I was so excited, yet nervous as a flea on a dog, the first time I went to see Fiza and to meet her mom. Fiza warned me not to knock on the door unless the hallway was clear. It was strictly forbidden for a man to visit a woman without a male relative present, and even more so if that man was a big bad wolf from America.
When I arrived at the apartment, I suddenly had to pee, really bad. It must have been the excitement and anticipation squeezing my bladder. After checking to make sure the coast was clear, I knocked, praying I had the right apartment. The door open and Fiza grabbed and pulled me in. It took all my strength not to jump her on the spot. Mommy dearest was standing right beside us.
They both noticed my anxiety, as I was twitching in my need to relieve myself. Fiza’s mother spoke no English, so Fiza had to translate, as I explained my situation. I heard them giggling as I quickly headed for the bathroom.
I had been there but fifteen minutes when someone knocked on the door. Fiza quickly ushered me into a back bedroom, before she answered the door. She soon snuck in to tell me that one of her step-brothers had heard she was in town and had come by to visit. She told me to remain as quiet as a mouse and stay in the room, out of sight.
I was stuck in that room for four hours, thinking he would never leave. I had no cards to play solitaire. There was no TV. The reading material was all in Arabic, so I sat on the bed and just twiddled my thumbs. Luckily, I had just gone to the bathroom before he had arrived.
The only safe place Fiza and I could be alone was at my apartment. The only way she could get there, hopefully without detection, was to dress like a male and come in a cab. Arabic males wore a thawb (an ankle-length garment) and a keffiyeh (headdress), so without any makeup on, she appeared to be a male.
That summer Fiza spent the week days with her mom and the weekends with me. We had to stay in my apartment the whole time she was there. It was too dangerous to venture out. We didn’t lack for entertainment. We listened to music, talked each other’s heads off, and played games. Our favorite game was strip poker. Since we never had on more than two or three articles of clothing, the game didn’t last very long.
I can’t even attempt to describe our love making. We fell even more deeply in love. I can’t believe how crazy we were. I wouldn’t be telling you this today if we’d gotten caught.
...Crazy little thing called love...
It just so happened, that summer a major international headline appeared in newspapers around the world, telling the story of a Saudi girl marrying a non-Saudi Muslim. She had eloped to Lebanon and married a Lebanese man she had fallen in love with. Her actions shamed her family. When her father found out, he had them kidnapped and brought back to Saudi Arabia. As soon as they stepped off the plane, the man was shot in the head and killed by the girl’s father. It was his right, by Saudi law. He took his daughter to a Bedouin tribe and forced her to be a sex slave for the tribal leaders. There was a TV movie made from that incident.
At the end of summer, Fiza returned to school in England. Amazingly, we didn’t get caught, or so we thought.
“You’d better leave the country, ASAP!” an irritated Saudi co-worker whispered to me a week later.
“They know about you and the girl.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked, with a innocent look.
“The father and brothers of the Saudi girl you have been seeing,” he scornfully replied, knowing I had broken their law of the land.
“You’re kidding me... Really!”
“Walla.” (Arabic for really). If I were you, I would be getting out of the country as quickly as possible. I could be in trouble if they find out I warned you,” he said, shaking his head.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, we’d gotten caught after all. Fiza’s father and stepbrothers had somehow discovered our little secret. They were fit to be tied. To say I was in a heap of trouble would be putting it mildly.
I never did find out how, but I later suspected it might have been one of the cab drivers who figured Fiza might be a female. I couldn’t take the time to investigate, because the law of the land had me on the run. I had fought the law and the law was going to win if I didn’t get boot scootin’.
I informed my American boss of my situation and he confirmed that if I valued my balls, I best be hauling ass. He wrote me up for a medical leave. I rushed home, packed a couple bags, and caught the next plane out. I had no time to tell my brother or say good-bye to my friends. Mike would eventually find out from my boss and ship the rest of my belongings.
When I signed the contract with Saudi Airlines, TWA guaranteed my previous job would still be available after my Saudi contract expired. The timing of this dilemma was perfect, because my contract was due to expire in a couple of weeks anyway, so I headed back to San Francisco, though I would have preferred otherwise.
I laid over in England to contact Fiza about what had transpired. She hadn’t heard anything from anyone, but we figured it wouldn’t be long before Daddy called her home.
What were we going to do?
Our forbidden love would have us on the run.
“Come to America with me. We should be safe there,” I said, grasping a straw.
“Okay.” She didn’t hesitate with her answer.
We rushed to the U.S. Embassy in London to get her a visa. Turns out, they were not in such a big hurry as we were. I had no idea obtaining a visa for her would be so difficult and time consuming. We found out there would be at least a two-three month wait, because of a background check on Fiza. Of course, we didn’t have two-three months, but they had all the time in the world. I could not convince them that a background check would be dangerous for her health since she was a female Saudi citizen. They had no understanding or sympathy of our situation.
