YIELD
Copyright © Bryan K. Johnson, 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Bedside Books
An imprint of American Book Publishing
14510 Big Basin Way #155, Saratoga Village, Ca 95070
www.american-book.com
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
Yield
Cover designed by Bryan K. Johnson.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-58982-681-6
ISBN-10: 1-58982-681-7
Johnson, Bryan K., Yield
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Yield
Bryan K. Johnson
To my wife and children, may you inspire the world just as you’ve inspired me.
Part One: Ignorance
“It is only the dead who have seen the end of war.”
- PLATO
Chapter 1
6:12 A.M. - PORTLAND, OREGON
Abd Al-Aziiz plunges his hands into the cool water basin, wringing them three times as he prays quietly to his God. He splashes the purifying liquid up onto his face. Harsh lines cut across its shadows, creating heavy sockets with only hints of white. Abd blinks back the tears in his eyes before closing them tightly again. Arabic words roll mechanically from his lips, the creases around his eyes deepening in concentrated peace.
Candles burn all around his kneeling body. Their black smoke curls up along walls stained by years of the uncaring and busy. Behind him, in the living room of his bleak downtown apartment, a television is on professing truth to an empty room. The news anchor’s lilting foreign accent somehow makes the tragic events on screen seem cheerful.
“International support for the U.S. anti-terrorism initiative has been diminishing in recent years,” she states, “with fewer countries to help strengthen the U.S.-led effort militarily.”
Hand-held video shows a frightened journalist cowering behind two soldiers. The image suddenly lights up when the group is obliterated by mortar fire. One of the Marines’ blackened helmets shatters the camera lens, throwing the photographer backward onto the bloody sand. The silhouettes of the dead fade to more explosions. Huge clouds of fire and dust are launched into the sky.
“French and German troops are now among a growing list of those who have left the Mideast, with several other countries also approaching their time frames for total withdrawal. Additional U.S. peace-keeping forces are still being deployed throughout the region, dramatically shrinking the available reserves of every military branch.
“Our talk-back question for today… With U.S. armed forces still overextended and military budgets on the chopping block, do you think America’s security is at risk? Post your response now at CNN.com…”
Abd cocks his head toward the TV. He smiles at the loaded question with a mouth full of crooked and decaying teeth. Letting the water drip freely from his face, the Arab man’s closely-groomed beard glistens in the candlelight. He lowers his head to the floor, eyes shut fast.
The cadence and verses of his morning prayer are burned into his mind. Those blessed words roll from his lips, just as they’ve done countless times before. “I bear witness that there is no God but Allah. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah…”
* * *
The rising sun is quickly engulfed by the all-too-familiar clouds hanging low over the city. Pockets of rain pierce the reflected blues and greens of the Willamette River. Light blooming off rows of windows along the east-facing structures downtown fades as the clouds continue to darken. Cherry trees lining the streets billow in the breeze, their blossoms falling around the growing crowds of people just below.
Cars fill the freeways. Massed commuters board the buses and light-rail trains, preparing for another day within the bustling city of Portland. Dressed for business, they move with determination under the thickening rain.
* * *
“…All U.S. embassies have been placed on high alert after the bombing attempts last week. The latest video from the terrorist group believed responsible promised more severe attacks closer to home. Terrorism expert, retired Brigadier General Jacob Leder at our Seattle bureau, disagrees. Jacob?”
The ABC news anchor on-set in New York tosses via satellite to a 57-year-old man with a military crew cut back at the KOMO 4 News set in Seattle. His suit pressed to perfection, Jacob sits at attention in front of a Seattle skyline graphic. He glances from the preview monitor up to the high-definition camera lens pointed at him. The scuffed tally light above turns blood-red as he hears a producer cue barked into his right earpiece.
“I believe America’s foreign policy has alienated itself from much of the world,” Jacob says. His booming voice echoes around the large studio. “With our incursions into countries we have no business crossing into—without cause and without reason—we are now as unpopular within the world at large as we have ever been.” Jacob looks down at his clenched hands, gradually relaxing their nervous grip. He nods at another trite, rhetorical question from the overpaid anchor coming through his wireless IFB.
Jacob smooths out a slight crease in his blue tie, casually tucking it back into his charcoal suit. He begins to fidget impatiently in his chair as the talking head drones on. Jacob finally just cuts him off. “Well, America has a lot of enemies out there, and despite what our politicians would have us believe, they are not all Islamic extremists.
“We need to open our eyes. Much of this country is ignorant to what’s really happening outside our borders.” He hesitates on his last point, looking at the slick anchor in his ten-thousand-dollar suit on the preview monitor. “Puppeteering within our media outlets has only compounded the problem.”
Instantly confrontational, the news anchor leans forward. “Hold on now. Do you really believe the leaders of our country are misleading the public through the media?”
