Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  But even as he was checking out all the new state-of-the-art equipment and talking with the analyst team, his eyes kept going back to where Khadi stood in conference with Tara. He was relieved—and maybe a little disappointed—to see that he was not a distraction to her. Ever since her initial acknowledgment, she hadn’t even looked his way.

  “Must be something pretty major they’re talking about,” Riley said to Scott.

  Scott smiled. “Why? Because Khadi hasn’t given you the time of day since you came in?”

  “She waved to me,” Riley answered, more defensively than he had intended.

  “An outstretched finger is not a wave, my friend,” Scott continued to dig.

  Riley started to reply, but Scott cut him off. “Sorry, Mr. Covington, but it is time for your meeting to begin. Khadi, Tara,” he summoned over his shoulder, then pointed at his watch. They each gave a quick nod and began gathering the papers around them.

  Scott then called out, “Skeeter, you’ll want to be part of this too.”

  Giving Hernandez a pat on the shoulder, the big man joined up with Scott and Riley.

  The one room Riley had not seen yet was Jim Hicks’s office, and that was right where Scott led him. Scott gave a quick knock on the glass door, then opened it without waiting for a reply.

  Hicks stood up as Riley entered the room and leaned over his desk with his hand outstretched. “Riley! How’re you doing?”

  Riley grabbed Hicks’s hand and gave it a warm shake. Although their relationship had started out extremely rocky, the past months had created a deep respect between the two men. “Doing all right, thanks. You?”

  “Can’t complain; can’t complain. Skeet?”

  “Fine, sir,” Skeeter replied in his Mississippi drawl as Hicks’s hand disappeared in his own.

  “Excellent. Please, guys, sit down,” Hicks said, motioning to the small conference table in his office. He turned to Scott. “Khadi and Tara?”

  “On their way.”

  “Good.” Hicks took a seat at the head of the table. “So, how’s football?”

  “Football’s football. You love it; you hate it.”

  “Hey, Riley,” Scott interrupted, “while we’re waiting on the females, tell Jim about that medical workout thing you did—you know, the one in the bubble.”

  “Nah,” Riley demurred.

  “Come on, Riley, let’s hear it,” Hicks encouraged him.

  “You sure you’re interested?”

  “If I don’t hear it from you, I’ll hear it from Scott—and far less accurately, I’m sure. Better to get it from the source.”

  “Okay,” Riley began. “So a few weeks ago, I’m in that big white bubble off of Peoria and Arapahoe in Englewood—you know the one I’m talking about?”

  Hicks nodded while Scott already began snickering.

  “Wait for it,” Riley admonished Scott. “Anyway, I guess the Mustangs were thinking I’ve gotten banged up in who knows what kind of ways over the past few months, and they want to see what kind of shape I’m in. The doc they sent puts me through all sorts of run drills and pattern drills. I check out okay. Then he wants to see how I handle contact.

  “He tells me to wait on the field, and he walks over and picks up a pad. Now, he’s a pretty big guy, but I’m still thinking, ‘This guy’s no professional. This is not going to be pretty.’ So he walks up to me and says, ‘Okay, I want you to go all out. But since I’ve got to be watching you, I’m not going to go up against you; she is.’ And he points to this girl on the sidelines.

  “She comes running out, and she’s like five feet eight and 245 pounds. I turn to the doc and say, ‘I’m not going up against her!’

  And the girl says, ‘What’s the matter? You scared?’ I say, ‘Yeah, scared I’m going to kill you!’”

  Hicks was laughing. “Let me guess—wrong thing to say?”

  “Oh yeah! The girl goes ballistic! She throws down the pad and yells, ‘Come on! I don’t need no pad! I’m a two-time judo champion!

  I’ll have you crawling! You’ll be begging for mercy!’”

  Just then, Khadi and Tara walked in. Khadi started shaking her head. “Ah, the infamous judo-chick story.”

  “May I continue?” Riley asked Khadi.

  “Please,” Khadi encouraged him, then leaned over to Tara to fill her in on the backstory.