However, they did put a bug in our ear, that if she were my wife, a visa could be issued in a matter of hours. We looked at each other, nodded in agreement, ran outside, both raising a hand, and shouted in stereo, “Taxi.”
Get us to the church on time!
Neither one of us was practicing our religion, so at the time we didn’t take into account the consequences of our hasty decision.
England was similar to Oklahoma in terms of the ease of obtaining a marriage license. In a couple of hours, I was a married man again. There was no time for a honeymoon, as we rushed back to the embassy for her visa.
...I think I did it again. I made you believe we’re more than just friends. Oops, I did it again...
The next day we flew the polar route from London to San Francisco. Somewhere over the North Pole, we joined the elite Mile-High Club. Don’t ask how, but where there is a will, there will always be a way!
We had made our escape!
There you go thinking again, Tom!
*****
I got my old job back, an Avionics’ line mechanic, with TWA. I purchased a small house in Fremont, in a middle-class neighborhood. Fiza enrolled at Berkley. She was able to get her credits transferred from England. She fell in love with America and its freedoms. I taught her how to drive a car and she got her driver’s license. It was something she had only dreamed of doing someday.
We were happy, really enjoying life together, even though we spent a lot of paranoid time looking over our shoulders. More than once we suspected someone following or spying on us. This was especially true if they looked Arabic. Every now and then, the phone would ring and when one of us answered, they hung up without speaking. Yet as far as we knew, no one in her family knew of our marriage and where she had disappeared to. She didn’t even tell her mother.
During spring break, we took a trip to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, for our belated honeymoon. Rio was absolutely beautiful, with gorgeous scenery and beaches. Fiza especially enjoyed going topless on the beaches, following the example of almost all the women there. It was something else she had dreamed of doing, so she was taking full advantage of her newfound liberties. In Saudi Arabia, she would have been flogged for showing any skin. Of course,
I didn’t mind, even though the beach scenery was straining my eyes.
After we got back from Brazil, Claudia let the kids visit for a week. We spent most of the time in Kansas City, as I introduced my new wife to my family. They had no idea of our situation and I wasn’t about to tell them. We went to Worlds of Fun, where I discovered my love of roller coasters.
All things considered, Fiza and I were happy campers. Of course, inevitably, there’s a big mean ole bear who comes along and upsets the campsite. Our honeymoon and paradise were about to meet a very unexpected and devastating ending.
A month after returning from Kansas City, Fiza and I went to a restaurant in Fisherman’s Wharf, to celebrate the first-year anniversary of our marriage. It had been a wonderful year, despite the worries. We were happy, in love, and having the time of our lives.
What could possibly go wrong?
During the drive there and during the meal, Fiza seemed upset and disturbed. She was definitely not herself. When I asked her if anything was wrong, she said she was just tired. We had spent most of the previous night making love.
Halfway through the meal, I could tell she was struggling with her emotions. I knew it wasn’t that time of the month. I finally confronted her, “What’s wrong Bubbles?” (Bubbles was my nickname for her). “I know something is bothering you.”
She reached across the table to squeeze my hands. Tears started running down her cheeks. Her words were choked as she replied, “Tom-Tom, (her nickname for me), you have made me so happy. I love you so much.”
“Honey, you know I love you too. What’s the problem?” I asked, more than a little worried now.
I had no idea what she would say next. I could picture it wasn’t going to be pleasant. She started weeping, unable to control her emotions. I started having a very bad feeling about this situation. She then excused herself to go to the ladies’ room to powder her nose. I couldn’t imagine why she was being so emotional. I’d never seen her this way before.
What’s taking her so long? I wondered.
I never saw her again. She never returned from the bathroom. She disappeared from my life forever.
I had finished eating and had been waiting for her to return. Just as I got up to go check on her, the waiter brought our bill. Inside was a note: Tom, they found me. I have to go with them. They said not to pursue me or they will not only kill you but your children also. I will always love you. Fiza
“NO! Oh God, please no,” I cried, as I rushed out of the restaurant looking for her.
She was nowhere in sight. This seemed impossible, but my gut told me that it was probable. I knew I’d never be able to find or see her again. My princess, soul mate, and wife was gone. It finally dawned on me, she had been trying to say good-bye. It was our last supper.
At the time, I had assumed that Fiza had been abducted by her step-brothers. I couldn’t go to the police. I couldn’t report her as a missing person. I couldn’t pursue and rescue her, without putting myself and my children in harm’s way. I couldn’t do anything. I was between a rock and a hard place and up a creek without a paddle.
Driving home that night across the Bay Bridge, I cried my eyes, heart, and soul out. The emotional pain was far greater than any physical pain I had ever endured. How can love hurt so bad? To make matters even worse, the car radio was playing the saddest of all sad songs.
