by Brian Shea
The words were simple. He directed them more toward his friend, Richards, rather than to Banks. Khaled spoke softly, “This is not a trap. We are not the enemy. The Council’s decision is not based on some new alliance but is merely about the long-term survival of our people.” This brief but clear statement by Khaled seemed to ease the strain. Some visible slack released from Banks’s erect posture. Banks and Richards refocused their attention back to the discussion with the Council.
The Elder spoke again after Khaled had relayed to him the content of his last message. “As Khaled has just advised, we do not want to be your enemy. We have come to the realization that the longer we give you safe passage, the more we are perceived as the enemy by our own people. Our village will stand long after you leave, and we will be forced to deal with those consequences without your assistance. Please understand that this decision is one made for the benefit of my people. I hope that it is one that you will understand and respect.” Khaled’s delivery of the Elder’s wishes conveyed its conviction.
“Although we are disappointed in your decision, we will respect it. On behalf of the United States, we thank you for your months of generosity and wish you prosperity in the years to come.” Banks’s tone was serious but compassionate.
By Khaled’s assessment, the meeting appeared to have gone as well as could be expected. The American Navy men seemed to accept the terms set forth. The Council would no longer offer the village as a safe harbor for the U.S. military. Their rationale explained, the Council, in an attempt to maintain relations, told the Americans that no member of the village would take up arms against them.
In the months that followed after the last meeting with the Americans, things in the village remained relatively unchanged. Minus the perks of those visits.
Sonia would occasionally ask, “Papa, where are the Golden Men?” She had affectionately named them “Golden Men” because of their tan skin and light hair. Khaled had explained that they had to leave to keep the village safe. She would whine slightly and say, “But Papa, who will bring me my chocolate?” Khaled remembered laughing out loud at this. The simple, yet beautiful mind of his child.
Winter came, and things began to change. The village, set in the foothills of the Cheekha Dar Mountains, provided a strategic outpost because of its proximity to Iran. With the Americans gone, a new group had begun to fill their void. Khaled knew who these men were and what they represented. They called themselves Maharib Lilhuriya “freedom fighters”, but they were more commonly known as the Muqawama “resistance.” Khaled knew that these men were targets of the American military. Aziz had bent the will of the Elder Council and had convinced them to give refuge to these men. A dangerous deal.
As days and weeks passed, more of these men arrived. They brought large crates of equipment. Khaled had assumed the boxes were filled with weapons. Unlike the Americans, they were not kind to the villagers. And to Sonia’s disappointment, they did not share chocolate with the children.
The Muqawama used the small schoolhouse as their headquarters. They took over the big room in the back of the building where books and materials were kept. The cramped space tightened. The children were forced to use the smaller two rooms located toward the front.
Khaled remembered that he could feel the uneasy tension build among his fellow villagers. The smiles were scarce. People stayed off the streets as the Muqawama began making their presence more visible. Khaled was respected because of his status within the village, but the new visitors were guarded around him. He figured that it was most likely due to the fact that he spoke English and had lived abroad during his years of advanced education.
And then it happened. Everything in Khaled’s life changed.
Al Harq
The crack of the first shot sounded far in the distance. Khaled looked out toward the direction it came from, but the open space made it impossible to pinpoint the exact location. However, the gap in time between the snap of the rifle and its final destination was long, an indication of the distance traveled. Seconds later, the zip of a high-velocity round sailed past Khaled, hitting a Muqawama soldier standing only a few feet away. A plume of fine red mist burst into the air from the man’s chest. Khaled couldn’t look away from the soldier, still standing, a face frozen in confusion and terror until his knees buckled, and his body crumpled to the ground. Disoriented and unable to move, Khaled found himself in the middle of the battle.
Looking back on this day, he remembered the overwhelming panic that rushed over him, the shortness of breath. His initial thought was self-preservation, just the instinct to survive. Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, his mind flashed to Sonia and he made a mad dash for the school. He remembered running, pushing through his physical limits, but not moving fast enough. His legs felt sluggish like he was running in mud and everything seemed to move in slow motion.
It’s funny what you recall when your senses are heightened. He could still smell the spiced lamb of the small meat shop when he rounded the corner. He could still see the old man with a wide smile, seated in the dirt holding a chicken calmly in his lap.
When the school became visible, he watched in horror as the Muqawama soldiers pointed their machine guns out from multiple windows of the school front. The aim of their sporadically fired shots seemed random. He looked up and noticed one of the two black-robed men on top of the building hoist a long cylindrical tube onto his shoulder.
He remembered hearing the drumming sound of a helicopter approaching in the distance. It was the Americans. Then a loud burst of noise, like a burp through a megaphone, erupted from a big gun mounted inside of the helicopter.
The front of the building exploded in a cloud of dust and dirt as the rounds struck the stucco walls. The destructive impacts crept quickly up toward the men on the roof. The Muqawama man holding the rocket launcher stumbled forward. The rocket shot out as he fell. But, instead of heading toward the intended American target, it propelled down through the roof of the school.
