“That you, Bob?” Hakim called in his flawless Midwestern accent. He suppressed another wince as he heard his voice carry in the night. If anyone else was nearby, they had just heard him.
“Yeah, John, how ya been?” was the quiet reply from inside the car. Exactly as agreed.
Excellent. Hakim relaxed and walked to the car.
“In Allah’s name I greet you, Brother,” said Hakim formally. He sat down in the passenger seat and put his fist to his chest in salute to his knew comrade. The driver replied in kind.
“I have been waiting. My name is Saldid Muhammad Rahman,” the driver said in Arabic. He had quite an accent. He blew a last puff of smoke out the window and flicked the glowing cigarette butt onto the pine needles that coated ground by the road.
Hakim shut the passenger side door and thought for a moment. "Syria?"
"You have a good ear my friend," replied Saldid with a grin. "I wish I were there now instead of freezing my ass off on the side of this mountain, but such is life, no?" He looked over at Hakim and smiled.
“I am Hakim Sharif Hassan,” Hakim replied. It was so nice to hear a civilized language once again after so long in the land of the barbarians. Hakim also spoke in Arabic, with a nod towards the car’s dashboard. “I see you followed my advice.”
The car was a big Buick, late 1990s. He grunted his approval. The car would serve them well and attract not the least bit of attention from anyone, especially the police. The interior had seen some love of the decades. Honestly, he was a bit surprised the car still functioned. He was well aware of the build quality of American cars compared to their Asian competitors. However, it only had to last for a few days, a week at most. Then they could have their pick of any car on the road.
“The greedy fools gave me a credit card, then I got the check from them just like you told me, and now we have a car! Is this land not great?” Saldid said in a mocking tone. He grinned broadly. “I even cashed the check at a Bank of America!”
After the two men shared a good laugh and released some of the tension, Hakim informed Saldid of the car bomb he rigged on the road down below. Hakim said, “Should not we be going, Brother? We have much work to accomplish this night.”
Saldid grinned again. His front teeth were yellow from the filterless imported cigarettes he smoked almost constantly. “Agreed. We need not be here when the infidels find your present.” He looked at his watch. “We are late, anyway.”
THAT IS GOOD news indeed, my friend! I will see you this weekend at our team practice session. Say hello to the Reverend for me,” said Hakim in his cheerful American accent over the pre-paid cell phone. He casually dropped the phone in the trash outside the rundown gas station and got back in the car. That was what, his fourth phone in as many weeks?
Saldid sat patiently behind the wheel, focused on yet another cigarette. They had been driving for hours and the sun had finally breached the horizon and flooded the evil land around them in the light of Heaven. They had needed to fill up the car and piss, so Hakim had checked in with his handler.
“What took so long?” asked Saldid in his accented Arabic. He took a long drag on his cigarette and turned down the radio.
Hakim frowned. He had come to realize in the long night that his new partner loved the little false idol named Ashley Sword. Hakim hated her and everything she stood for: the excesses of America, drugs, liquor, sex, money, fame. Saldid hated those things too, but he could not hate her music. He said it made him want to stand up and dance. He was the driver so he picked the music.
"You don't want me to fall asleep at the wheel and crash, do you?" That was what Saldid had said, the argument used to justify listening to that...racket. Hakim grunted at the memory. He could not stand to listen to the noise the irritatingly beautiful little girl claimed was "music". Now her body...Hakim repressed a smile. He could make her sing.
Inside his head, the voice of his Imam reproached him for his lustful thoughts. Hakim mentally shrugged off the warning. He found it was easier and easier now to ignore his Imam. The crusty old man was on the other side of the world and he, Hakim Sharif Hassan, was about to make history. What mattered if he dreamed of a few virgins on earth before he met the Prophet? It was a vice, he knew, but then again, no one was perfect.
“I have good news and better news. We have been given the command to begin. In a few hours, we will be on our own.” He smiled. Hakim laughed out loud after a few moments of quiet contemplation. After so long, the dream was a reality. He glanced at his watch.
“Now my friend, we must be south of Flagstaff as soon as possible. We set our plans in motion at dawn.”
“Millions of these accursed animals will die soon, by the Fist of the Jihad. By Allah’s will,” intoned Saldid solemnly. The emotion in his voice made it thick. Hakim continued to stare out the window. He watched with detached awareness as the Arizona landscape rolled past. “Praised be Allah’s name,”
“So what is the better news?” asked Saldid after a moment of silence. They had reached the speed limit and he backed off on the gas. The last thing they needed was a speeding ticket. It would never be paid, but the process would slow them down just enough to ruin the beautifully designed symmetry of their plan.
Hakim grunted again. “My friend, Malcolm. The one in Chicago. He is ready. When he receives word of our deeds, he will strike. His connections will greatly advance our cause, Saldid. That is the best part of the whole plan: bringing in our African Brothers in a coordinated strike across this country of evil. It is a pity they are so misguided in their motives, though they are believers.” Hakim shrugged. “Oh well, it is Allah’s will. They are expendable, like the communalists and anarchists. Those fools will garner so much attention, our Brothers will have an easy time of it, I think.”