Jacob smiles at the anchor’s reddening face. Veins along the man’s temples surge with hostility. “All I’m saying is that if these anti-American groups ever figure out they all have a common enemy, we could be in real trouble.”
* * *
“Come to prayer. Come to the good,” Abd says, finishing the ritual of Salah. “Allah is most great.”
He sits up slowly and pushes the sides of a blanketing, off-white robe away from his sandal-clad feet. The Arab draws air deep into his lungs as he stands, ready to do what he must. “Allah is most great…”
* * *
A homeless man sitting in a doorway along Portland’s busy Morrison Avenue holds his cup out to people walking by. Several drop their change into his tattered container, but most just move on without slowing. His filthy hands hold a sign limply upon his lap.
VETERAN.
GOD BLESS U.S.A.
PLEASE HELP!
The broken man looks up with meek eyes, willing donations from passers-by with pity, but receiving none. He turns to look at several pigeons fighting viciously for a scrap of food nearby.
A bright blue Seattle Mariners jersey stands out inside the crowd of monochromatic pedestrians. The color slows, dropping a five-dollar bill into th
e man’s offering cup. The ex-vet’s eyes go wide. He glances up into the face of a bearded Mid-Easterner before taking the bill out and stuffing it into a torn inside pocket. The homeless man looks back up to thank him, but Abd is already gone, continuing into the rain along the Rose City’s streets.
Finally, the Arab reaches his crowded transit stop. He watches the blooming white letters of the train’s signage approach with growing apprehension. A faceless cluster of people rush onto the airport-bound light-rail train before moving silently to their seats. Abd takes his by the window next to a woman in a gray dress holding her bastard child. With a slight sneer, he turns and looks out at the urban landscape zooming by the glass.
* * *
6:45 A.M. - PSU CAMPUS
A raven flock flies over the Portland State University campus, crying out their piercing song across the stone commons. Scattered students and teachers walk briskly to their early classes. They shield bags and backpacks with a rainbow of umbrellas moving through the rain. Lining the brick pathways, dense rows of trees try feebly to block the storm. Both of nature’s gifts show no signs of breaking. The touch of thick, Pacific Northwest droplets eat through jackets and optimism in the cold morning air.
Chris Thomas and Darius Jones emerge from the emerald green PSU gymnasium doors with several intimidatingly-tall black teens. Standing well over six feet, Chris and the others wear light blue Seattle High School letterman jackets. Their white leather sleeves and cocky expressions are unmistakable.
A full three inches taller than his teammates, Chris pushes past them and walks away, talking heatedly into his cell phone. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice lowering to an intense whisper. Chris’s eyes dart around.
Darius dribbles a ball back and forth through his legs before passing it to a waiting teammate. He glances over at Chris, knowing just from the tone who his best friend is talking to. “This can’t be good,” Darius mutters.
“You tell me this here?” Chris barks. His long strides take him quickly down the stone walkway. The basketball star’s square shoulders begin to sink, his head cocking awkwardly.
It’s almost like watching a car drift toward oncoming traffic in slow motion. His teammates are all unable to keep from staring at their captain as he gestures angrily throughout the one-sided conversation. “What’s up with him?” one of them asks.
Darius laughs. He elbows the teen’s leather sleeve before stripping the basketball from his grip. “Girl problems,” Darius snickers. “You ask me, he’s just too soft with ’em.”
“How could you let that happen?!” Chris’s words echo back.
Darius palms the ball with his long, curving fingers. He stands upright and shakes it high above his head, his own height overshadowing the others. “You’re whipped, boy!”
Chris turns and flips him off. “You know this ain’t right, Liz. You should’ve told me.” He shakes his head, a low growl tightening the edge of each word. “You ain’t getting forgiveness. Ever. We’re done.”
He slams his cell phone closed. Chris leans back, screaming up into the raining sky. “God!!” The single word reverberates back like a gunshot from the brick buildings. The students near him slow and look cautiously back at the furious 6’7” man. The sharpness of his clenched jaw and flickering eyes are enough to make them redouble their pace.
“Damn, Chris!” Darius yells back. “He didn’t do it.”
Chris’s legs fly across the commons. Rage pulses just under the surface of his midnight skin. “Women are evil, D. They’ll pick your pocket. Lie to your face. Then shank you in the back after they’re done screwing your friends.”
“Don’t get bitter on me now,” Darius says. He reaches up and puts his arm around Chris’s neck in a strained headlock. Struggling against the bigger man, Darius’s arms begin to shake as he tries to keep his grip. “Women do have their rewards. Deep and plentiful.” Darius smiles evilly, using all his strength to flex tighter around his friend’s neck. “Especially Liz.”
Chris’s eyes go wide. “Motherf…”
Darius pushes Chris away and takes off at a full sprint. Chris misses with a whistling left hook before giving chase into the courtyard. The other players laugh at their team captains, running across the campus through the driving rain.