  “So, I’m looking to Skeeter over on the sidelines for some help, and Mr. I’ve-Got-Your-Back calls out, ‘If she ain’t packing a weapon, I can’t do nothing.’ Now, I don’t know how much you know about football contact, but most of it is in the . . .” Riley started grabbing around the front of his own shirt as he searched for the right word.

  That made Scott and Hicks laugh even more. “I think chest is an acceptable term to use in mixed company,” Scott assured Riley.

  “Okay, so most of the contact is in the chest.” On the last word Riley unconsciously lowered his voice, which caused everyone to lose it—even Skeeter. Riley’s face turned a dark shade of red. “You guys going to let me tell this story or not?”

  “Of course,” Scott answered, “as long as you quit using such offensive language.”

  “So, anyway,” Riley said, trying to regain control of the room, “she’s all up in my face while I’m trying to tell the doc I’m not doing this. She’s saying stuff like, ‘What’s the matter? You afraid of a little female contact, choirboy?’ and ‘Come on, it’s not like you’re married or anything!’ I tell her, ‘That’s true, but you’re sort of missing the point!’ I finally just start walking off the field, and the doc stops me and tells the gal to pick up the pad.

  “I knew I wasn’t going to get out of there without doing this contact drill, so I figured, let’s just get this over with. So, we start going down the field—me taking it a little easy, pushing into her and her falling back. That didn’t last long. Jim, seriously, this chick wanted to kill me! She was hitting high! She was dropping low! Forget the Cause! Forget any terrorist psychos! This girl was and is enemy number one.” Riley sat back in his seat while everyone laughed.

  “Wait! Don’t stop now, choirboy,” Scott encouraged Riley. “Tell him the end!”

  Riley’s face started to redden again as he leaned forward again. “Okay, so we get to the end of the field then come back up. When we finally cross the fifty, I’m fed up. I give her one final push and she goes flying back onto the ground. I’m thinking, ‘Great, I just broke her,’ so I rush over to help her up. But before I can get to her, she jumps up, gets this big ol’ smile on her face, and says, ‘Nice work, Covington.’ Then, as she runs past me, she slaps me on my . . .” Riley’s voice trailed off again, and he nodded his head backward.

  “I think the word buttocks also meets with governmental standards,” Scott finished. “Oh, boy! Of all people for that to happen to.”

  “No matter how funny it sounds, it looked even better,” Skeeter said with a big grin on his face as he moved his hands around in front of himself, imitating Riley trying to figure out where he was going to grab the girl.

  They all had one more laugh at Riley’s expense, and then Hicks brought the meeting to order.

  “Riley, this isn’t going to take too long. I brought you in here basically to tell you one thing. You have got a target the size of Montana on your back right now.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw Skeeter unconsciously shift his hand closer to the Heckler & Koch concealed under his light jacket.

  “You know, this isn’t exactly news. Costa Rica made that fact pretty clear.” Riley saw Hicks bristle at the reminder of those events, but he pushed on anyway. “I’ve got Skeeter, who won’t even let me take a shower without standing there holding the towel. We take all the necessary precautionary measures. I’m not sure what else I can do except to go into hiding.”

  Hicks just stared at Riley, and no one else at the table said a word.

  “Wait, you’re serious? You want me to go into hiding? You’ve got to be kidding me! There’s no way I
’m running away to go hide in a cave—leave that to the al-Qaeda vermin! I mean, come on, you’re acting like this is the eighties and I’m Salman Rushdie!”

  “You’re right,” Hicks said, keeping his calm, “but if you remember, Rushdie only had one psycho who died trying to kill him. So far, your failed assassin body count is up to five.”

  Khadi now spoke up. “Riley, you need to listen to Jim. He’s not telling you to go into hiding right now. He’s just saying that you need to be ready to dive for cover at the drop of a hat and stay there if need be. None of us would even be suggesting this, except that the information we’ve been getting is . . . well, it’s just a very dangerous world for you right now.”

