by Jason Elam
Keith just kept walking.
“Hey, you two deaf or something?” the same voice asked. Something big and round pushed hard into Keith’s back, causing one of the boxes of Gatorade to slip off.
Keith whirled around and saw eight young thugs standing behind them. Each held an aluminum baseball bat. As soon as Keith and Afshin stopped, the group fanned out into a circle, surrounding them. Carefully, Keith put his bags and the other box on the ground. Afshin followed suit.
“You don’t look like you belong in my neighborhood, Mr. Fancy Shirt,” the leader of the pack said, using his bat to flip the collar up against Keith’s chin. “What you doing around here?”
Keith’s heart was racing. This situation was bad. Just get out of this. It doesn’t matter what it costs you; just get yourselves out of this. “Listen, we’re not looking for trouble. We were just up on the freeway when whatever happened happened. We just came down to do some shopping.”
“Oh, how nice. Did you hear that, D. B.? They just came down for a lovely afternoon of shopping.” D. B. and the rest of the guys started laughing. “You sure seemed to shop a lot for just two dudes.”
Suddenly D. B. burst out, “Hey, I knew I recognized him! This joe’s Keith Simmons—you know, from the Colorado Mustangs!”
The first pulled his bat back and began laughing. “Seriously? You really Keith Simmons?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Keith said, relief starting to flood his body.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m Dizzy, and these are my boys. Imagine that—Keith Simmons walking through my hood. Tell you what, you leave one of those cases of Gatorade here, you can grab the rest of your stuff and go.”
Keith put on his best smile and said, “Thanks, Dizzy. That’s a solid thing to do.”
The leader laughed again. “Check out Keith Simmons—getting all old-school on me. That was a ‘solid’ thing to do.”
The rest of the group started laughing. Keith’s hands shook slightly as he and Afshin began to pick up their bags. Then Dizzy put his bat under Afshin’s chin and lifted his head up.
“Hold on a second, my man. I said Mr. Keith Simmons could go. I didn’t say anything about your ragheaded self.”
Keith’s heart sank. He dropped the bags. This is really, really bad! He could see the fear in Afshin’s eyes.
Keith stood back up and forced a chuckle. “Ragheaded? Matt? Come on, Dizzy, he’s just one of the team’s trainers. I brought him along to help carry stuff. Seriously, does Thorrockson sound like an Arab dude?”
Dizzy laughed harder. “Thorrockson? Did you guys make that up yourselves? Thorrockson?” Suddenly Dizzy turned serious. “You disappoint me, Mr. Keith Simmons. Why’d you go lying to the D-man? You see, I know who this is,” he said, pushing his bat hard into Afshin’s chest. “This is that first-rounder camel jockey, Zifanat or Zinafat or whatever his funky, suicide-bombing name is. Look around! Don’t you know that his buddies are the ones who did all this to us? And you go lying for him?”
Keith looked for help from the crowd that had gathered around the confrontation. Many of the people seemed troubled, some even on the verge of tears. But others, at the revelation of who Afshin was, had something else in their eyes—hatred and revenge.
“Come on, Dizzy. Listen, I’m sorry I lied. Afshin has nothing to do with this. You know that. He’s caught in it just like the rest of us. Just let us on our way. You can keep all—”
Keith’s words were stopped by a blow from Dizzy’s bat to his midsection. Keith doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Leave him alone,” he could hear Afshin saying from above him. “It’s me you want. Let him—”
Afshin’s words were cut off by a metallic ping, and suddenly Afshin dropped flat next to Keith. Blood ran from a gash in his cheek. His eyes were glazed, but they managed to look in Keith’s direction.
“Run,” he mouthed, before another blow landed on his shoulder with an audible crack.
A cry rose up from the depths of Keith’s soul and burst forth as he lunged at Dizzy.
“AUUGGHH!” He caught Dizzy under the chin with his head. The group’s leader was out cold even before his skull cracked the pavement. Keith spun around to find his next victim, but something slammed into the back of his head. He pitched forward, then took another hit on the side of his leg. He dropped to his knees. One more hit to his right temple sprawled him out on the pavement.
