skidded beneath his boots, falling over the cliff onto the rocks far below. While his instructors had warned him not to venture beyond the front lines, Qahtani knew that, to stand out, he’d have to do something extraordinary. That meant disobeying orders, but the upside was that, if he succeeded, his superiors would recognize his devotion to Allah and his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the cause. Never once did he consider that his self-centered foray into enemy territory might have consequences for that cause if he were captured.
Athletic and powerful, Qahtani widened the distance between him and his pursuers, but the narrow path soon turned into an open stretch of trail that led to a road. He wondered if they would pursue him beyond the entrance to the fabled Panjshir Valley, the place where “the Lion of Panjshir,” Ahmad Shah Massoud, had destroyed the Soviet army thirteen years ago, in 1988.
Night had fallen and the darkness closed a tight fist around the looming mountain peaks. Qahtani leapt over a rock and was forced down into a narrow gorge with a well-maintained gravel road running through it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a Hilux pickup truck rounding the hairpin turn he had just avoided.
Almost immediately rapid machine-gun fire came from the truck, growing more intense, and more accurate, as Qahtani raced toward the gatehouse. How fast can I run fifty meters?
He darted past the cantilevered metal arm that blocked vehicle access and dove onto the bank of the adjacent river, water raging loud enough to drown the sound of the approaching truck.
The pickup was close behind him. Bullets sparked off the metal trusses of the fence surrounding the gorge as Qahtani risked the current and slipped across the river, up the opposite bank, and onto a trail that led into the mountains.
He paused and took several deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen to his starving lungs as possible. He had made it.
An odd squeaking noise disrupted his brief celebration. He looked back at the gate. The metal arm was lifting as the truck sat waiting patiently, like a panther about to leap—less than one hundred yards away. Men stood in the bed of the pickup, searching for him in the darkness. A large spotlight flicked on, silhouetting the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back.
Qahtani dove over the side of the trail into a shallow valley. His heart pounding through his chest, he slithered along the ground as far as he could. For the first time since his self-directed mission had begun, he sensed failure. As he crawled along the ground he thought back over his brief, insignificant life. In his teens he had drifted from job to job, never proving worthy enough to stick anywhere. He had no education to speak of and had little practical talent in anything other than athletics.
His last job before embracing this new path in life was as an ambulance driver in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. By then, Qahtani had absorbed the radical sermons of his local mullah for so long that he’d finally approached him to ask how he could join in the fight against the infidels. His mullah sent him to Syria to study and train with like-minded Muslims. It was there that he’d become a true believer and realized that his calling was to join in the jihad against the West.
Now, as he hid from the searchlight mounted on the Northern Alliance truck in a rocky outcropping, that trip to Syria, and his subsequent stop in Iran, seemed like ages ago. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the truck engine rev and tires crunch off toward the valley. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath: I have survived. He prayed that his commanders would view his actions as courageous, rather than defiant.
Qahtani looked at the night sky with its tiny lights flickering brightly against the darkness. Perhaps, he thought, his life would be like that: a flickering light against the endless void of darkness.
Orlando International Airport
August 4, 2001
Melendez-Perez paced the halls, thinking through the situation, which was more delicate than it appeared. While his instincts screamed that something was wrong, he knew that denying entry to a legitimate Saudi national could have serious professional consequences.
But he also knew something else: His instincts were the only thing that had kept him alive in Vietnam. He trusted them implicitly.
Returning to the small room, Melendez-Perez began a different line of questioning, but Qahtani quickly lost control again. The Saudi was standing up, leaning forward, his hands on the table, leering, and shouting.
Melendez-Perez remained calm. “Sit down, please. I’m not finished. You have two thousand, eight hundred dollars in cash and a one-way ticket to Dubai will cost you two thousand, two hundred. How will you get money for both travel in the United States and your return?”
“Someone will bring me money.”
“Why would someone bring you some money?”
“Because he is a friend.”
“How long have you known this person?”
“Not too long.”
Melendez-Perez stood and left the room again.
• • •
“I am placing you under oath. It is a serious offense to lie to an immigration officer.”
Qahtani’s eyes narrowed at the translation of what Melendez-Perez had just told him, but he agreed. After the swearing in was read, translated, and recited, the questioning continued.
“Who is picking you up?”
“I won’t answer,” Qahtani said.
Shafik-Fouad, whose sole purpose thus far had been to interpret and relay Mele
ndez-Perez’s words, spoke out of turn. “Something’s not right here.”
Melendez-Perez agreed and he saw a dark cloud of fear slide across Qahtani’s eyes. For the third time in ninety minutes, he left the room.
• • •
His feet as cold as ice cubes, Melendez-Perez walked to the operations center and checked NAILS, the National Automated Index Lookout System. It came up empty—Qahtani had no countries interested in his arrest. That would’ve been too easy, he thought to himself.
Melendez-Perez reentered the interview room with several documents and a small container. Qahtani stared at him intently as he wrote on several different forms. “What is your occupation?”
“Car salesman,” Qahtani said.
Melendez-Perez returned the Saudi’s icy stare as he removed an inkpad and began to take Qahtani’s fingerprints. He grasped his fingers one by one, placing them on the pad, rolling them back and forth, gathering ink, and then pressing them firmly into the hard, white stock paper.
Oddly, Melendez-Perez perceived a softening of Qahtani’s demeanor. Perhaps the Saudi believed this to be a good sign. Maybe he was under the impression that the fingerprints were the final part of the admittance process.
The paperwork complete, Melendez-Perez stood again. “You do not appear to be admissible into the United States. I am offering you an opportunity to withdraw your application. I will escort you to the gate for the next departing flight to Dubai, where you will pay for your return ticket.”
As the interpreter relayed Melendez-Perez’s message, Qahtani looked from the phone to Melendez-Perez’s face and shouted, “You cannot do this! Why do all of this paperwork? Why put me through this? You are harassing me! I will not pay!”
Melendez-Perez remained calm. “If you do not pay for your ticket, then we will detain you here in the United States until such time that you do.”
Qahtani, looking defeated, reluctantly agreed. “I will pay,” he muttered.
• • •
Standing at the entrance to the jetway, Qahtani turned back toward Melendez-Perez and spoke one final time—now using perfect English.
