Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  One of those gaps was high up in the structural beams of the hangar, the huge steel girders that provided the skeleton structure to the hangar. Deep behind the girders above the hangar’s rolling doors, four of the crossbeams joined together and formed a tiny crawl space that was fourteen inches wide, six feet long, and twelve inches high.

  This was the little secret the terrorists knew.

  Although the entire building was always searched multiple times before the prime minister ever arrived in the hangar, none of these patrols climbed up to the rafters to check the girders above. And because these security patrols were always initiated five days before the prime minister was scheduled to use the hangar, any other time the hangar was more or less accessible to the airport at large. So if a man were to arrive before the regular security patrols had begun, and if he were extraordinarily patient, he could conceal himself in the dead space of these girders, making it impossible for him to be seen from the ground. Then, once the security patrols had begun, if he remained in a prone position, the thick steel beams would protect him from the infrared scanners and the motion detectors that were used to sweep through the hangar every two hours or so. If he were very quiet, he might even avoid the sensitive listening devices that were planted throughout the hangar but only turned on once the prime minister was inbound.

  * * *

  The assassin had been waiting in the rafters of the hangar for almost eight days, hidden above the section of crossbeams almost directly above the hangar doors. He had not eaten in two days now, and his water was gone. The batteries on his radio had grown so weak as to make it completely unreadable, so he had taken out his tiny earpiece and let it fall to the metal beside his shoulder. It didn’t really matter. There was no one left to talk to anymore. He had received the final instructions, and his commanders had long ago slipped away.

  Eight days before, under cover of night, the assassin had infiltrated the prime minister’s hangar. Because the Israeli leader hadn’t been expected for more than a week, the security forces were on their lowest state of alert. Once inside the hangar, he’d used a small crossbow to shoot a thin rappelling rope over the crossbeams above the hangar floor, used an ascending device to pull himself up, secured the rope, and then hidden in the tiny crawl space directly above the rolling doors. There he had waited. He had enough water for a week, enough food for five days, a radio so he would know when the prime minister was expected to arrive, and a high-powered rifle to kill him when he did.

  Now, after all of that time lying on the hard metal, his muscles were cramping miserably, leaving his body to hurt all the way to his bones. He was exhausted and weary in his body and soul. The yellow pills he took to keep him constipated had tied his stomach in knots, and the little plastic bags he had filled with his urine were beginning to leak.

  Worse, though, was the problem of having far too much time to think. Too much time to lie there and consider his standing in the next world. Too much time to stare up at the girders and wonder what he’d been taught.

  It was difficult to consider murder-suicide for eight days without slipping into a funk. And the pain of lying on the steel girders, wallowing in his own sweat and urine, only added to the blackness and the ache in his bones.

  But the painkillers helped, and the Valium mellowed his fear.

  And now it was almost over.

  He lay there and listened to the aircraft’s jet engines wind down and the hangar doors begin to roll closed. His heart skipped a beat when he heard the voices below.

  His muscles were so cramped that he didn’t know if he could stand or even push himself to his knees. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to. From where he lay, he had a perfect angle on the prime minister’s jet. All he had to do was lift his head half an inch above the girders.

  Despite the pain and depression, the assassin was ready to complete the mission he’d spent years training for. He was in extraordinary physical shape, knew how to operate and repair his own radio, could take apart and reassemble his collapsible rifle in less than fifty seconds (fifty-two seconds in the dark), and could pull himself up a sixty-foot rope with just his hands and his feet. Most important, he was an expert marksman who could shoot a bullet through the face on a U.S. twenty-dollar bill at three hundred feet.

  Now, after years of training, his mission was here.

  The PM would be emerging from the aircraft any moment now.

  The Palestinian adjusted his weight to his side, his muscles and joints screaming with every move. He was so hot and dehydrated that his vision was blurry. But he saw well enough, and the target was so close.

  Peering over the metal crossbeam, he had a clear view of the door to the prime minister’s jet. It was forty feet below him and thirty feet to his right. It would be like shooting a pig with a shotgun from three feet away. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. Not from this range.

  When the two security men emerged from the aircraft, the shooter had already positioned his rifle over the edge of the beam. He steadied the barrel on the metal rafter, and then placed his finger on the trigger, feeling the metal against his skin.

  * * *

  Four days before the Israeli prime minister had been scheduled to return from his two-week trip overseas, the aircraft hangar had been swarmed with regular security patrols. Two days before his arrival, security agents had taken control of the hangar from the officers and mechanics whose job it was to maintain the prime minister’s jets. Beginning twelve hours before the prime minister had been scheduled to arrive, the hangar was swept with regular security patrols using infrared detectors and explosive sniffing dogs.

  This was the easy part for the security team. Out of all the possible locations the prime minister could be assassinated, inside his own hangar seemed the least likely of all. So the Secret Service men relaxed just a little as the aircraft taxied in.