...So why does my heart go on beating. Why do these eyes of mine cry. Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world, it ended when you said goodbye...
The Bay Bridge is several miles long, connecting San Francisco and Oakland, with Treasure Island in the middle. I found no treasure that night. To this day, I will never know how I made it across that bridge. Not many did in my state of mind.
...Once upon a time I fell in love, but now I’m only falling apart. And there’s nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart...
To this day I still have thoughts of Fiza. I think of her every time I think of love. I think of her every time I think how it could have been. She was a brave and courageous woman, born before her time.
How was I ever going to come back from this heartbreak? Well my friends, the abductors knew, because it was time for them to initiate their plan.
CHAPTER SIX
The Awakening
Sadness, depression, misery, and loneliness came calling, all wrapped up in one big nasty package. I started having one too many drinks and smoking pot every day after work. I would sit and watch TV all evening, drag myself to bed, arise, and somehow haul my ass to work. The days dragged by, slowly but surely. There had to be a purpose in life, but I hadn’t a clue as to what it could be.
I hadn’t long to drown in my misery. Unbeknownst to me, it was time for the abductors to implement their plan. I was about to discover a whole new and different world. A world no one had ever suspected existed, except maybe in a science fiction tale.
I was sitting in my recliner on a Friday evening, doing my usual monotonous routine, when the doorbell rang.
Now who could that be? I thought, somewhat irritated.
I answered the door to encounter two male strangers in uniform.
“Thomas Hay?” One asked, as both flashed ID badges so fast I hadn’t time to see their names.
“We’re from NASA.”
I then recognized the patches they wore on the shirt sleeves of their uniforms.
“Can we come in? We’d like to talk with you,” the other said, in an commanding authoritarian voice.
What in the world would NASA want with me? I wondered.
When the first artificial satellite of earth slipped across a backdrop of stars on October 4, 1957, it was heralded in the United States not only as a triumph of science and technology, but a bold, startling challenge to America’s ideological standing in the world community of nations.
The Soviet Union’s Sputnik 1 satellite sparked a U.S. response, motivating the U.S. Congress to hammer out in early 1958 the National Aeronautics and Space Act. Signed into law on July 29, the act transformed the existing National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) into a U.S. civilian space enterprise. That enterprise was named the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).
On October 1, 1958, just short of a year after Sputnik 1 was cast into space, NASA officially began to blueprint the nation’s space program. NASA was an investment in the country’s future, an agency empowered with a vision to boldly expand frontiers in air and space, inspiring and serving America to benefit the quality of life here on Earth, as well as someday in space. NASA centers would eventually spread throughout the United States.
The Apollo Program had been established to beat the Russians in the race to land the first man on Earth’s moon. The program had ended in 1975, three years before I received my visitors tonight. Apollo 17 marked the last manned mission to the moon, according to official government records. Most people are not aware, however, that official government records reveal only what the federal government wants the public to know or believe.
Okay…So you are probably wondering, what has this got to do with NASA officials knocking on your door?
Hold your horses, Pilgrim! An abduction revelation is about to be revealed.
They explained that the government required my services for a classified top secret mission. Remember, while in the Navy, I had been cleared for such information. I couldn’t help but hear the Mission Impossible theme song playing in my head. I began to envision a thrilling, but somewhat dangerous assignment that would take me to the far corners of the world. Maybe even to a galaxy far far away. I could even envision rescuing a pretty lady in distress.
Ok, Tom. Snap out of it. Get back to reality.
The NASA officials explained that the mission (should I accept it) would take only a few weeks and then I would be able to return to my current job and dreary life. My cover story would be that the airline had sent me to Florida for autopilot instrument landing training. No one would suspect otherwise. For this mission, I would
receive $25,000 a year, tax free, for the rest of my life.
WOW! Someone pinch me! Did I just win the lottery?
Hold your horses, there was a condition. Wouldn’t you know it?
There’s always a catch when something appears too good to be true. The ‘condition’ was that I could not reveal the mission to anyone, so help me God.
Now, why didn’t that surprise me?
If I did, then all payments would cease. I would likely die from a rare disease or an unfortunate accident. If the disease or accident didn’t do the job, I would be put on the IRS black list, convicted of tax evasion, and spend the rest of my life being someone’s boyfriend or locked up in a nuthouse. Maybe I needed to give this some more thought.
Shit! What could I possibly be getting myself into?
Supposedly, twenty-five grand a year would not raise any suspicions. It certainly wouldn’t change my lifestyle. Still, a calculator confirmed that it would amount to over a million dollars in a normal lifespan, a nice little nest egg for the future. Plus, I would be a patriot and doing my country a great service. I could even envision a movie deal over the horizon.
The Abduction Chronicles Page 6