* * *
6:52 A.M. - CLACKAMAS, OREGON
Haley Bane sits on the back of a passion-red Ninja motorcycle, her pink-streaked blond hair whipping all around her. She leans her body into the turns to watch the maze of suburban streets just outside of Portland race past. One arm is wrapped tightly around her boyfriend’s chest. The other holds her burning attempts at maturity.
She huddles against the slender back in front of her and takes a deep hit from the joint shielded in her right hand. The 15-year-old lifts her chin and thunderously exhales out every care still trapped inside. Haley smiles as the tingling touch of wind begins to kiss and tease her skin.
Wincing from the harsh light of the sunrise, she reaches forward and places the joint to her boyfriend’s mouth. The roughened stubble around his lips tickles her fingers. Grinning uncontrollably, she wraps her left arm tighter around his hard chest, feeling it expand and fill with addictive bliss.
The upperclassman revs his bike loudly and blows the twisting cloud of smoke behind. His Ninja’s front wheel lifts off the ground. The equilibrium of weightlessness makes his eyes go wide before the tire touches down again with a screech.
Haley cranes her head back and screams, closing her eyes in euphoria. Darkened houses surge by. Their colored shadows blur together in the rising light. She glances ahead, the smile quickly falling from her face. She taps her boyfriend’s shoulder twice. The blows are like a gavel condemning her sentence.
He kills the engine, letting the bike coast slowly up to a two-story house on the corner. Its white picket fence and perfectly manicured lawn might as well be metal bars and asphalt. Returning to the prison of suburbia twists paranoia right through Haley’s stomach.
Grudgingly, she gets off the bike, eying the windows for any signs of motion. Her boyfriend’s hand shoots up to find hers when she turns without the usual farewell.
Haley laughs. He pulls her back to him, pushing his mouth up to hers. “Don’t start that again,” she says. “My parents are going to be up soon.”
“Don’t go yet,” he pleads. Just like they always do. Haley pushes her toned body into him, rubbing it suggestively over his torn jeans and Metallica t-shirt. Her hands move slowly up his leg, her supple lips leaning close. Suddenly, she pecks his cheek and steps back, smiling wickedly.
“God, I hate it when you do that,” he breathes out. He adjusts his stance to take the pressure off his curiously tighter jeans.
“Oh, I know,” Haley grins, batting her alluring blue eyes back at him. Their fingers slide reluctantly away from one another.
Haley’s attention darts up to the blinds on one of the upstairs windows. Her stomach sinks. Silhouetted fingers pry them open. Haley turns and blows her boyfriend a quick kiss. Moving backward up the side walkway, her feet drag towards reality and away from the happiness of last night.
Haley pauses for just a moment to wave then takes a timid step back into captivity. The 15-year-old watches out the window as her boyfriend pushes his motorcycle up the street. He fires up the Japanese engine with a high-pitched whine before roaring away to freedom.
* * *
Katherine Bane flips the flat-panel television on in her picturesque kitchen to Fox News and the start of another Monday routine. Mid-thirties, with a natural beauty that could still stop men in their tracks even without makeup, Katherine angrily sets down the remote. She heads for the coffee pot in her tight American Eagle tank top and navy blue sweatpants, tying her chin-length blond hair back into a bun. The mother of two pushes several wooden blinds aside and glares out the front window. An escaping rumble from a motorcycle somewhere down the street rattles the copper-bottomed pans hanging from her island’s iron ceiling rack.
Katherine sighs. She sets her coffee cup down on the granite counter. The deep greens of her hazel eyes flicker while she stares into the speckled surface. The new rebellious life her daughter leads and the growing secrecy of recent weeks fire like an alarm in her soul.
Years of conditioning and naivety begin reasoning the fear away with her usual trust of Haley’s judgment. Happy memories soon replace doubts with a disbelief that her kids could ever stray too far from the example she has set. Finally, the desire to remain her daughter’s part-time confidante overpowers the warning signs of her mothering instincts.
Katherine’s eyes again turn to the distracting comfort of the television.
“Over the weekend,” a news anchor says over video of squabbling politicians, “disarmament talks again broke down at the U.N. security council. Delegates from Russia and China declined to comment on the impasse. This is the fourth meeting by nuclear nations without an accepted resolution…”
Chapter 2
7:05 A.M. - SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
The sky above Seattle continues to let loose. Long streaks of rain flow like splintered tears down the windows of the Space Needle. The giant skyscraper reaches resolutely up into the clouds, its metal spire devoured by the fog. A breeze catches the flags of foreign nations hanging limply in front of Seattle’s World Trade building. The busy sidewalk beside its vaulted glass entryway pulses with purpose and life. Just above, the dull roar of a distant airplane traces across the sky, peeking in and out from behind pockets of thick gray.
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