  The Israeli prime minister stepped to the open aircraft door. He was old now, and not as agile as he used to be, so he held the handrail carefully as he descended the narrow stairs. His wife was walking behind him, her hand on his shoulders to help steady him. Four feet below him, two dark-suited men waited. They faced away from the steps, their backs to him. A half-dozen other agents formed a circle around the jet. The rear door swung open in the third black sedan, and one of the agents at the bottom of the stairs turned around. The prime minister reached the cement floor and started walking, his wife at his side. It was only twenty feet to the waiting vehicle. The security forces closed in around him as he walked to the car.

  After more than two weeks touring through Europe, the prime minister was exceptionally happy to be back in his country again. He always felt safe here, and this was his home. He took a deep breath, smelling the tang of salt in the air, then glanced at his wife and smiled.

  The prime minister of Israel received death threats almost every day. He’d been living under the constant threat of assassination for almost five years. Before that, as an army and intelligence officer, he’d lived through combat and covert missions, including the bloody Gaza operation about ten years before. Through it all, it had never occurred to him even once that he would not die from old age.

  But the Palestinian watching from above him knew he had just drawn his last breath.

  Union Station, Washington, D.C.

  Union Station was always crowded with travelers and tourists as well as locals who worked in the District of Columbia, mostly on Capitol Hill. The station was a large and beautiful building, built on multiple levels, with a classical stone and pillar entrance, dozens of restaurants, a movie theater, and a shopping center as well. The Amtrak station fed the busy eastern corridor between Boston, New York, and the District of Columbia, and the Metro provided easy access for commuted.

  And though Union Station was a standard tourist location, it was popular with the locals as well. A couple of the restaurants were very good, and it was close enough to the Capitol and the congressional office buildings that it was an easy walk fo
r lunch.

  Neil Brighton and his guest sat at a small table on the third floor of the Americana restaurant. Their table, very private, was positioned in a small alcove looking over the main floor, surrounded by potted flowers and plants. Brighton was wearing a blue Air Force shirt, with his pilot’s wings on his chest and two stars on his shoulders, but not his formal blue overcoat. Sara was wearing a blue dress with white pearls. She looked younger than he did, he knew that, but he had grown used to the fact. “Is this your wife or your daughter?” How many times had he heard that line before? But he didn’t mind—in fact, it only made him more proud of his wife. He had wondered all his life why she had agreed to marry him, and the marvel of her enduring beauty only made him love her more.

  So he gazed at Sara, her blond hair and white smile, and wished once again that he could go home with her. They could sit in the backyard by the pool and absorb the afternoon sun. She could talk. He would listen. That was all he wanted to do. He didn’t want to think, solve any problems, or make any decisions right now. What would he give to go home, throw on some shorts and sandals, squeeze some lemonade, and just sit and not have to think? What would he give to lie in the sun, close his eyes, and just listen to her voice? What would he give to spend an afternoon just watching the sun in her hair?

  How much had he given up already? How much had his family sacrificed?

  He forced a smile. But she didn’t buy it. She knew that he was concerned. She picked at her salad, piercing a cherry tomato and placing it in her mouth. “You look tired,” she said.

  He nodded. He knew that, and he felt worse than he looked.

  “I got an E-mail from Sam this morning,” he said, not wanting to talk about himself.

  “Good. How is he? Anything new?”

  Brighton thought of the Cherokees, knowing he couldn’t say anything. “He’s fine,” he answered simply. “He didn’t say much. You know, he’s a man of few words.”

  Sara didn’t say anything, but her face lit up. Any mention of her three sons always made her smile.

  She picked another tomato, and then said, “I was talking with Ammon this morning. Did you know Luke is planning on going to Europe after Christmas? He wants to go see some of his old friends from Germany during the break.”

  Brighton’s forehead scrunched. “Is Ammon going with him?” he asked.

  Sara shook her head. “He doesn’t think that he can afford it—”

  “But Luke thinks that he can?”

  “Neil, you know how he is.”

  “He’s supposed to be saving his money to help pay for college.”

  “He says he’s got it figured out. He can use some of our frequent flyer miles and stay with his friends. He told me it wouldn’t cost him more than a couple days skiing, which is what Ammon plans to do.”

  “Hmmm,” Brighton said as he glanced at his plate. He looked up at Sara. “How do you feel about Luke? You know, is he doing OK?”

  Sara hesitated, and then answered, “He reminds me of you.”

  “Me?” Brighton cried.

  “Of course. Try to remember. He is you through and through. You were a rancher from Texas, determined to see the world, determined to knock off the cotton balls that were stuck to your boots. If there was anyone less focused than you were at that age, I don’t know who that would be. I mean, look at our romance. I was ready to get married, but it took you three years—”

  “I would have married you after the first date, except I had to finish college.”

  “Yeah, that’s a responsible line. You’re responsible now, Neil, but it’s not the way you were then. You were terrified of getting married. It makes me laugh sometimes to think of how you used to act. Here you are now, a big-shot general in the White House, a fighter pilot who has flown as many combat sorties as maybe anyone in the world. And you were afraid of getting married. You were afraid of me.”

  Neil took her hand. “You still scare me,” he said.