"They may be fools, but these anarchists have a passion to be respected," agreed Saldid. He smiled again. "I almost wish I could watch it on the news as it happens. Think of what it will look like!"
"I prefer to live it, my friend," replied Hakim with a smile of his own.
As the mid-morning sun began to heat up the parched land called Arizona, Hakim and Saldid pulled out of the K-Mart parking lot. It was their last stop. The backseat of the old Buick was full of emergency road flares, matches and fireworks—anything they could get their hands on that would remain on fire for more than a few seconds.
The trunk held a few weapons, a cooler full of ice and cheap American beer, and a duffle bag full of granola bars and cans of soup. They had hit every Target, K-Mart, Wal-Mart and convenience store they found on their way out of town, buying a handful here and a handful there. They never bought enough of one item to arouse suspicion. Nonetheless, the two men quickly amassed a modest stockpile of incendiary devices.
Hakim checked his watch once they were safely on the highway again. 12:30pm EST. That meant 10:30am here in Arizona. It was finally time to bring jihad to America. “It is time, Saldid.”
Saldid smiled and cranked up little Ashley Sword. Hakim reluctantly tolerated his partner's transgression and even grinned after an irritating song. Finally they came to a suitable dirt access road and carefully pulled off the road. The car quickly left the sanitized highway area and entered the brush lands of Arizona’s mountains. It had been a very dry season and they kicked up an enormous rooster-tail of dust.
Hakim reached behind him and pulled a handful of road flares into his lap. He rolled down his window, whispered a quick prayer, then ignited the first flare and tossed it out the window of the and into the dry grass next to the dirt track.
Flare after flare went out the window at regular intervals. Neither man looked back to see if they took. There wasn’t a need. Smoke had already started to drift across the road behind them. Saldid could not see it in the rear view mirror for all the dust that was kicked up, but he could well see it in his side mirrors. There was no time to stop and watch the fires grow into Allah’s sword. They had to start more fires and move on—other teams such as theirs were do
ing the same exact thing throughout the American West. The plan was driven by precise movements.
Following the access road a few more miles, the two men found another dirt road that took them back to the highway. Along the way, more flares went out the window. The smoke from the first flares was visible now over the hills where they had started. The wispy black cloud mingled tenuously with the dust cloud the car had generated. It still appeared delicate and harmless, like something out of a dream.
Hakim glanced at the mountains in the distance, the great dark forests of northern Arizona. It would be only a short journey for the newborn fires to reach the fertile breeding grounds of a dark summer-dry pine forest. He smiled. His plan would work.
Saldid checked for traffic before he entered the highway, and then headed north. Both men knew another team would be cover the middle part of Arizona, while still another team the south. In a single day, if they stopped only to refuel, the three teams that Hakim knew of would cover hundreds of miles of road. They would all toss countless flares, cigarettes, and matches into the dry grass and weeds, all over the state. How many other teams were out there, Hakim and Saldid could only speculate. However, one thing they knew for certain was that the Holy Firestorm had begun.
SARASOTA
Darkness Falls
ERIK TURNED ON the TV while he got dressed. Brin was still sleeping. He smiled and peered through the bedroom door at the softly breathing form under the sheets that was his wife.
He frowned when the news came on. The way-too-early-in-the-morning-to-be-this-pretty blonde on the TV looked at her notes and continued to report: “In other news, our Flagstaff, Arizona affiliate, KTWN, is reporting a fatal mystery in the mountains near Flagstaff this morning amid the raging wildfire that began overnight.
Evidently, an Arizona Highway Patrol Officer was investigating an abandoned vehicle blocking a high mountain pass. There was an explosion, which killed the officer. Officials are not releasing the name of the officer, pending notification of the family and they are unsure as to the cause of the explosion. The dramatic event was caught on the dashboard camera mounted in the officer’s patrol car, which though extremely damaged, is still viewable. You can even see the small brush fire that experts claim is the cause of the wildfire…” A small box in the screen appeared showing the current fire, sparked from the car explosion, consuming a whole mountainside.
“Folks, I must warn you the following segment is graphic and may not be suitable for all our viewers so if you feel that—“
“Oh give me a break!” hissed Erik. “It’s only 7:30! You can’t start the day off with footage of a cop getting blown up! See? This is why people don’t watch the news anymore.”
After the grim news on the television had sunk in, Erik decided he didn’t have much of an appetite after all. He sighed and sat down on the couch. In front of him sat his stack of books. The thesis awaited. Beyond the books he saw his video game console.
In his mind, his Modern Warfare 6 performance from last night echoed like a movie. It was legendary. In the end, he had actually scared more people away from the match than he had killed. His teammates were ecstatic. His enemies were pissed. It had been a good night.
"I’ll work on the thesis later. Maybe after Brin goes to work," he mumbled with a smile. He got up to go power up his game remote.
IT LOOKED TO be another hot and muggy July afternoon. After his morning was spent online fighting a virtual war, he had gotten lunch and dedicated the rest of the day to work. So, Erik continued to slave away on his thesis paper in the living room in the air conditioning and longed to be at the pool.
