by Chuck Holton
“We’d also like to extend a special thank you to our newest member, the Israeli Finance Ministry Director, General Yossi Harif.”
Jamal stared at the balding Harif. Undoubtedly he was wicked, evil, an oppressor. But killing one Zionist didn’t justify killing many Palestinians. Jamal started to turn his cart around and head back toward the staging area. As he did so, he caught sight of the two soldiers who had stopped him earlier. They were moving toward him with the waitress who’d bumped him on their heels.
Jamal froze midstep. Fear and a sense of overwhelming failure stole his breath. Who was he to think that he could please Allah? Nobodies were always nobodies.
Without much hope he looked around for an avenue of escape. There was an emergency exit behind the podium. He turned and ran toward it, abandoning his cart where it was.
The soldiers shouted and broke into pursuit. As one of them passed the cart, he knocked it aside. The bottles crashed to the floor.
The soldier hadn’t taken two steps past the cart when a horrendous fireball rocked the banquet hall, sending tables and bodies flying in all directions.
Jamal felt as if a speeding freight train from hell hit him between the shoulder blades and a giant siphon pulled all the oxygen from his lungs. Just before everything went black, one last thought pierced his mind like hot shrapnel, though it wasn’t of Paradise or virgins.
What have I done?
Abidjan, Ivory Coast
“Man, I can’t wait to hit the showers,” Rip said as Task Force Valor arrived at the airfield’s front gate.
“I’ll second that motion.” John smirked. “You smell.”
“Yeah, well, in an hour, I’ll be clean,” Rip shot back over the chuckles of the rest of the team. “And you’ll still be ugly, ese.”
The chuckles turned to guffaws, but John was too tired for verbal jousting, even if it was all in fun. Looking at his reflection in the side-view mirror, he figured Rip was right. He needed a haircut and a shave, and the blue eyes that so intrigued the locals were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Being team sergeant didn’t give him the chance to rest much. What he really wanted to do was get back to Bragg and spend a long weekend doing absolutely nothing.
The major and Doc were in the lead in the team’s Humvee, while the rest of the men waited in the Cougar as UN guards performed inspections on those ahead of them. The guards were currently checking an old sedan, its make and model indistinguishable, like most of the vehicles on this continent.
John smiled as he thought of the amazing ingenuity he’d seen exhibited by Africans who made do with whatever they had to keep their cars on the road. Some of the vehicles were held together by nothing more than twine, duct tape, and plastic shopping bags, which Rip called, “The national flower of the Ivory Coast.”
“Hey!” Rip pointed out the back window of the Cougar. “Check out behind us. Must be somebody important.”
John turned and saw a blue Chevy Suburban pull up behind them. He agreed immediately with Rip because the big SUV was so new it hadn’t yet acquired the thick layer of dust that clung to most of the vehicles in this country. As soon as the car stopped, a well-dressed, dark-skinned man of about forty jumped out of the driver’s door.
The man ran past their vehicle, waving his arms and shouting frantically at the guards. The man gestured toward his vehicle and babbled excitedly in French. One of the guards attempted to calm the man, then followed him back to the Suburban. The young soldier took one look inside, paled, and walked quickly back toward his post.
As the soldier passed the Cougar, Sweeney opened his door and caught his attention. “Bonjour, que se produit?” he asked, his French surprisingly good for someone who, according to Frank, couldn’t even speak English properly. “What’s up?”
The French soldier gestured toward the man, who was still jabbering away excitedly. “His wife is having a baby right now in his car. He wants to take her to the hospital on base.”
“Right now?”
“Oui. But he still has to wait his turn.”
Sweeney turned to John. “You think maybe Doc could help?”
John nodded. “Probably. You know he never passes up a chance to practice his art.” He jumped on the radio and called the Humvee in front of them, informing the major of the situation. Then John opened his door and went forward to see if Doc needed help carrying anything.
Vernon James was grinning broadly as he pulled his aid bag out of the Humvee. “I haven’t delivered a baby in years, Coop!”
John had to jog to keep up with the black medic. “You’ve actually delivered a baby?” Not in the Special Forces he hadn’t.
“I helped a woman give birth in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Fayetteville just before I graduated SF medic school. Made me the envy of my class.”
Right. “You sure you remember what to do?”
Doc winked at him. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me. Besides, the woman does all the work.”
Sure enough, the backseat of the Suburban was occupied by a very pregnant woman in traditional dress. She looked young, and she was crying hysterically, rocking side-to-side, arms crossed over her distended stomach. The seat was slick with what John assumed was amniotic fluid.
The husband was now pacing near the front bumper smoking a cigarette. The young UN guard still stood nearby, looking like he was going to throw up at any moment.
John touched Doc on the shoulder. “What can I do?”
“See if there are some blankets or something in the back of this car. We’ll start by making her as comfortable as possible.” Doc leaned into the Suburban, trying to calm the young mother as best he could, even though he didn’t speak her language.
John ran to the rear of the Suburban and threw open its rear doors. The area behind the back seat was completely empty. Not a blanket in sight. In fact, the inside of the vehicle was even cleaner than the outside, and that was saying something.
