by J. L. ROBB
Stretch’s camera panned the tunnel openings as the burning woman ran from the tunnel exit and collapsed on the street, now just a burning pile of human flesh, probably resembling the burning Christians of Nero’s day, and the Christians who were routinely burned to death in some of the more extreme Islamic countries. Others ran past the burning woman, and Stretch wondered if they even knew it was a woman. It looked just like some of the other burning debris that had blown from the tubes.
Erica’s favorite cameraman was changing jobs after this day. Stretch could take the trauma and the drama no more, as he remembered the bodies of the Asian couple who landed on the street beside him on September 11, 2001, barely ten feet away, after their plunge from the rooftop thirteen hundred sixty-eight feet above. Their bodies exploded into small human fragments of flesh and bone and lots of blood. It was a week later that Stretch found out the couple was Japanese, because that bit of evidence was not noticeable at the time.
That was a day that Stretch would never forget; and he remembered the news videos coming out of Gaza and the West Bank that day ten years earlier, Palestinians dancing in the streets, firing their guns in the air in celebration of the collapsing World Trade Center and wrecked Pentagon. He had been angry about that and wondered if they would be celebrating in the streets again today. He figured they would.
“Erica, can you and Stretch make it to Lincoln Tunnel, do you think it’s safe?” Condi had a nose for news but didn’t want to endanger anyone. “There have been no reports of flooding from either of the tunnel systems.”
“You bet. We’ll head there now.”
***
The massive explosions in the Lincoln Tunnel, nearly 40,000 pounds going off in a dance of simultaneity, did not penetrate all the way to the Hudson River bed located nearly one hundred feet above but did destroy all vehicles in the tunnel: cars, small trucks, vans and a motorcyclist. The damage to the Lincoln Tunnel ceiling was significant, the explosives directed upward to shake the integrity of the structure and possibly invite the river in for a long and messy visit.
The bedrock beneath the riverbed seemed to be holding as helicopters zoomed their cameras in to show those in TV land the latest religiously-inspired gore. The cameras mounted on the tunnel ceilings would have been ineffective, even if they had been operable; but the massive blast took care of that. No hackers would be necessary to interrupt camera security in the Lincoln or Holland Tunnels. The cameras had simply disappeared, kind of like so many people were disappearing.
Had the interior tunnel cameras been operable and had the smoke not been too thick to block the camera’s view, those in TV land would have seen the small but growing trickle of water, splattering into the cavern that now replaced the surface that had been a street just a few minutes earlier.
The flow rapidly increased in volume, and the newly formed cavern would soon fill to capacity as the Hudson River came crashing through, the water’s only path of egress, the tubes that had transported only motorized vehicles earlier in the day. The Lincoln Tunnel would soon be more like an aqueduct.
Erica and Stretch exited the Sheraton on Canal Street. Walking was their only mode of transportation. Traffic was at a dead stop.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This Saturday night, the night before Mother’s Day, Park Place Café was open for business.
Having suffered no damage from the day’s bombings, Pam, the owner of Park Place, was indecisive about opening, just out of respect for all the American citizens, and non-citizens, that had been murdered today, the day before Mother’s Day. Pam MacLott was angry. She wondered if these guys started bombing school at birth, were they just born and programmed from the get-go to hate? What kind of religion was Islam? Didn’t seem so peaceful to her.
“Pam, if we close tonight, the terrorists win. That is their plan, to disrupt things. Also, we will be packed because of all the news coverage.”
Pam conceded, knowing that Abe was right, and she realized he was right a lot. Outside Park Place Shopping Plaza there were many protesters, some carrying signs: The End is Near, God is Coming and She’s Mad as Hell! Pam thought it seemed like the protesters were coming out of the woodwork, whatever that meant.
Jeff stopped by early, hoping to see Abe the Bartender and also catch the Aljazeera news channel. Aljazeera provided news, in English, from the Arab perspective which was much different than the perspective of the United States and the West in general.
