And in more than one city throughout the Middle East the reactions were setting in. Many were silent, many sickened, but more than a few joyful as the “Great Satan,” was humbled by ISIS.
Raqqa, Syria
Though he had never said so to any of the jihadists before they had left for America, the caliph hoped that several, perhaps even half a dozen, of his warriors would be captured. They would have made such excellent pawns in the months ahead.
He himself had been a prisoner for four years in Iraq. But he had never feared for a moment. It was four years of training, an opportunity every day to observe the enemy. Most of the military police assigned to his prison camp had come out of an American National Guard unit from the New York City area. Many were actually survivors of the World Trade Center as firemen, policemen and medics. Every last one had lost comrades on that day.
So perverted in their thinking, these Americans. He knew that most hated him, and yet even then, many had tried to reach out to speak to him when they discovered he could speak their language. To ask him why? Some had even attempted to convert him and he had played along to learn of their weaknesses.
So he knew their vulnerabilities better than they themselves did.
So far only one of his warriors had been captured, somewhat honorably unconscious. He was taken during the storming of the fourth school. There had been a wonderful display of the West's evil racism to show to the world when, as the unconscious man was carried out and put into an ambulance, a crowd gathered and spat on him, demanding that he be lynched in front of the school where over two hundred children had died at his hands. The same police officers who had stormed the school were now having to defend the captive. He would be a useful pawn in the months to come for they would put him on trial, which could take a year or more. Demands would be made for his release and there would be some who would actually argue for his release and thus further divide the infidels against each other.
All around him laughed as they watched a shouting match on an American network between two members of Congress. Their cherished building was in total lockdown, surrounded by hundreds of security with aircraft overhead. The one politician was demanding immediate vengeance, the other shouting back that now was not the time to overreact.
A noted “spokesman” for whatever cause he could barge his way into, was interviewed on a street corner in New York, and shouted that hundreds of innocent ethnic Americans were now being targeted by angry mobs, in a wave of racial hatred not seen since the days of lynchings in the South.
All of this was amusing but there was still one more result that he knew would soon unfold. He had predicted it to his inner circle of followers. It was what their president would do. Announcements were going up that within the hour, their leader would speak.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New York City
“It is now approximately three and a half hours since the first report that America is again under attack. An attack far more broad-reaching than 9/11 because it strikes at our very heart as a nation and as parents.”
The anchor for the network looked haggard, exhausted. Though used to being on camera for hours at a time, his voice was raspy. And it was evident as well that he was having increasing difficulty with emotional control.
The network’s afternoon anchor, his stunned reaction while watching the monitor that had been switched off to the rest of the world, was now a moment etched into the nation's memory. The horror of it all did not need to be seen. His reaction, his features, the way his body recoiled from the horror and his cry for vengeance, was shocking to the generations raised since the 1960s who believed that vengeance could never be an act of justice.
There was a time, little more than a generation ago, when the flow of images was controlled by studio executives, producers, political and even sponsor pressures. If the average citizen had filmed something using a hand-held film camera, be it horror or triumph, unless cleared by “wiser heads,” the image was never seen. It was years before the impact of a bullet striking a president down was actually seen as film and not just a few still images.
With the advent of the third and fourth generation computers, the ability to hold in one’s hand a computer with more power than the top-secret Cray of the defense industry forty years earlier, and the linking of it to every other computer in the world, had completely transformed how all news and information flowed.
Media was the new frontline battlefield for terror.
So even as the network blocked the images of what had transpired on the roof of Chamberlain Middle School, and those hiding in a bunker near Raqqa decided for the moment to suppress it, the images had been recorded, leaked, and sprung across the internet and had created two responses: rage, and a rapidly growing voice to do something, anything, to finally protect the children, no matter what was required or what sacrifice had to be made. The system was broken, they cried, and “things must be changed for the sake of our children!”
The anchor paused to sip from a glass of water, then continued with his summation:
“We have reports from around the nation, but before we go to them, this is what we can confirm with certainty at this moment. We can confirm from eyewitness reports by our own personnel with affiliate stations across the nation, and from the announcements of local and state officials, that five schools were seized starting late this morning eastern time. There are reports of more than two dozen other schools experiencing some form of attack. One appears to be a copycat by a lone gunman, who murdered two school administrators and a police officer before being killed. Other incidents appear to be tragic mistakes.
"Again I urge you, if you are a parent who wishes to hold your child and get him to the safety of your home, please show restraint. If you have attempted to go to your child’s school, please wait in areas designated by authorities.
“Now, to the second concern. Even if you could retrieve your child, in nearly every state, officials have ordered all interstate highways to be closed.
“That situation is not yet under control. We cannot give you a confirmed summary at this time, though across the bottom of the screen we are now trying to list all locations where we know that terrorists are still active.”
The reporter paused, putting his hand to his earpiece, and nodded an acknowledgement.
