by David Hearne
Kat wondered, if heaven existed, would its doors open for Hulagu, would an Angel of Death welcome it and did Hulagu share her soul?
It is ironic that in the Islamic faith it is destined that non-believers will not die. Like Hulagu, they will not be allowed to die, but will be locked in a revolving existence of life and death over and over. They say that:
“Death will come from all angles, yet they will not die. Therein they will neither die nor live. Every time they seek to get away, they will be driven back. Their skins will be burnt off then replaced with fresh skins. Their abode will be the Fire - the torment of the Fire that they used to deny. And it will be everlasting.”
* * * *
As I concluded the chronicle of my trip to Texas, a gust of wind, sounding like giant wasps, whined through the icicles and window frame next to where we sat. Its ferocity caused me to tremor, or perhaps I shook due to the thoughts surging through my mind. Even with the chill hanging over the town hall, beads of sweat appeared on my brow betraying the calmness my voice attempted to convey. I felt like I had just betrayed a friend and opened Pandora’s Box to the world. I hoped I could reconcile this ill feeling of exposing this secret intrusion into nature and God’s domain.
I could tell from the expressions on the faces of my friends and Stacie that they were as dumbstruck as I had been, when I first learned of these experiments.
Tom was the first to comment. Is this for real?
A thud sounded as a snowball hit the window next to where we were sitting. The snowball burst into a spray like a dandelion gone to seed with the wispy flakes scattering harmlessly in the wind. The protesters were not receiving the attention they wanted and were now becoming more brazen and annoying. Outside, the glow of dawn spread across the ashen sky and soft snow continued to float lazily about.
Inside, at my table, harsh words floated about as my friends, and I tried to reconcile feelings with the events that I had just revealed to them.
Part SIX
Total Recovery
The shattering of the large window above our table stunned us. It exploded inward, filling the air with sparkling bits of glass and powdery snow that spread across the floor like a flood of confetti. The pointed shards of cold glass bounced harmlessly off the thick cloth of our heavy coats, but Vince was not as fortunate. A pointed shard punctured his right leg and glistened in the grey dawn light. It grotesquely protruded from his blue jeans turning dark with blood. Vince’s anguished moan was almost inaudible against the howl of the wind howling through the broken window.
The drone of voices in the auditorium faded, leaving only the distinct tinkling of glass shards, the sound of the choir singing and the wailing of the wind. The shattering window terrified everyone in the room. We all sat dazed for a moment as police rushed about.
No one at our table dared move for fear of being cut by the shards of glass lying everywhere. A woman sitting at the adjacent table had also been slightly injured. Her son, sitting next to her, was cut somewhere in the head. A trickle of blood snaked down his stoic face, as he sat quietly, not crying. It was a miracle that more people had not been hurt.
The police swooped in around our tables as someone yelled for the paramedics. Vince dazed, looked down at the shard protruding from his leg and carefully brushed away small pieces of glass surrounding it with a paper plate. His leg quivered as he tried to hold it rigid. He feared the shard breaking off deep in his leg would cause more damage.
The police looked out the broken window and saw some protestors sprinting away from the building. The vast windowpane had been hammered and smashed by ice-laden snowballs thrown by the protesters intent on disrupting the event. An officer shouted at them to order them to stop, but they gave no heed, responding only by gesturing obscenely back at the police. Three officers outside took up the chase. Inside the auditorium other police and security guards helped us move from our seats, avoiding the broken glass while a lone paramedic knelt beside Vince examining his wound.