“Hey Jeff,” Abe said as he sat a glass of Duckhorn on the bar. The bar seemed a little darker than usual; and Abe attributed the darkness to the general mood of the day, also dark.
Jeff had frequented Park Place Café since his divorce of some three years, and still counting. Not really a heavy drinker, Abe knew the routine and had a glass of Duckhorn merlot, expensive but Jeff’s choice from NAPA Valley, sitting on the counter before Jeff sat on the heavily padded, leather-clad bar stool. Jeff knew Dan Duckhorn personally and insisted on wine from the United States and had done so since September 11, another day of infamy in American history.
“What’s with all the protesters, and what’s with the signs saying God’s a woman? I’ve seen those a lot lately.” Jeff had seen the God’s a Woman signs for the past month or so, seeming to be on every street corner in Atlanta. One had been directed at him that day in the men’s room at Georgia State, the day after blip’s first appearance, or at least to Jeff somebody.
“It’s a Wiccan group,” Abe responded, as though he was asked the question on a regular basis.
“And that is?” Jeff asked. “Does it have anything to do with Islam?”
“No, no. Nothing to do with Islam. Wicca is a relatively new pagan religion with heavy witchcraft overtones. Be careful, or they’ll put a spell on you.” Abe laughed. “You do understand what pagan means, right?”
“Sorta, any religion that’s not Jewish or Christian?”
Abe was surprised that Jeff was unsure, having such a high IQ. Surely he could define paganism.
“That’s mostly correct Jeff, totally correct by most definitions. Paganism pertains primarily to people of Far Eastern religions, like Buddhism and Hinduism, people whose gods are made of concrete or rocks, or wood. The gods they worship are formed by man, carved from stone or whatever. They are visible, but of course, don’t move. They don’t really do anything but have a tremendous psychological effect on the adherents of those faiths.
“Are you really interested in this Jeff?” Abe knew that most of the Park Place regulars probably had some kind of belief system, maybe spiritual but not religious, but none had discussed their beliefs with him.
“Yes, I guess I am. Religion is the only subject I don’t know everything about.” Jeff winked and smiled. “Just kidding.”
Jeff noticed there were only five TVs on, one tuned to FOX, one to CNN and another to Aljazeera. The rest offered business and local news.
“By the way, why only five TVs?” Jeff asked.
“Fried. Several were fried when the electrical grids powered up, or maybe down. So did the three microwaves.”
“Before we get back to Wiccan or whatever, turn up Aljazeera. I want to hear what the Arabs are saying about today’s attacks.”
Abe found it interesting that Jeff thought all Middle Eastern men must be Arab and wondered if he knew that Jews were Semites.
“You know, the Iranians are insulted when they are defined as Arabs. Iranian heritage is Persian, Nebuchadnezzar their greatest leader. They take great pride in that and consider themselves superior to all other Muslims.”
Abe grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Park Place wasn’t as busy as Abe thought it should be. Maybe the protesters were keeping the crowds away, or maybe everyone decided to stay home, glued to the tube. Paranoia was setting in.
The Aljazeera reporter continued:
“From reports in Palestine, it appears that Hamas has banned all cell phones and video equipment, under penalty of death, at least so I was told.
“Some video coverage did escape however, Hamas a victim of today’s technology; and we have the following clip. I must preface this video by saying, it is disturbing and unbecoming of Islam. Islam is peaceful and does not condone violence.”
As the video continued in the background, the clip overlaid by the reporter’s voice, the Aljazeeran continued:
“It appears that the bombings of the Lincoln and Holland tunnels in New York City have resulted in the deaths of at least 314 by the blasts, and many others who are unaccounted for from the resultant flooding of the Lincoln Tunnel.”
In the background, hundreds, maybe thousands by some reports, of Palestinians danced in the streets of Gaza, firing AK-47’s and other weapons in the air in celebration.
“It appears that most of the jubilance is a result of the damage in the United States and not so much from the damage in Europe. There have so far been more reports of death in New York City and Atlanta, Georgia, than in all of Europe,” the reporter continued.