Khaled ran faster than he had ever run before, his mouth filled with the metallic taste from his lungs’ exertion. The thumping of the helicopter’s rotor blades and deafening gunfire only fueled his rage-induced pace.
Nothing he did next would matter. The rocket penetrated the poorly constructed roof and entered the interior of the building. The lower floor burst into an explosion of dirt and fire. As random debris hit Khaled’s face, blood dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision as he scrambled forward.
Even though he remembered screaming, “Sonia!”, he heard nothing but the ringing in his ears. Still choking on dust, the intense heat projected from the burning school reached Khaled all the way into the alley. Adrenaline allowed him to continue even though it felt like walking straight into a furnace. For her, for Sonia, Khaled would walk through the fires of hell.
Muffled screams from dying men filled the air while bewildered children staggered out into the streets. Khaled desperately pawed at each of them, spinning them around searching for her face. No Sonia.
Khaled tore off a portion of his sleeve and wrapped the cloth over his nose and mouth to make a makeshift respirator. As he entered the fiery rubble of the village school, the heat became unbearable. His eyes watered as the smoke encircled his head. The torn shirt did little to improve his breathing as he toppled over the wreckage.
The acrid black smoke swallowed the light. Darkness and muted flames surrounded him as he moved wildly through the jagged concrete and rebar on hands and knees. A flicker of light caught his attention. Sonia’s bracelet! The bright blue stones glimmered between two mangled cinder blocks, calling to him like a lighthouse beacon. He’d given it to her when she turned six and she never took it off. He felt his heart drop when his vision cleared enough to reveal the bracelet was hanging from her blackened arm.
Then, a scream. A sound that was more animal than man. He was surprised to realize that it came from his own mouth. Khaled clawed relentlessly at the rocks that covered his beautiful Sonia. Hi
s fingernails tore as he pulled and dug at the endless pile.
“Sonia! Please, no! Sonia, don’t leave me! I’m here, my beautiful! You are safe now, Daddy’s here!”
With his last reserve of strength, he dragged her free. The smell of her burnt flesh made him sick. This smell would haunt his dreams until his last breath. He slumped against the rubble and hoisted her lifeless body onto his lap. She was so small in his arms. He held her gently, like cradling a baby. He looked down at her face, barely recognizable. He let his tears fall freely now, causing the smoke in his eyes to burn even more.
Khaled held his daughter’s lifeless body and waited to die, willing the fire or smoke to take him. Without Sonia, he had nothing. Without Sonia, he was nothing. He allowed himself to slip slowly into the darkness, content to let the remains of the collapsed school be the tomb they would share together.
To his disappointment, Khaled did not get to escape a life spent living without his Sonia. He began to hear muffled sounds, followed by a tug on his shoulder. He drifted in and out of consciousness like the flicker of a bulb just before it burns out while feeling that strange sensation of floating. Where is my Sonia? It was his last thought before he drifted away.
The sounds slowly amplified. Hushed words. English. Khaled struggled to understand. Great paradise is run by Americans too. As quickly as the thought had entered his mind, he realized that he wasn’t dead. His unresponsive body was sprawled on a cot in a medical tent. The smell of the sterilization chemicals mixed unnaturally with the ever-present dust in the air.
“I know this guy. I can vouch for him.” A deep raspy voice said. “He’s one of the villagers. A local. He helped translate for their Council.”
“How do we know he’s not with them?” The other voice quieter and nasal, agitated. “I think we should send him for debriefing as soon as he’s well.”
“I’m telling you that I know him. He was holding his dead daughter when we found him, for God’s sake!” The raspy voice familiar, but in Khaled’s haze, he could not place it. “Let him rest and I’ll talk to him when he wakes. Tell Banks that this is the guy from Boston, the translator. He’ll know who I am talking about. Spend your energy on someone else!”
“It’s on you if you’re wrong,” the quiet man said.
The room returned to silence, minus the beeping and rhythmic whooshing sounds that poured from the various medical machines. Everything blurred. Blackness again.
Khaled was later told by an American military doctor that he had been in and out of consciousness for three days. He took stock of his injuries. His hands were heavily bandaged and his head was wrapped in gauze, discolored from a mix of dried blood and iodine. The doctor explained that that laceration to his forehead had required several stitches. The burns on his hands were being evaluated for a skin graft. The visible wounds of that day paled in comparison to the gash that tore his soul apart. The scars became a lasting reminder of his failed effort to save his daughter.
“Sonia?” Khaled knew the answer but asked anyway. The doctor shook his head solemnly. He pointed at a small paper bag on the nearby chair. Khaled reached for it. The movement carried with it a pain so intense that he nearly passed out again. The doctor placed the bag on Khaled’s lap. Inside was her bracelet. A cold numbness washed over his body. “Why couldn’t you just let me die?” He screamed. A coughing fit followed, as his lungs, damaged from smoke inhalation, protested the exertion.
“You’ve taken everything from me!” Khaled had always been a man of control, but he was trembling and filled with an insatiable rage.
His sweet little Sonia was taken away from him. All for what? Because the Americans came to his country. They attacked the Muqawama soldiers. They had killed Sonia.