He frowned and headed for the Cougar, deciding to donate the poncho liner out of his own rucksack to the cause. As he passed in front of the Suburban, he noticed that the driver’s hands were trembling. Typical new father.
Only about twenty yards separated the SUV and the Cougar, but in that distance, John realized that something was wrong. It was only the faintest nudge at the back of his mind, but he tried to make a habit of paying attention to that small voice.
But what was the trouble? He made it to the Cougar and started to reach for the door handle when it hit him. It’s too clean. He’d never seen anything in the Ivory Coast as immaculate as that Suburban. It looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line. And nobody went anywhere here without at least a bottle of water in the trunk.
John turned. “Doc! Doc! Get out of—”
Hell opened up beneath the Suburban at that second, spitting the seven-thousand-pound vehicle into the air on a fountain of flame. The shock wave from the explosion hit John like a one-ton rodeo bull, and his world went black.
Downtown Beirut
IT WAS A THING OF BEAUTY.
Imad Hijazi stared in awe at the chaos in front of him. A great plume of smoke rose to the heavens, almost completely obscuring the Hotel Rowena. Emergency vehicles roared up with sirens blaring. Flames shot skyward from the place where mere moments before there had been scores of meddling Westerners. People ran screaming in all directions, many covered in blood.
All this was what he had expected to see, only better. What he had not anticipated was the raw power he felt over these people and the sheer pleasure that came with seeing the fear in their eyes. Knowing that he had directed the operation ignited a fire in his breast that rivaled the one currently consuming the hotel.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. To the voice that answered, he said, “Put him on.”
A staid, impassive older voice came on the phone. “Is it done?” Abu Shaaban spoke as if asking about nothing more important than a delivery of flowers.
“It is done. You have struck
fear in the hearts of the infidel.”
But it wasn’t only the manifestation of their fear that so excited Imad. It was the prestige this fear would bring. While it was best to appear humble and let Abu Shaaban believe the plan had been his idea, he would make sure the others knew the truth.
It was Imad who had first heard of this new weapon and approached his leader with the idea of purchasing a small amount to test its effectiveness. At first Abu Shaaban scoffed and would hear nothing of it, but Imad persevered. Finally his leader agreed. Imad then arranged shipment through an arms dealer he knew in Sidon.
Imad had also recruited the now-martyred Palestinian youth from the Sabra camp near that same city in southern Lebanon. He first saw Jamal in tears at the funeral of Imam Muhammad. After watching him for some time, Imad could tell that the boy was smart enough to carry out an assignment of this sort, yet simple enough to be easily persuaded to lay down his life.
All had gone as planned, and Imad smiled at the devastation he’d created. “You may thank Allah for our success,” he told Abu Shaaban.
“Very well. We will begin planning for our next operation immediately.” The line went dead.
Imad ignored the abruptness of his leader as he basked in the warmth of the flames, which radiated even to where he was standing, nearly a block away.
The beauty of it had been its simplicity. The godless West had devised all sorts of gadgets to stop terrorism, even putting additives in explosives that allowed them to trace manufacturing sources. But this weapon was so fantastic because it was nearly foolproof, and better yet, untraceable.
He looked on, almost giddy, as the emergency personnel ran to and fro, attempting to bring aid to the injured and dying.
Then an unexpected thought hit him.
What if nobody knows it was me? Us?
Imad suddenly knew his job was not yet complete. Attribution in these things was a tricky business. If one made it too clear that his group was responsible, he was inviting the wrath of the government, the military, and possibly his own people once the military began to retaliate. Yet he needed to somehow make it subtly clear that Ansar Inshallah, “The Followers of God’s Will,” was responsible for this act.
The simplest method would be to call the Arab media and take credit in the name of Ansar Inshallah. But then nothing would stop every other faction in Lebanon from doing the same.
No, he needed something more. Though it was obviously too late for that now, a video of them planning the event, all faces carefully masked, would have worked. Or maybe…
A hostage!
Yes, that would work perfectly. A hostage clearly tied to this event would provide just the sort of indirect proof needed, and perhaps even provide him with the opportunity to increase his standing within the organization even further! Most important, it would distract attention from their next operation.
A portly man with a head wound brushed by, and Imad briefly considered offering him a ride to the hospital in his Mercedes. That would be the easiest way to secure a hostage. But he thought the better of it. Once the man became aware that he was not being taken to the hospital, he might become belligerent. It would have to be someone who would not be able to resist.
Imad was a leader, not a fighter. He was taller than most but skinny from having grown up in the camps. He had never been physically strong, so he had made up for his body’s weakness by learning to manipulate people with his superior mind.
He scanned the teeming crowd before him. Already there were so many emergency vehicles that he began to get afraid there wouldn’t be anyone left for him to kidnap.
Then he saw his ideal target, sitting dazedly on a rock near the hotel entrance.
A smile spread across his face.
Perfect.
Outside Beirut
Liz Fairchild jammed her left toe into the small crevice, tested it, then carefully straightened her leg as if she were standing up, balancing her weight on both feet. It was both exhilarating and frightening to rock climb outside. The gym at home was so safe, the routes so easy to discern. The challenge here on the bolted cliffs outside Beirut was to find the best route for her expertise, her strength, and her nerves.