  “We’ve always known that what little’s left of the Cause would be gunning for me for a while. We’re taking precautions against it. Now you’re getting information that says this isn’t enough anymore? Can one of you please share with me what this information is that’s so terrible I should scurry into a hole like a scared rabbit?”

  “No, we can’t, actually,” said Hicks. “Since you’ve been decommissioned, this stuff is beyond your clearance. And I just want to make it clear,” he continued to the rest of the table, “that I will not tolerate any of this information being accidentally left out on a desk for Riley to accidentally see. Understood?”

  Khadi snapped back at Hicks, “Listen, Jim, if you think that I am unprofessional enough to compromise information just because Riley and I—”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, Khadi; was I, Scott?”

  Both Scott’s and Khadi’s faces reddened.

  “Understood, boss,” Scott replied quietly.

  Riley sunk back into his chair. Suddenly, the way the analysts outside had covered up their work during his office tour made a lot more sense. Riley was angry, but not at Hicks. Rules and codes were covenants that he lived by. Even though he didn’t like it, he understood where Hicks was coming from.

  “Can you give me anything that could help me to make my decision?” he asked Hicks.

  “Sure, let me give you all I can. Right now you’ve got three strikes against you. Strike one, early this morning our time, the Cause—of which, by the way, we’re learning there’s more than just a little left—got some Muslim cleric to declare a fatwa against you for blasphemy against Islam.”

  “Blasphemy against Islam? When have I ever—?”

  Hicks held up his hand to stop Riley. “That’s not really the point, is it? The fact is that it has been declared, and they’ve come up with their reasons. That means you’re going to have a bunch of radical Islamists from all camps promised a golden ticket to heaven if they take you out.”

  “By the way, Riley,” Tara interjected, “this is probably going to hit the major news outlets in the next few hours, so be prepared to be barraged by the media. You’ll also want to think through what the ramifications might be with the Mustangs.”

  “Good point,” Hicks continued. “Thanks, Tara. Now for strike two. For those for whom the golden ticket is not enough, the Cause has also put out a $5 million bounty on you.”

  “The most Rushdie ever had was $3 million,” Scott said. “But before you let that go to your head, remember that was back in 1989. If you adjust that three mil for inflation, he’s got about a hundred grand on you. Sorry.”

  “Scott, just once in one of these meetings I’d like you to ask yourself, ‘Is what I have to say going to help the situation or hinder it?’” Tara challenged.

  Scott was about to reply, but Hicks took back control. “Listen, if I let you two start going at it, we’ll never get out of here, so zip it—the both of you! Now, strike three is the Cause itself. We’ve intercepted enough COMINT to know that you are number two on their to-do list.”

  “Number two, huh? What’s number one?” Riley asked.

  Hicks smiled. “Sorry, Riley. Can’t tell you that. But I hope you can see why we’re so concerned right now.”

  Riley sat back in his chair. How have things come to this? How, in five months’ time, have I moved from being first-string linebacker to Islamic Enemy Number Two? He sighed heavily. “You know, I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “Actually, you did, sir,” Skeeter said, and all eyes turned toward him. “When you said you weren’t going to let those terrorists win. When you put your life on the line instead of sitting back all comfortable and letting everyone else do the dirty work. Yeah, you were asking for it all right . . . and that’s why I’m with you asking for it, too.”

  Skeeter’s words hung in the air.

  “Dude’s getting downright verbose,” Scott said when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “So what do I do?” Riley asked, ignoring Scott’s comment.

  “For now, just keep doing what you’re doing,” answered Hicks. “We’re going to be getting Skeet more help, so he doesn’t need to worry as much about his perimeter—just about you. Also, we’re going to be setting your parents and your grandfather up with some protection.”

  Riley breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I was just going to ask you about that.” The thought of his family getting hurt because of a vendetta against him gripped his stomach and brought a burning to his throat.