Senator Laforge had been a magnet for protest movements everywhere she campaigned. She told me that at most campaign stops, protestors arrived early and inundated the landscape with their posters, banners and rhetoric. They blocked entrances to buildings where she was scheduled and intimidated those who came to hear her views. The Senator’s biggest concerns were towns, with populations of two or three thousand. The onslaught of these groups would completely bankrupt their police budgets. New England, famous for its proclivity to participate in the democratic process, now found its convention challenged by the sheer cost of controlling protestors drawn by the Presidential hopefuls. The mayors and councilmen of small towns were distressed over the exorbitant cost their citizens could incur. The potential financial burden and damage to their towns made them hesitant to invite candidates out of lock step with the demagoguery of these hordes. The Senator often referred to these swarms as the Brown shirts of the 21st-century. The lofty idealism of the protestors’ rhetoric was lost by their mob-like cruelty unleashed on those that thought differently.
More than ever before, this primary seemed awash with these protests. Senator Laforge was disliked or feared by numerous groups. Her views on Iraq and foreign policy infuriated the self-proclaimed peace activist. Her out spoken views on the war on terrorism and the war declared on us by Islamic radicals collided with the dictocrats of the politically correct ideology. Her brazened campaign to replace Federal Income Tax with a Federal Sales Tax scared and angered many lawyers, accountants and long time IRS employees. And the oil rich feared her plans to free us from OPEC’s shackles. It was this last group more than any other that felt she must be stopped not mater what the cost. Her platform was a maelstrom of frightening changes that to some represented a mini revolution; a terrifying socioeconomic change that embroiled hard liners on each side of the political spectrum.
With her views and the large powerful following she enjoyed, organized protest was inevitable. Her diverse critics and staunch antagonists coalesced into a group whose actions blurred between civil disobedience and a mini organized terrorist movement. The movement swelled with an array of discontents blending their causes and joining ranks to strike out against the Senator’s ideas. The old adage, “Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you” stood juxtaposed to the reality of violence and death that ensues so often from the clash of the squirming intractable memes locked in our group psyches. Senator Laforge knew well that simple words and the ideas they express could blossom into the carnage that plagues mankind.
The medic handling Vince had cut away the pant leg around the protruding shard. As the medic manipulated the piece of fabric from the shard, Vince’s leg quivered and the piece of glass popped out of his flesh like a large sliver. The blood oozed from the wound as the medic hurriedly cared for it.
The town hall was now in a total turmoil. People gathered around windows watching and cheering the police as they arrested some of the protestors. Upstairs the choir had tried to maintain calm by continuing their program. I was very distressed at this new interruption, but the newscasters were turning this into the story of the hour. WTCB’s reporters and camera crews were on the scene filming the turmoil in the town hall. Outside, another TV crew was covering the police arresting the protestors who had broken the window.
Vince refused to be taken to the hospital for observation and just asked to have his pant leg taped back on. The medic refused to do it, but gave him the tape, so he could do it, himself. The nice thing about living in a small town is that you can wear about anything and get away with it. Most people sympathized with Vince’s situation and knew he wanted to be left to his own device. We found a new empty table on the opposite side of the auditorium. Vince hobbled over to join us and plopped down in the vacant chair. I knew he was in some pain, but he refused to let it interfere with his desire to be a part of this event.
A concession ran by a group called the GTRW from the Senator’s state of Texas brought us fresh cups of cof
fee and pastries gratis. The woman in charge was an attractive buxom lady with dark hair. She personally came over and planted a friendly kiss on Vince’s cheek for his bravery.
Vince’s poker face broke out into a broad smile, and he blushed at the attention bestowed upon him from such an attractive lady. Between the effects of the Darvocet and the kiss, Vince seemed oblivious to the cold and snowflakes that blew in through the broken window being temporarily sealed with a tablecloth.
While police and maintenance personnel went about returning calm to the auditorium, we returned our focus to the reason we were here in the first place.
I was very interested in what Vince or Tom might know, but my inquisitiveness was met with only awkward silence that seemed eternal. I think all of us were waiting for the other to speak, but the issue of breaking our oath of silence still prevailed.
Human frailty and rampant curiosity finally won out, and Tom opened the conversation again, saying, “You know what you told us may answer a lot of questions that I had about some calls I received from someone I thought was Katherine, convalescing in Baghdad. I think our pledge of secrecy needs to change. I think we all should talk this out, but what we say should go no further than the four of us, unless we all agree otherwise. Is everyone in agreement?”