Khaled centered himself. He quickly regained his composure and then spoke in a calm voice, “Thank you for all that you have done for me, doctor. I am sorry that I snapped at you. I am just trying to process my daughter’s death.”
The doctor put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I totally understand. There is nothing to apologize for. Your daughter’s death was a tragedy. I have children of my own and can’t imagine how I would feel if I were in your shoes. Please rest and I will check back with you later.”
Khaled made the apology to the doctor because he didn’t want the angry man with the quiet voice to suspect him as a threat, an enemy of the U.S. Word of his outburst could mean that he would be subjected to interrogation. He needed to remain “the Boston guy” so that he would stay under their radar.
The doctor’s comment spawned an idea. I have children of my own, he’d said. Why do these men get to enjoy their families when the only piece left of his Sonia was wrapped in a paper bag? Khaled made a pact with himself on that day. The Americans responsible would pay for what they had done. They would know his pain because they would feel it firsthand.
The anguish of Sonia’s death fueled his vengeance. It pushed back against his sadness and divided him. Like the phoenix, he was born again from the ashes.
3
Nicholas Lawrence stared at the image on the computer screen, lost in thought. Always amazed that in a business inherently filled with the potential risk of robbery, banking executives did not spend the extra money to get quality surveillance systems. Typically, more was spent on tile flooring or decorative marble pillars than on a security camera that could record a clear and usable image. And due to this shortsightedness, he had spent the last few hours tweaking the pixelated still shot of the masked man at the teller’s window. He adjusted the settings on the monitor and fiddled with the replay options. All in the hope of getting a discernible image of the robber’s face.
These cases didn’t satisfy him. The work lacked a sense of purpose. Very rarely were there injuries and the banks were all heavily insured. No real victims. Not like his previous assignment with Violent Crimes Against Children (VCAC). The victims in those cases epitomized the true sense of the word.
He’d joined the Bureau after completing four years of service as an Army officer. Seemed like a good idea at the time. During his service, he’d made some friends employed by many of the three-letter agencies. They’d convinced him to make the jump into federal law enforcement.
The FBI’s hiring process was rigorous. Even more challenging because Nick did not fall into one of their preferred categories, lawyer or accountant. He had learned Arabic during his time overseas, but nothing that would rate him as proficient. So, he had applied under the Diversified track. It qualified him on the combination of his education and military experience.
He was warned by the recruiter that the entrance exam weeded out a large number of applicants and not to get his hopes up. Nick found the test easy. Actually, he thought it was fun. He moved through the rest of the application process quickly that included four days of intensive interview, psychological testing, and polygraph examination. Nick excelled at each stage. At the completion of a thorough background check, he found himself standing on the legendary training grounds of the FBI Training Academy at Quantico, several months later.
He’d always envisioned that he would work violent crimes or counter-terrorism. Those units seemed to be paths that suited his aptitudes. He had been a decorated infantry officer. A Ranger. And prematurely, he believed that the Bureau would utilize that experience. Nick quickly learned about the agency’s bureaucracy.
His first assignment was in Texas, tasked to a unit that handled crimes against children. Texas was not on his wish list. His wife, Kerry, did not like the idea either. But the choice was not his to make.
Nick, originally assigned to the San Antonio Field Office, was rerouted shortly after his arrival. He was sent to the satellite office in Austin, referred to as a resident agency. Austin’s climate and atmosphere appealed more to him than San Antonio had. It eased the adjustment to the Fed life. Kerry was an elementary teacher and found work in a neighboring city.
Nick soon found that the work called to him. He became passionate about his cases
. The work ultimately consumed him. Nick and Kerry had no children of their own. The children in his investigations filled that void. He felt a responsibility to save them, an innate fatherly instinct to protect these victims. To right their wrongs.
Looking back, he realized that the balance between the work and his personal life had been lost. He worked late most nights. And when he did come home it was often with a case file tucked under his arm. Kerry, desperate for attention that he no longer provided, filed for divorce after two years.
The two genuinely cared for each other, but Nick’s attempts at reprioritizing his devotion from his casework back into their relationship failed. The damage had been done. Further exacerbated by the death of Nick’s father. The strain on his dissolving marriage with Kerry hit an all-time high. His mother, living in Connecticut, had started to show the early onset of dementia. He tried to keep her affairs in order as best he could. It was a tedious and seemingly endless task, worsened by the geographic separation. Nicholas needed to be near his mother. Her rapid decline necessitated the move. Kerry had resisted the idea.
Nick saw an opportunity for reassignment to the New Haven Field Office in Connecticut. He knew that his marriage was tanking. He applied for the transfer. He had told Kerry about it after his selection. He could still picture the look of sadness on her face. She’d come to love the Austin area and her job. Kerry stayed behind. Their marriage over.
They lied to each other. They said that they would continue to work to reconcile, but they both knew that it was finished. The divorce had been relatively painless. With no children, they had parted ways as friends.
Nick had moments of self-pity. The thought of his life now and the turn of events that brought him here weighed heavily. He now lived with his mentally ill mother in the small home of his childhood. He loved his parents but had never planned on returning to Connecticut.