A beer mug crashed through the flatscreen and put Aljazeera to rest, at least from that TV, the F-word prevalent in the Park Place crowd this evening. The beer mug thrower was escorted out of Park Place but received a standing ovation from the crowd.
“I knew they would be doing that? Do you remember 9/11 when the same thing happened? Not many TV stations carried it, but a few did, including FOX and CNN. Most ignored the Palestinians celebrating in the streets, and it wasn’t just the Palestinians. There were celebrations in Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Lebanon, as well as Iraq.” Jeff’s voice rose in frustration and anger.
Abe set another Duckhorn on the bar, and he urged Jeff to calm down. Jeff usually didn’t get overly excited.
“I’m ticked, big time!” He took a swig, not a sip, of the merlot. “We have to get some damn leadership in this country or we’re going to end up being Palestine, like France and England have become. Here in America is where the new Palestinian state will be, they’re so peaceful, if we aren’t careful.”
“Let’s get back to the Wiccans, ok?” Abe suggested and did not tune another working TV to Aljazeera.
“Right.” Jeff was still steaming; and his brain was at work, making plans.
“Wiccans believe there is a god, several actually; but the primary god is of the female variety. Of course, they hate men too and believe that the men who wrote the Bible were mistaken, writing only what men wanted to hear. They are for the most part, non-violent. They don’t cut one’s head off for not believing their way.”
Jeff thought about that momentarily, thinking that the world was in a tailspin; and he remembered telling his mother the same thing, that the Bible was written for men, by men.
The crowd, though slight, was early tonight at Park Place; and Abe knew the news channels brought them in. As early as it was, the people were beginning to gather around the four operating flatscreens, absorbing every word of the world-wide carnage that had taken place today. The fifth flatscreen was in shambles, a victim of a beer mugging.
“What do you think’s going on Abe? For Pete’s sake, it seems like the world’s going to hell in a hand basket.” Jeff thought a minute about sayings, coming out of the woodwork, going to hell in a hand basket, and briefly wondered who came up with these sayings. He would have to Google it later.
“It’s the end of the world man, one of the signs. Terror will be in men’s hearts. It’s in the Bible.” Jeff thought Abe seemed almost serious.
“Why do the Muslims want to kill us Abe? Why can’t they just live and let live?” Another saying.
“They don’t all want to kill us dude, just the bad ones. Christians had the Ku Klux Klan, remember? The Jews had the Gush Emunim, active in the early eighties. All religions have a fringe element.”
Jeff wondered how Abe knew all this stuff.
“Seems to me like the Muslims have a lot more fringe elements than the other religions. If only ten percent of the world’s Muslims are terrorists, do the math. There are about 1.8 billion Muslims, so that means only 180 million Muslims want to kill us,” Jeff replied. “That’s not very comforting. So why do they want to kill us?”
“They are just misguided, and they have been for 1400 years. Plus, they believe that Christians worship three gods, and they are a jealous people. Jealous of the Jews, jealous of the Christians, jealous of anything not Muslim. Don’t you remember that Jesus spoke of false prophets that would come after his death who would lead even the most elect astray. That’s what happened with Muhammad. Most Muslims are very dedicated to their belief but have been fooled, like Jesus said would happen. Another prophecy fulfilled. They believe that Muhammad was the Last Prophet, but he wasn’t.”
“Yeah, try to explain that to a Muslim and you will lose your head, literally.” And Jeff knew that was true.
Abe grabbed two martini glasses from the rack above the bar, backlit in a white light, the glasses resembling a cocktail-glass chandelier.
“Abe, you seem to know a lot about the subject of the day. Do you believe in God?”
Jeff asked the question, knowing that that subject always seemed to open a can of worms, strong debate and sometimes swords and guns and bombs. He thought he must already know Abe’s answer, considering what he seemed to know about Islam, and Wicca.
Prior to 9/11, no one considered the possibility that the United States would fall more than Osama bin Laden, the perpetrator of that tragic disaster, and many others. He also knew that the European governments would fall. Just like the Towers fell, so the West would fall.