Although his vision was clouding over, he could still make out Afshin. Four guys had surrounded him and were gleefully raining blows down with their bats. In his mind, Keith pictured himself jumping to his feet and rescuing his friend; he could see himself snatching a bat out of one of their hands and whaling blows on them until their bones broke and their heads split open. He so desperately wanted to do something—anything—but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
After what seemed like an eternity, the men tired of Afshin. Keith looked at his friend’s face. Half of it wasn’t recognizable anymore—torn, swollen, bloodied. But it was the other side—the side with the hazel eye that was still open, staring, empty, and lifeless—that broke Keith’s heart.
“Dirty raghead,” one of the attackers said, giving Afshin’s head one last whack, blessedly turning that eye away.
The group walked back over to Keith, and one of them prodded his cheek with a bat. Then, wheeling back, he brought the toe of his shoe directly into the center of Keith’s face.
Monday, September 14, 8:15 p.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Riley leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling of the open room. Kim Li and Ted Hummel were laughing about some story Li had been telling. But other than that, the room was silent. The air-conditioning was set high, and Riley felt a chill after having been out in the evening humidity.
When Riley and Skeeter had first arrived back from Georgia, they had stopped by the Room of Understanding. There had been a very quick greeting from the analysts, who all had then gone immediately back to their work. Even Scott and Khadi had simply given them a fast “Good to have you back” before they left them standing alone in the middle of the room.
Reading the invisible Do Not Disturb sign, the two went three doors down the hall, just past the men’s and women’s restrooms, to the area that contained the ops side of the special operations group. Kim Li, Ted Hummel, Gilly Posada, Matt Logan, Carlos Guitiérrez, and Steve Kasay were all in the brightly lit room—geared up and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
After exchanging greetings, Riley and Skeeter had changed into the all-black uniform that the SOG team favored. Then Riley gave a brief rundown of the events at Stone Mountain.
“As soon as we get a location on that boat, we’re out the door. After the way Secretary Moss’s people botched the New York City operation, Stanley Porter’s got us first in line. But let’s not forget what happened to those other guys. We lost four of our brothers when that boat blew. There’s no reason to think that couldn’t happen to us, too. So we go in fast, quiet, and hard. If you even think there might be trouble, pull the trigger and let God sort them out.”
That had been an hour ago. Everyone had checked and rechecked their gear and their weapons. Now it was just the nerves, the anticipation, and the waiting.
Riley looked for patterns in the acoustic ceiling tiles in a vain attempt not to think about what was floating out on the water somewhere east of the city. The very real possibility of another EMP launch twisted his stomach.
However, if he were being honest—totally, deep-down, bottom-of-the-heart truthful—he wasn’t really thinking about all the people who would be affected, the tens or even hundreds of thousands of possible casualties. Sure, they were there somewhere bouncing around his cluttered mind. But standing out in the forefront of his thoughts was none other than himself.
I do not want to go through that again! Especially this time without an escape hatch—no Scott to come rescue me. Yet here I am again, smack-dab in the middle of the possible ground zero.
The fact that it could happen anytime kept every muscle tense. He was just waiting for the lights to go out—to be again caught up in that impossible nightmare. But if it is going to happen, it’s better for it to happen now than when we’re in the middle of the city—or worse, when we’re in a chopper. That thought gave his insides another twist.
Why am I here, Lord? Why can’t I just be having a normal life with a normal career living in Normalsville, U.S.A.? I hate where you’ve got me! And it’s not like this is the first time you’ve put me in a situation like this, where not only is my life in danger but I also have the lives of thousands of others on my shoulders.
Honestly, I’m tired of it! I’m tired of the responsibility! I’m tired of the danger! Despite what everyone says, I’m not Captain America. I’m still just the little kid who was scared of the ghosty tree that swayed on breezy nights outside my window.
He looked at Skeeter, who was calmly loading another polymag for his Magpul Masada. He’s gotta be feeling it too. How can he not? But look at him—all cool, calm, and collected—and here I am sweating bullets! The guy’s amazing!