Hell, I was ecstatic and lifting my coffee, I said, “I’ll drink to that.”
Everyone jumped at his suggestion and new promises were hastily made among us. Stacie was as inquisitive as I, and her eyes revealed the excitement she felt as we all speculated over the last few years of Katherine’s life.
We sat, sipping our free coffee, compelled to unravel more of this puzzle surrounding the Senator’s trip to Iraq.
Now Vince also opened up and said he had more details that seem to paint an even more bizarre picture of what happened on the Senator’s first trip to Iraq. Vince disclosed that he had discussions with an old friend of ours who was residing in South Africa and had related bizarre tales to him about the Senator. Vince had pretty much dismissed them because they did not make sense to him at that time. However, it had planted doubt in his mind because our friend Wilson was not a man who would embellish a story. Our acquaintance with Wilson dated back to our junior year in high school, when he was a fresh air kid living with the Laforge family. He was an avid baseball player and shared many other interests with us. Unlike many relationships, he maintained his friendship with us over the last few decades. With what Tom knew and what Vince related from these conversations with Wilson, a clearer picture emerged of Katherine’s murky trip to Iraq.
Tom claimed he had spoken often with the Senator, after her first contact with Ira. She told Tom how upset she was with Ira, and asked if there was any news or rumors in the States of which she should be aware.
Tom knew that after the Senator hung the phone up from her short conversation with Ira, she became very emotional. A torrent of emotions flooded her mind. She was angry, sad, confused, lonely, afraid, and desperate. Her eyes had filled with tears, and she had felt the blood pounding in her head. Katherine did not want anyone to see the concern and sadness in her eyes when she hung up the phone. She lowered her head back to her pillow and stared at the ceiling above. Katherine laid in complete silence with her eyes closed contemplating her feelings for Ira. Why did he not want to talk to her? Why did he not call or write to her more than that one single letter? Katherine was sure he heard her and for some odd reason did not want to talk to her. All of this had made her feel very alone and confused. She did not want to be depressed because it might slow down her recovery. Katherine wanted to talk to her husband and have him tell her that he loved her and missed her and mean it. She decided to call again. She dialed his number and it just rang and then the voice mail came on. She hung up, but then thought that she should try again. Perhaps Ira did not have time to answer the phone. Katherine dialed the number one more time and waited. Someone picked up and said hello! It was him. Kat said, “Ira, please talk to me.” No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity, and then she heard Ira. “Are you alone?” He whispered.
“Yes!” Kat replied.
Suddenly, a new voice was talking to her on the phone. It was a woman’s voice, and it sounded familiar.
“I need to speak to Ira.” Katherine demanded.
The woman asked, “Is this my friend Hulagu?”
“No, this is Katherine, Ira’s wife. Let me speak to him.”
“I am sorry he is not available.” The woman’s voice coolly said.
Then the voice spoke once more “Hulagu, it is not wise for you to call here.” And then the phone disconnected.
Who in the hell was this woman? Why would she not let her speak to Ira? Who is this bitch that’s answering for Ira? She could not believe that he was with another woman. This just could not be true. That bastard! Ira was her world and now when she is trying to get her life together and get back on her feet, she has to go through losing him. Her life seemed to become much worse, and she could not focus on what was going on. Katherine just felt such bitterness toward Ira for not having the decency to talk to her. She wanted to destroy this woman who was with her husband, while she was in an Iraq hospital. She wanted to jump out of bed and beat the shit out of her. She also knew that this was a private matter, and she should not allow her emotions to show.