He skimmed notes absently and pondered a large stack of books on Tokugawa Japan that sat on the coffee table when the sudden silence from the TV made him pay attention. He had put on the news at lunch and left the boob-tube on low in the background while he worked.
The reporters had been deep in discussion with "experts" about the wildfire in Arizona that officials were still puzzled over. Many argued that the car bomb that had killed the cop that morning was the root of the wildfire that was now out of control. Others claimed it was lightning. Only one woman had been brave enough to mention the dreaded “T” word. Then there had been silence.
Erik looked up and saw that the reporters were staring at each other in confusion. He grinned. It was just priceless. He loved when the know-it-all talking heads were just rendered speechless by someone courageous enough to state the obvious.
“Is this correct?” asked the anchorwoman. She looked off camera while her male counterpart began to speak again. He had a hand on his ear and had plastered a grave look on his photogenic face. Erik rolled his eyes at the obviously trumped up drama. Anything for summer ratings, he figured.
“Folks...folks at home, we’re just getting word in here of a serious power outage in Washington, D.C. Unconfirmed reports are coming in from our affiliate in Baltimore suggesting power is out there as well. I—hang on folks. I’m getting…” the man concentrated on the voice in his ear piece.
“We’re now receiving word that power is out in a suburb of Denver.” The female anchors equally well groomed, serious looking face frowned. “Sporadic disturbances over a wide area…Okay…” she paused. “Okay, folks just stay tuned right here to—“
Erik got up and padded to the kitchen for a soda, eyes still on the TV. Here we go again...this is gonna be a long summer. Every year it seems to get worse. It’s pretty late to start this though. I would have thought they got the kinks worked out back in June when San Francisco lost power for a few days. He saw a 6-pack of Brin’s favorite beer and grinned.
“Five o’clock somewhere,” he muttered as he opened an ice-cold beer with a loud snap-hiss. The TV screen went dark before the metallic echo of the beer can died in the kitchen. He looked at the TV, then at the open beer in his hands. Condensation had already started to form around the can.
“Whoa,” he whispered.
The TV screen remained dark. He looked up at the VCR on top of the TV, the digital time display blinked and read 10:57am—power was still on. So it wasn’t a problem at his end. The screen suddenly came back to life and showed a disheveled reporter as he attempted to calm himself. Emergency lights flickered on and people moved about more than normal in the background. Someone ran right in front of the camera and blocked the anchorman by accident.
“I apologize to our audience out there.” Erik rushed back into the living room. The reporter’s voice sound faint and tinny, as if his microphone was malfunctioning. There was an audible crackle, then the man’s voice returned to a normal level. “Power was interrupted here in our New York headquarters just then, but only momentarily. We’ve got our back-up generators online now, so we can still broadcast but, it looks like something similar to the Blackout of ’03 is in the works here in New York, folks. Stay with us as we try to piece things together for you.” The anchorman looked around for a piece of paper to ruffle and look important. “For those of you just joining us—“
Erik changed channel looking for more news on the blackout—the other channels were in similar states of disarray. More reports came in as the minutes flew by. New York, D.C., Baltimore, Denver, Cleveland, Detroit, Houston, Atlanta, even Portland, Oregon…all rumored to be in the dark. Things were still very sketchy: some people claimed the power was out when it wasn’t; others got cities mixed up in their reports. The central fear was that the outages were in the process of spreading, like a giant black carpet unfurling across the country from New York to Los Angeles.
Erik went into the spare bedroom in their apartment and turned on the AM/FM/Weather radio. The AM station he had programmed into the unit broadcast the local political talk show host loud and clear. He was curious to see if anything was going on locally.
“—told you…didn’t I tell ya? It’s only a matter of time. I said that when the Blackout back in…when was it? 2003? That’s right. It hit—anyone who was listening then will remember.”
Erik did. He
well remembered the day. It was the most anxiety filled day of college he ever experienced. He could still remember all the people crying in the student lounge when he walked in after that test in art history.
“I asked, ‘is it terrorism?’ and I hated that I thought of that first! Because everyone wants to think that it’s not…that it’s lightning hitting a relay station, or like when England or Italy lost power a few years back, just a tree branch falling somewhere. Even a damn squirrel chewing on a power line, but…I mean, come on, people! Look at this list of cities we’re being told are losing power…and I’d like to remind everyone the list is growing fast!” Erik heard what sounded like rustled paper.
“We got, let’s see here, San Diego, L.A.—-my God folks, can you imagine the hell that’s going to break loose in South Central tonight? Time to break out the canned goods and shotguns! This has got to be terrorism. This—“ the sound cut off as the radio went silent.
The host came back on the air after a few breathless seconds. “—what happens. Okay, all you listeners, we just lost power, to explain what happened there. We got back-up generators, though…So there we have it, even Florida isn’t immune from the power outage this time around…Hey, someone want to tell me if we’re still on the air? Craig—you getting anything over the internet? I think this whole thing was timed to go off at once…can you believe this?” The host continued to talk to the people in the studio, regardless of his audience.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 4