Seeming to sense he was being watched, Skeeter looked up and saw Riley looking at him. With the faintest hint of a smile, Skeeter brushed his hand across his forehead like he was wiping away his sweat. Riley smiled back and nodded.
Maybe he’s human after all, Riley thought as he watched Skeeter insert another round. Tilting back up toward the ceiling, Riley prayed, Lord, I know You understand my lack of faith and my fears. Please give me the strength to fulfill the mission You’ve placed before me. Like You prayed in the garden, ‘Not my will but Yours be done.’ Whatever You want from me I’ll do.
Li had finished his story, and the room was silent again—every man lost in his own history, his own family, his own role on the team.
Suddenly Scott’s voice cut through the silence. “Mount up! We’ve found the boat,” he said over the intercom.
Instantly the room was a flurry of activity—each man grabbing his equipment and running for the back door that led to the helipad. Riley picked up his gear and Khadi’s as well. He had insisted on being the one to check her pack and her weapon while she continued her work in the RoU. Skeeter had done the same for Scott.
As they exited the room and ran across the lawn, Riley could see the two jet-black, MH-6J Little Birds bringing their rotors up to speed. These helicopters, which had been brilliantly modified for special-ops infiltrations and exfiltrations, could carry up to six troops on a bench-looking external personnel system that hung on the chopper’s sides. Because of their shape and their deadliness, the MH-6J had also been given the nickname “Killer Egg.”
Running to his designated position, Riley seated himself, then held on tightly as the Little Bird lifted off the ground. Next to Riley was Skeeter; Scott and Khadi were on the opposite side of the aircraft. Looking below, Riley saw the second Bird beginning its ascent.
Once they leveled off, Riley reached behind himself and found his headphones. He slipped them on and shouted, “You on, Scott?”
“Been waiting on you,” Scott responded.
“We’re heading north,” Riley said, more as a question than a statement.
“Yeah, the National Reconnaissance Office was able to track a midsize fishing trawler up from Cuba to where it’s sitting now in the Chesapeake Bay right at the mouth of the Patapsco River.”
“Baltimore?”
“Baltimore,” Scott confirmed. “Its present location is less than forty miles outside of downtown D.C. Well within range to make a serious mess.”
The chopper was reaching its cruising speed of 135 mph, causing Riley to hold tightly to the bench and lean back into the helicopter. “So the NRO found it, huh? Didn’t that tweak the kids?”
“They were mostly all right,” Khadi answered. “They were just happy it was found. Well, all except for Gooey, who was vowing revenge on the NRO folks using something called Avool’s Sword of Jin.”
“I’ve really got to get him away from World of Warcraft. He’s getting a little bit addicted to that thing,” Scott said.
“Gee, you think?” Khadi responded.
As they sped through the sky, Riley tried to think of something to say to the team to pump them up for the task ahead. The only problem was, the image in his mind of the chopper losing power and plummeting to the ground made it a little hard to focus.
Finally he said, “Well, this is it, guys. We take care of this thing, and it’ll be time to start figuring out who caused all this mess. But if we blow this, it probably won’t matter too much to us one way or the other. So let’s get out there and get the job done!”
The tepid response to Riley’s little speech let him know he had probably said exactly the wrong thing to get the guys psyched up. His suspicion was confirmed when Scott said, “Wow, Pach, for a second there I was picturing General Patton in front of that huge flag giving the speech to the Third Army. Very inspiring!”
That was followed by an “Ow!” as Khadi most likely gave Scott the elbow to the ribs that he deserved.
Well, good speech or bad speech, these guys know what to do. Lord, please, just let them all come back alive, Riley prayed as he watched the city lights pass by under his boots.
Monday, September 14, 8:20 p.m. EDT
New York, New York
Keith came awake with a gasp. His nasal passages burned, and the sensation traveled back down his throat. He flailed about and tried to get to his feet.
“Keith, stay down,” a voice said.