The nurses entered her room again and their expression made it evident that they knew she was distraught. The head nurse, Hessa, came up to her and grabbed her hand asking her if she was all right? Her concern felt genuine and Katherine appreciated the warmth and interest Hessa showed towards her. The nurse looked into her eyes and asked if she was homesick? Katherine shook her head, yes, and squeezed her hand back. She looked up at Hessa and asked if she would try and find her something to help her sleep. Glancing quickly at Kat’s chart, Hessa crinkled her nose and replied that she was sure she could help. While she went for a pill, the Senator’s mind searched for any memory that would help her figure out who the woman’s voice was on the phone. This person sounded so familiar. Why would someone answer Ira’s phone and not let her talk to him? Why was this woman calling her Hulagu? Who the hell is Hulagu?
The nurse returned to Kat’s bedside. Kat turned her head and looked up at Hessa just as Hessa held out her hand holding the sleeping pills. She held a glass of water out for Kat to wash the pills down. Hessa sat down in the chair beside Kat’s bed and simply held Kat’s hand for a few seconds. Kat gazed at Hessa in appreciation, as her eyes got heavier. She heard Hessa in the background saying in her lyrical voice, “I am so glad that I have the honor of taking care of you. I hope we become good friends.” Kat did not reply because the pills took hold of her mind, and then her worries faded away into the deep respite of her sleep.
The Senator looked peaceful again with her mind closed from all the problems she was facing. Hessa carefully placed Kat’s hand back on her chest and got up out of the chair to resume her work. The Senator enjoyed her repose for about 90 minutes, and then her eyes started to rapidly move about in her sleep. Blood pumped into her cerebral arteries and her REM sleep stage took hold. Kat had been able to block out dreams lately, but this night, her subconscious screamed out and visions bubbled up to her consciousness. The night had capped a day, packed with an enormous number of problems. The mental and emotional stimulation triggered and fed a vicious cycle of dreams.
Locked in her sleep, she was at the mercy of fearsome creatures that lurked in the darkness of her subconscious. From those shadows the curtains of her nightmare slowly slid open, presenting scenes from frightening memories. At first there was just a kaleidoscope of jumbled visions with a drone of voices constantly chanting, ‘mission, mission, mission, you must do your mission.’ She couldn’t remember exactly how the dream had gone, but she had vague memories of walking into a hotel surrounded by numerous men that were prodding her forward. She remembered a paralyzing fear accompanying that constant chanting of ‘mission, mission, mission, you must do your mission.’ Maybe that was
coming from her head and not from the people around her. Strange sights and a cacophony of voices replaced that quavering din. Now faceless mouths were uttering, “Welcome to Syria, welcome Senator to our hotel, welcome to Syria, welcome to Damascus.”‘ All the while a blanket of men seemed to move her forward away from the smiling mouths to a looming sinister door and then the old din of words returned. “Mission. Mission, mission, you must do your mission.” She was stuck in some slow motion scene, unable to move, or scream.
Other memories percolated up from the depth of her mind. Men in smocks loomed over her and a hypodermic needle danced in the air and then slowly descended. “It won’t hurt,” a stoic face with black eyes muttered. Then she was lost within a dream’s dream world and her body shuttered and convulsed to the myriad of events that raced across the cobweb of neurons deep within her brain. Somewhere among those memories were the secrets of her being. The horrors of these subconscious scenes were overloading her consciousness with fear and anxiety and strange sounds gurgled from her.
Another kaleidoscope of images washed over her. Among them was a scene of a long latex balloon wiggling in mist with disembodied hands stretching and examining it. Smiling mouths filled a background wavering in and out of view. Something metallic, shining like silver attached itself to the balloon and then both suddenly dissolved into nothing. Another disembodied hand appeared dangling a long white snake looking object. On its side were words that appeared to rise from it and grow larger. This vision made her body visibly shake, and she cried out into the darkness. On the side of the object glowed the word “Semtex”. It shimmered and pulsated and then rippled across its entire length as it floated away.
Words echoed about, “They can’t see it. They can’t smell it. It is in you now. You are ready.” Fear froze her as those words reverberated in her mind. “It is in you now. Deep in you now. Seventy-two hour. Your mission. Your mission. Your mission.”