  “If you’ve got no other questions . . .” Hicks stood before Riley had a chance to ask any, indicating the meeting was at an end. He reached out and grabbed Riley’s hand. “Basically, you just need to be careful. Don’t do anything stupid that puts you or your security detail at extra risk. Riley, I know you’re a praying man. The best thing you can do right now is just start praying that we can finish off the Cause once and for all. If we don’t and they get their way, then all indications are that your life will just be one of many that ends by their hands.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:45 P.M. EDT PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVA NIA

  Isaac Khan boarded the subway from the Washington Square West neighborhood of Philadelphia. Pushing through the people standing around the doors, he dropped himself onto a rare rush-hour seat. He hefted the backpack up onto his lap, causing the passenger in the next seat to glare at him—a look Isaac returned until the man turned away.

  The train rattled and bumped, but the people on board were eerily quiet. Typically, the noise in the car would increase greatly over the next two hours as the commuters were replaced with those heading out for a night on the town.

  Isaac knew that today, however, would be anything but typical.

  One stop later, the train eased to a halt at 8th Street. Feigning a hip injury, Isaac limped out the door and made his way to a bench. He dropped himself down with a grunt and set his large backpack on his right.

  Leaning back, he pulled his bright orange Philadelphia Flyers cap over his eyes and listened to the bustle all around as people transferred from the upper SEPTA subway line to this lower PATCO Speedline to make their way back home to the New Jersey suburbs of Camden, Haddonfield, and Cherry Hill Township. Others moved the opposite direction, up the stairs to catch the Broad Street Line to take them north to Olney and Fern Rock or south to catch the Philadelphia Phillies night game against the New York Mets.

  After a few minutes, Isaac, with his head still back, let his hand slip down the rear of the backpack. His blood began racing as he reached the small hole in the rear padding. His fingers found a key, which he turned and then pulled out. Immediately he began counting in his head. However, his heart was beating so fast and so much adrenaline was pulsing through his body that he twice lost count somewhere after thirty. Finally, leaving the backpack on the bench, he stood up and began quickly moving toward the stairway—his hip injury miraculously healed.

  Isaac merged with the crowd on the stairs. Businessmen pushed up against him; women brazenly brushed against him; young punks cut in front of him without so much as an “excuse me.” Frustration filled his mind with the realization that these were the people who were going to get away. How he wished that all of these arrogant, obnoxious people would feel Allah�
�s wrath today.

  Cresting the top of the stairs, he had just joined the mass moving toward the northbound tracks when the blast hit.

  It was strong enough to cause movement under his feet, but where he really felt it was in his ears. The explosion itself was deafening as it echoed through the station, but then came the most frightening sound of all—the metallic spray of thousands of screws ricocheting off of cement and tile.

  The panic was instantaneous. People began running and screaming. An enormous cloud of smoke and dust rushed up the stairs and spread throughout the first floor. Isaac sucked in a lungful of the gritty vapor and immediately began coughing.

  Bodies fell to the ground around him as the strong pushed the weak from their escape path. There was a mad scramble for the narrow stairs that would take the crowd up to street level and freedom. Isaac quickly merged in with the mob, at one point ducking his head down and throwing his dust-covered Flyers cap to the ground.

  For a moment, Isaac thought he wasn’t going to make it up the stairs. The funnel of fleeing people crushed the air out of him. It felt like trying to pass too thick a rag through too small a gun barrel. A woman next to him was screaming hysterically, and Isaac marveled that she had the breath to do it.

  When he finally broke free into the fading afternoon sun, the fresh breeze felt like Allah’s blessing upon him. Elation rushed through his body. He wanted to scream! He wanted to dance! Finally, after all these years, he was the hammer in the hand of God. Isaac could almost hear the words “Well done, my child!”

  Leaving his handiwork behind, Isaac began walking back to Washington Square West, struggling to control his pace. A rush lightened his head every time another siren raced past. Although part of him wanted to stay and watch the rescue attempts, he knew that would be foolish—and foolishness was one thing that Allah would not abide, especially not from one of his chosen servants.