He tried to open his eyes and found that he could only get any movement in one. As his vision began to clear, he saw Ted Bonham leaning over him. He had an ammonia strip in his hand.
“You need another hit?” Bonham asked.
Keith tried to say no but only managed a grunt. He pushed Bonham’s hand away. Looking around in the flickering light, he saw Chris Gorkowski and Donovan Williams standing over him. Turning his head farther, he saw Travis Marshall and Danie Colson. They were kneeling next to . . .
Afshin’s body was alongside a Dumpster, and suddenly Keith realized why he was so disoriented. He had been moved into what seemed to be an alley. It was hard to tell with the only light coming from a fire that someone had lit in that same Dumpster. He tried to drag himself over to Afshin, but Bonham kept him still.
Rage filled him, and he pushed Bonham, sending him flying onto his back. Gorkowski and Williams attempted to hold him down, but he was twisting back and forth so hard, trying to pull himself up, that they called for Marshall.
Marshall scooted over and placed his hands on Keith’s shoulders. Keith connected a hard right hand to the lineman’s head, but his friend didn’t let up.
“Stop, Keith! Come on, stop! He’s gone! There’s nothing you can do about it! He’s gone!”
Keith finally looked Marshall in the face and saw tears in his eyes. He stopped fighting, closed his one good eye, and dropped his head back to the ground. Marshall’s words echoed in his mind. He’s gone! He’s gone!
Pushing his friend’s hands off his shoulders, Keith laid his arm across his eyes. The pain of touching his face was excruciating, but he figured it was the least he deserved. I let them kill him! He always told me that he had my back, and the one time he needed me, I let him down.
A sob escaped his lips and convulsed his body, but that was all he would allow himself. After using his arm to wipe his tears, he looked over at Bonham, who was just getting himself back up.
“Sorry,” he said, his slowly recovering voice sounding distant and slurred.
“Forget it,” Bonham said, pulling a bottle out of his pocket. “Let me give you something for the pain. Then we’ll get you out of here.”
“Wait,” Keith replied, holding up a finger.
He nodded to Gorkowski and Williams, and they took their hands off of him. As he sat up, the alley spun around him. He put his head between his knees and took a couple of deep breaths. When he felt a little more sta
ble, he started to stand. Marshall quickly took him under the arm and helped him up, steadying him on his feet.
With a jerk of his head, he indicated that he wanted to go see Afshin. Danie Colson still squatted next to the body. He was naked from the waist up. The shirt he had been wearing was now draped across Afshin’s head.
Keith knelt down—Marshall never taking his arm off of him—and lifted the shirt. What he saw caused the anger to swell again. But it was just as quickly overtaken by a profound sorrow.
What a waste. At a time when all of America should be coming together, a handful of ignorant bigots tear a life apart.
If only they knew . . . If only they knew how much good you did for people. If only they saw your love for the hurting—the hours you put in at the children’s hospital, the anonymous cash you’d drop off in the mailboxes of financially strapped people from your church. Remember that time on our way back from practice? You were dropping off an envelope and saw the door opening. You panicked so bad that you came diving through the passenger window as I burned rubber down the block! Oh, man, that was crazy. What a memory. What a guy. . . .
Keith gently put the shirt back. You were always trying to beat me at everything—more tackles, more sacks, more QB pressures. Well, now you did beat me at something. You finally won! You’re the first one to see our Savior’s face. You’re the first one to experience heaven, while I’m still stuck down here in this hell. It just ain’t fair, Rook, Keith thought with a sad smile, placing his hand on Afshin’s cold arm. It just ain’t fair.
“We need to get moving,” Marshall said sympathetically. “It’s dark and we’ve drawn a crowd. It’s not safe here anymore.”
Like it was safe before, Keith thought bitterly as he rose to his feet. The pain made him want to cry out, but he wouldn’t let himself—wouldn’t give the onlookers the satisfaction. Stinking cowards. Just stand there and watch someone get beaten to death.
“Cowards!” he shouted. He doubled over from the strain his outburst caused on what felt like multiple broken ribs. “Stinking cowards,” he mumbled.