“We have just received confirmation from our White House correspondent that within the next thirty minutes the President will address the nation. We are standing by for this new development."
Portland, Maine
“Bob Petersen?’
Though heavily sedated, he stirred at mention of his name. The emergency room was a scene of chaos. Every bay was filled of course, the wounded lying on gurneys, on the floor, and standing while awaiting treatment. Outside, ambulances, pickup trucks, anything that could transport the injured from the schools and highways were bringing in more casualties.
A harried orthopedic surgeon had given him all of five minutes, written something on another tag pinned to his stretcher, and leaned over to tell him that his case was too complex, that the hospital had been turned into a triage center. He was stable, would pull through, and was slated for an airlift down to a surgical unit in Boston.
Bob had nothing to say in reply. A horrifying memory returned. My God, Kathy was dead. Dead! He would never see her again, never speak to her again, never hold her again. Where was her body and where was Wendy? They had deadened his physical pain but unconsciousness would not come. He began to weep. Shelly. Dear God, did Kathy have Shelly with her when she came to the school. Did they all die and I alone survived?
“Let me die,” was all he could murmur to the surgeon, who misunderstood him.
“I can’t promise you’ll walk again, Bob, but you’ll get the best treatment in the world in Boston. You are a hero; everyone is talking about you. We’ll do everything we can for you. Thank you for what you did. I have a granddaughter in that school and I just found out she’s safe.”
The surg
eon clasped his hand reassuringly, tears welling in his eyes.
“Leave me be,” was Bob’s whispered reply.
The surgeon, not understanding the reason for his anguish, thinking it was about the contemplation of being paralyzed, which the one x-ray they took revealed was all but certain, whispered that he’d be fine, thanked him again, and instructed the orderlies to wheel Bob out to a waiting area. A helicopter was already airlifting the high priority cases to the Portland airport where ambulance aircraft were expected shortly from Boston.
“Bob Petersen?”
The voice was insistent. He opened his eyes slowly. It was tough to focus.
It was the young medic from in front of the school. Her face was drawn. Where was he again? Was he back at the school after all? Was the doctor a hallucination? The last he had seen of her, she was kneeling beside Kathy and telling him an obvious lie.
They made eye contact.
“Bob, can you hear and see me?”
He tried to nod, but the neck brace kept his head rigid. His eyes widened with recognition.
“Kathy is dead, isn’t she?” he breathed.
She nodded, the corners of her mouth turned down and trembling.
“Why are you here?”
“I came back with an ambulance of the wounded but I promised to see you again before going back out there.”
“Why?”
And then he knew. She had come to tell him that she had found Wendy and Shelly. She was a messenger for the dead.
He tried to turn his head away. Oh, God, no… Just let me die. I can't live without my family. He could hear sobbing and cries of pain and grief pervading the corridors. There was so much tragedy in this world on this day and he wondered strangely, did God hear and see his tears? Or was the universe truly mad and the psychotic creator of murderers was rejoicing at this sorrow and slaughter, rewarding those who had created such pain?
“It’s Wendy, Bob.”
“I know, I know,” he began to sob, his bound body racked by trembling.
“Daddy?”
Was that her voice from heaven, or was she in hell? He turned back toward the medic angel. Tears were streaming down the woman’s face. Someone familiar was clutched close by her side. Was it a hallucination? Am I dying and my baby has come to touch my hand as a gentle angel of death to lead me to peace?
“Daddy!”
Wendy tried to break free from the medic’s embrace, but the woman restrained her.
“Wendy, sweetheart. Your Daddy’s back is injured. He can’t be touched, but it's okay to kiss him on the forehead.”
“Daddy, I did as you told me…” and, crying, she stepped to the stretcher and kissed him gently, as if he might shatter if she touched him too hard.
“My baby, oh God, my baby, you’re safe!” His tears of sorrow turned into tears of relief.
The wailing, the confusion in the corridor stilled for a moment as nurses, doctors, even those awash in their own grief turned to watch this moment of reunion and of love.
“I ran to the woods as you told me to, Daddy,” she choked.
She was calling him Daddy again; gone was the arrogant twelve-year-old of the morning, trying to act sophisticated in front of her friends, her father just “dad” who happened to work at the same school. Right now, he was again “Daddy.”
“Daddy, I saw Mr. Sullivan and had to tell him.” Her faced contorted with painful memory. “Johnnie got shot. I wanted to help him but he told me to keep running to the woods.”
Weeping, she buried her head into the medic's shoulder, who pulled her in close, hugging and soothing her.
“The police found her and a dozen other children in the woods,” the medic whispered. “They were all from the same classroom, doing what you told them to do. Poor lambs were too terrified to come out. I saw name tags being put on them before being evacuated, and I recognized your last name. I felt I should bring her to you personally.”
He tried to still his tears and smile, unable to find the words to thank this angel.