  “Only when you really make me angry,” she laughed. “But you know, Neil, you are so determined now, so focused and single-minded, but you don’t remember that you weren’t always like that. How many summers did you spend backpacking through Europe, going anywhere but home? You stayed away from West Texas like everyone there had the plague. You wanted to see everything that was out there, to experience the world. That’s how Luke is, Neil, but it’s not a bad way to be. Even after we were married, we were pretty free spirits, you know. Do you remember what we did for our honeymoon?”

  Brighton smiled as he thought. “Wasn’t that great!” he said.

  “Yes, it was the most, how would you say, entertaining two weeks that we’ve ever had. And now Luke wants to go roam through the Alps for a while. I say we let him. Besides, we couldn’t stop him. He will do what he wants.”

  Brighton nodded while he thought, picking up the lemon in his water and sucking it between his teeth. “I just hope—” he said softly.

  “Luke will be OK. He has a good heart. He cares more about other people than anyone I know. He isn’t focused right now, but he’s still young. This thing with Alicia has really strung him out. I say let’s let him stretch his wings for a few weeks.”

  Brighton nodded and relaxed. He trusted her intuition more than he trusted anything. “All right, then,” he told her. “I guess it would be OK.”

  Sara squeezed his fingers lightly, and then pulled back her hand. “I’m really, really glad that we could have lunch,” she said. “I appreciate you getting away from the White House. I know how difficult it is.”

  “Sara,” he answered, “I would rather be here with you than anywhere in the world. I am busy right now, but someday things will be better, I promise. One day I’ll retire and then we’ll have lots of time to spend together. After a while, you’ll be so sick of having me around that you’ll beg me to leave.”

  “I think not,” Sara answered, “but it will be fun to see.”

  The two were silent for a moment. Brighton took a huge bite of his sandwich while Sara poked at her fish.

  “Neil, I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.

  Brighton stopped chewing. There was something serious in her voice. She looked up at him. “Were you ever going to tell me about Sam’s picture in the papers? Or were you going to always try to hide it from me?”

  Brighton swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.

  Sara watched him struggle, and then continued. “I know you were only trying to protect me, but it really doesn’t help. I mean, if one of the largest papers in the country has a story about my son, alleging that he and some other U.S. soldiers were involved in some atrocities, don’t you think that I’d like to know that? And I’d like to hear it from you, not my neighbor, and certainly not from the peace activist, military-hating, goober of a Greenpeace feminist who lives down the street.”

  Brighton swallowed again. He didn’t know what to say. “The story wasn’t true,” he mumbled very feebly.

  “Of course. I know that. Everyone knew.”

  “I thought—I was worried—I just wanted to—”

  “Protect me. That’s very sweet, dear, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it. I take things like that better than you do. So don’t ever do it again.”

  She smiled at him sweetly, but then cocked her head to the side. That was his signal to say “I’m sorry,” and he quickly fell into line. She was right. He was wrong. It had been a dumb thing to do. It belittled her strength and courage, and though his heart was in the right place, it had been a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he told her humbly. And he meant every word.

  “That’s OK, Neil,” she said. She smiled at him brightly. “This is very good,” she said as she took a bite of her fish.

  Ben Gurion International Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

  It was a single shot to the head. The prime minister’s brains exploded out of his skull. He hit the floor in a heap, his knees buckling mid-step.

  His wife screamed in terror as she fell to his side. And tho
ugh his arms and legs twitched and jerked, she knew he was dead.

  The young Palestinian followed his instructions perfectly.

  “Do not get caught!” they had told him. “Do not be taken alive. Do you understand us, Imir, you are not coming home! No man can resist them; they will force you to talk. So do not let them take you! You must follow the plan!”

  Reaching to his side, the young Palestinian felt the beveled grip of the small handgun stuffed in the holster at his hip. He pulled it out, shoved it to his temple, and pulled the trigger one last time.

  But before he squeezed the trigger, a final thought rolled through his head, “If I cannot go home, I shall go to Allah instead.”

  The two shots, less than three seconds apart, reverberated through the enormous hangar like rolling claps of thunder through the air. The echoes bounced off the metal walls, making it impossible to detect from which direction the shots had emanated. As the prime minister mortally fell to the floor, the security men sprang into action. Weapons extended from their bodies and steadied in their hands, they contracted the circle, closing in on their charge. Machine guns appeared out of nowhere. Shouts and screams filled the air. The security men moved constantly, their eyes searching, ready to shoot instantly. The prime minister’s terrified wife fell at his side, her voice choking on a scream. Two of the bodyguards fell on top of her, driving her to the floor, the guards placing their bodies between the woman and the shots. Another guard fell on the prime minister to protect him as well, but he quickly saw and knew he was lying on a dead man.

  Another body fell from the rafters with a sickening thud. Sirens wailed from outside the hangar, and the doors rolled open again. Security men began to swarm through the hangar, seeming to emerge from everywhere, armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, grenades, shotguns, and radios.

  Less than fifty seconds after the first shot had been fired, an ambulance screeched through the half-closed hangar doors, retrieved the prime minister’s body, and then screeched out again. Another ambulance followed, but this one was a decoy that would take another road. Both of the ambulances were escorted by dozens of wailing sirens and police, some on motorcycles, some in cars. The prime minister’s wife was shoved into one of the waiting sedans, which made its way to the hospital by yet a third route.