She was still surprised at how much she loved climbing. She loved the stretch and burn of muscles, the challenge to be better, go higher, learn more. Most of all she loved the way it forced her to focus intently to the exclusion of all other problems and worries. After the sad trip earlier today and the distressing visit with Julie that showed more cracks in her marriage than she probably realized, Liz needed release.
She made the short drive outside town where she met some others from the rock climbing club she’d sought out as soon as she got to Beirut. Soon she was scaling a cliff. It encouraged her that she was better than some of the club and challenged her that others were better than she.
When she was sure she was balanced, she released her right hand and reached for the small jam crack higher up, but not too high.
“Trust your legs,” her instructor back home had said again and again. “It’s all in the legs. They should take your weight, not your arms. Keep both feet attached to the rock.”
Even after almost three years of climbing she had to fight the urge to pull herself with her arms. Like most women, she didn’t have much upper body strength. Depend on her arms, and the climb would end quickly due to lack of endurance. Use her legs, and she could climb for hours. Carefully she placed her right foot and slowly stood.
When she was stretched against the rock like this, she always felt like some giant bug and half expected an oversized swatter to descend from the sky and get her. Much as she delighted in climbing, there was a certain helpless feeling in this position, in spite of the safety ropes and harness, the climbing buddies. The dangerous thing was the instinctive urge to move quickly to stop feeling so vulnerable.
Don’t rush, girl. God’s not in the swatting business. He’s carrying you.
Some time later she noted with surprise that the sun was going. Elongated shadows distorted the mountainside, and soon it would be impossible to easily judge the options for hands and feet.
After a slow but safe descent during which a pair of Lebanese climbers not from the club called advice to her, some helpful, some suggestive, she waved good-bye and walked to her car. She was sweaty and weary, but in a much better frame of mind than when she came. Endorphins were wonderful things.
Lord, she thought as she drove back to her parents’ house, I need Your help in letting go of what I can’t control. Zahra was out of my control. Julie and Khalil are out of my control though where my sister’s concerned, it’s very hard to remember that. Too many years of watching over her. It’s not my job anymore. Still, I’m trusting that all things will work for good for her.
Liz smiled to herself. In the years since she’d become a believer while a student at the University of Virginia, she’d claimed the promise of that Scripture she was now claiming for Julie. And God had seen that things did work well for her. Liz had been able to get her master’s in journalism at the University of Missouri’s acclaimed program with a semester at their Washington, D.C., campus. She’d gotten a great job at the Philadelphia Inquirer, seen her byline appear with increasing frequency, and was turning her vacation in Lebanon into a series for the paper on women in the Middle East.
Momentary gloom enveloped her as she thought about how different her piece on Zahra was going to be from the way she first envisioned it. Girl Breaks Free had become Victim Dies at Mother’s Hand. How would her apartment neighbors in the renovated factory near the Delaware River react to actions so foreign to American thinking? A mother murdering her daughter in the name of honor.
But the endorphins released by her exercise didn’t let Liz stay unhappy long. Her life was good; God was good. She felt blessed because of her faith in the loving and caring Christ who died for her.
As she drove through Beirut, she saw more of the slow but steady recovery from the chaos of the countr
y’s civil war that devastated Lebanon in the 1980s. Some day soon she wanted to visit the new downtown area around Parliament and see the new Place d’Etoile.
It had been a sad setback when Rafik Hariri, the man who had been the first premier elected after the civil war, was killed in 2005 in a mammoth car bombing. The backlash from that event had paved the way for the Syrian army’s pullout and had brought about changes in the workings of the government. The Lebanese people knew the price of anarchy, and they did not want to pay it again.
When the Fairchilds first moved to Beirut in 1992, right after the ceasefire, Beirut was rubble from the heavy fighting. Sandbags filled doorways, bullet holes and mortar damage pocked buildings, and people flinched at loud noises. The country’s international banking industry had been forced to move. Tourists had stopped coming. Shipping faltered. Even AUB had suffered with one president murdered and another kidnapped during the chaos.
Today there was tentative harmony between the Maronite Christians, the Sunni Muslims, the Shi’a Muslims, and the Palestinians who formed the diverse population of the country. Nationalism was encouraged rather than factionalism. All held their breaths, hoping such thinking would continue. As Liz hit her brakes to avoid the car that cut her off, she thought there was a greater chance they’d all kill each other on the highways than in another war. She’d forgotten how chaotic the drivers in Beirut could be. By comparison the drivers in Philadelphia were the very souls of politeness.
You first, sir.
Oh, no, you, ma’am.
Right.
Back at her parents’ Liz showered and changed. As she dried her shoulder-length dark hair, she studied the pictures of her and Julie on her bureau. In one taken just before she left Beirut to come to the States for college, she had her arms wrapped around Julie’s neck, her head resting on her younger sister’s shoulder. Both wore huge smiles. Julie with her long blond hair looked so much like their father, while Liz looked like Annabelle with her dark, mid-length hair.