“Daddy, I tried to call Mommy but she isn’t answering her phone.”
The medic froze, studying Bob's face. She took a deep breath and shook her head in warning.
How could he tell Wendy now that her mother, his beloved and cherished companion in life, was lying dead in front of their school? Why did she come to the school? Why?
He looked up, appealing to the medic. A thought returned, rescuing him from what he must eventually do.
“We have a one-year-old daughter…” and he began to break completely at the thought that, in her panic to reach Wendy and him, Kathy had brought Shelly along.
The medic leaned over Bob, lips nearly touching his ear so that only he could hear.
“Wendy told me she had a little sister. She gave me her cell phone and I called the number listed as home. A woman answered there and said that the baby is safe and sound.”
“Oh God, thank you, thank you!” Bob gasped.
“Priority Red Ones, out on to the helipad now! We’re taking four more!”
The call rang down the corridor. The medic wiped her eyes, stood up straight, and glanced at the tag affixed to Bob’s stretcher.
“That’s you, sir.”
She held her hand up and shouted for attendants even as Wendy continued to cling to her side.
Two orderlies, both wearing blood-smeared smocks, rushed to the head of the Bob's gurney, and began to gently maneuver it out the door. Wait! Wendy…!
The helipad outside was awash with the thunder of the rotor blades, the sound of them flashing him back to the terror of the helicopter crashing into the roof of the school, the fuel from its ruptured tanks pouring down in the corridor.
“Wendy?!”
The orderlies stopped.
“She’s with me, Bob,” the angel of mercy was by his side.
“Get him in, move it!”
They were not giving him any more time.
“Wait! Take my hand, Wendy.”
She reached out and grabbed it tightly.
“Daddy is going to be okay, I promise you.”
She nodded.
“I love you.”
“I love you, Daddy,” and then her eyebrows rose in fear and she began to cry. “Where’s Mommy? I can’t find her! She's probably looking for you.”
Bob looked up at his guardian angel, struggling to focus, pleading for one more blessing from her.
“Can you please make sure Wendy gets home?”
The medic reached for Bob's hand and squeezed it.
"Of course," she pulled her hand back and used it to brush tears from her face.
“You may have to be the one to say it,” Bob sighed, his gaze drifting from the medic’s eyes to Wendy.
“I know,” she looked down at the floor and pulled Wendy in closer.
He tried to smile in reassurance, grateful beyond words to this young woman who had come miraculously to his family's aid.
“You give me belief again that there is a God,” Bob whispered, as the airlift team checked the tag on Bob’s stretcher, then gently lifted him and strapped his gurney into the chopper.
He caught a last glimpse of Wendy in the doorway, held back by the medic. She turned and buried her face into the medic’s side, her shoulders shuddering.
That was his last glimpse of the two. As the helicopter left the ground, he finally let go. He allowed himself to weep, to remember, to mourn all that was lost. His whole world, which eight hours ago had started so tranquilly and routinely, was shattered forever.
He did not know the name of the guardian angel who clutched Wendy to her side but knew that she would take her home, tuck her and Shelly in, guard them through the night, and be there with the coming of dawn to comfort their tears. For such were the souls of so many, even now, even when evil stalked the land.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
3:45 p.m., the White House
"Mr. President, fifteen minutes."
He looked up at his press
secretary.
“How is it out there?”
“A madhouse, sir.”
He nodded and looked down at the sheaf of executive orders that needed his signature to make them official. The man assisting him, who had been the loudest voice urging this decision, stood silent now. Some staff in the room had vehemently disagreed. Two, both of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who should be present, were not. They had “resigned,” one actually doing so, the other ordered to do so.
He recalled the words of a politician who had said to "never let a crisis go to waste."
Raqqa, Syria
Word had come in, as it had to the entire world, that their president was about to address his nation in fifteen minutes.
He felt a serene confidence now. Though it was not the appointed hour, he knelt in the direction of Mecca, all in the bunker following his example, and led them in prayer. He had been taught since earliest childhood to serve his god, however harsh the commandment. In a way, this was not a time for rejoicing; it was a time for prayer and contemplation. He had sent more than a hundred of his brothers to their deaths this day and they had done so gladly, obeying the truths that Allah had revealed to him.
He had become the sword of Islam this day unlike any had seen in a thousand years and the responsibility was a heavy one. After the ritual of prayer was done, he remained kneeling in silence, forehead touching the bare concrete floor. He prayed that the enemies of Allah, who were therefore his sworn enemies, would now take the next step, to react as he predicted. For if they did so, what would follow would truly be the beginning of the end times and he would be the instrument of the fulfillment of prophecy. If they took this next step as he predicted, they would then surely turn against themselves as a rabid dog in its death agony bit its own wounds. And then his caliphate would be recognized by all, for in answering Allah’s will, his blow had become the beginning of the end of the great Satan.
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