Osama believed the Twelfth Imam had arrived, not like Jesus who came in love and tolerance and the raising of the dead, but with a wrath only a mother could love. The death of innocent people was Osama’s goal; because there were no innocent people except fellow Muslims, fellow Sunni Muslims that is. It didn’t seem to matter to Osama that the Twelfth Imam, the coming Islamic Messiah, would be a Shiite and not Sunni. Shia was the predominant sect of Islam in Iran, a point of conflict with the Sunni population; and Osama seriously doubted that Mahdi, the Twelfth Imam, would be anything but Sunni. It was Muhammad’s will. Still, he wondered. Many Sunnis didn’t even believe in the Mahdi.
“Which God are you talking about?” Abe asked, after a brief hesitation, part in jest and part in curiosity. Jeff had never brought up the subject in the three years since they met, on a night that was unusually dark and stormy, similar to this night. He recalled the hail that had come later in that evening three years earlier. The hailstorms of late were much worse than the storm that night.
“Well, that’s exactly the question! Do you believe in God and is it the God or a god that starts with a little g. It seems to me there are a lot of gods out there floating around. Is it Hindi, Buddha, Molech?” Jeff sounded particularly anxious, but of course, who wasn’t.
“Actually it’s none of the above.” Abe noted Jeff’s inexplicable dress today, navy Prada slacks and chartreuse sweater. Not that Jeff couldn’t afford the $ 600 price tag. It just wasn’t Jeff. He was almost always decked out in the latest jeans and T-shirt, and they weren’t usually of the Prada variety.
“Why do you ask?” Abe answered, his curiosity just a little piqued. “In all my years of bartending, no one has asked me that specific question. Don’t get me wrong. There have been plenty of guys, and gals, who have used the God-word a few times; but it usually was not in good terms and came after a few shooters or Cosmos.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Abe.” Jeff insisted, almost impatient. “I’m serious as a heart-attack here.”
“Of course I believe in God. My name’s Abe, as in Abraham? I’m Jewish.”
“I didn’t know you were Jewish? In three years I never knew that. You don’t act Jewish!”
Abe thought about the act Jewish comment but decided to go there at a later time.
“I believe in the God, the one in the Bible, father of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. That One, the same God that two billion other people in the world believe in. That would be
billion, with a ‘B’. And if you throw in the Muslims, who think they believe in the God, you have almost four billion. That’s two-thirds of the people on the planet.” Taking a breath, Abe realized he was being a little zealous; but this was a subject he was passionate about. “Can four billion people be wrong? Think about it.”
Jeff didn’t answer, waiting and thinking as Abe concocted another adult beverage for an on-the-way-to-inebriated adult, young adult, realizing that as he got older, more-and-more people seemed to become young adults. Grandpa used to tell him the years would fly by, Jeff remembered; and he was right. Grandparents, in retrospect, seemed to be right a lot, like Abe the Bartender.
The statuesque brunette took a seat, in the most feminine way, four seats down from Jeff. The dress was short, but not too short.
“Hey Abe,” the lady in the short dress seemed familiar with the bartender. “Think I’ll have a dirty martini. What happened to the TV?” The damage from the flying mug was hard to miss.
“UFBM.” Abe grabbed the jar of olive juice, the vermouth and the gin. Like an artist, he began the task of martini construction.
“UFBM?” Judi questioned.
“Unidentified Flying Beer Mug.”
Judi noticed Jeff but said nothing, fiddling around in her purse for something; and Jeff noticed her too. How could one not? At about 5’9” with the heels, molded in black sweater and skirt, he only really noticed the black sweater, and how well it was… well… formed. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. His mind wasn’t functioning properly today. Probably shell-shock.
“Ever notice how there just aren’t any flat chested women anymore? Shoulda been a boob doctor!” Jeff made sure he didn’t say that loud enough for the young lady to hear.
“Her name is Judi Ellis, and that’s what she does. She’s a cosmetic surgeon at Emory, among many other things. She’s close friends with Joseph Rosenberg.”