by Chuck Holton
Silently and alone he weighed the pros and cons. He had just decided to refuse when he learned that Imam Muhammed, the cleric who had taught him all he knew about Allah, had been killed in a roadside bombing. Some said the Syrians were responsible. Others, the Zionists. But whoever was responsible, Jamal could take no more.
He called the number the man had given him and said simply, “I’m ready.”
Abidjan, Ivory Coast
Frank squatted next to Sergeant First Class Vernon James, the team’s medic. “I need tape.”
“Do I look like a tape dispenser?” Doc grumbled as he rummaged in his aid bag. “I’m the medic, not the supply sergeant!” The muscular African-American had been with the unit for three years, and his pet peeve was medical equipment being used for nonmedical purposes.
The team was assembled at the rear of the six-wheeled Cougar HEV. Its armored troop compartment sat high above a boat-shaped undercarriage that was impervious to antipersonnel mines, armor-piercing rifle rounds, and, supposedly, rocket-propelled grenades.
Though no one was excited about testing the Cougar’s limitations, it was the preferred mode of travel for this Special Ops Explosives Ordnance Disposal team, code named Task Force Valor. It also made the team something of a hit with the local kids, who came running to see the behemoth anytime it left the United Nations compound where they were staying.
“Come on, Doc. Hand it over!” Frank was in no mood for verbal jousting.
Bobby Sweeney, a tall Master Sergeant from Alabama, stood watching the argument, chewing tobacco and fingering his new XM8 assault rifle while the other team members made last minute checks of their gear. “So they actually want us to use that thing?” he asked John as they watched Frank feverishly taping the device to a wooden stake.
Frank ignored him, concentrating on connecting the two sets of electrical leads protruding from the device’s base to two long spools of electrical wire.
John shrugged. “I don’t think they want us to use it, but nobody has a better idea at this point.”
While Frank continued readying his secret weapon, John looked around the small circle of men that made up the breach team. “We’re going to do this just like we’ve been rehearsing all morning. Breach the wall on the south side, farthest from the cafeteria where they are holding the children. Bobby, Buzz, and I will clear the cafeteria. Dan Daly is on sniper duty—he’ll cover the exits to make sure nobody gets out that way. And Sergeant Rubio here—” he patted the former gang member from LA—“will pull rear security. It’s a small building, so I don’t think we’ll have any surprises.”
Everyone nodded.
“One more thing,” John said. “Put anything electronic in the back of the Cougar. We’ll have somebody move it a couple of blocks away so the stuff won’t get fried by Frank’s little science project. Oh, and Doc, run upstairs and get Dan’s electronics. Any questions?”
The team weapons sergeant, Henry “Buzz” Hogan, stroked his heavy beard and voiced the question that was on everyone’s mind. “What if it doesn’t work, Coop?”
John looked at the ten men surrounding him, all second-enlistment professionals who had seen enough combat to know that he didn’t have a good answer to that question. “If it doesn’t work, the cowards win.”
Buzz slapped a full hundred-round magazine into his heavy-barreled XM8. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”
A “hooah!” and several grunts of agreement rippled through the team. Sweeney and Buzz slapped each other’s helmets. Buzz was also a Southerner, a Texan, and proud of it. “Let’s git-er-done!” he drawled.
Seven minutes later, John and the rest of the breach team were in place against the unpainted cinderblock wall at the south end of the building. John ran through the building’s schematics in his head. Static crackled in his headset. “One minute.”
Fifteen feet in front of him lay the explosive charge that would create an opening into the school building for him and his men and hopefully a surprise for those inside. Once through the breach, it should take them only a matter of seconds to advance through the empty classroom on the other side of the wall and down the hall to the cafeteria to rescue the kids.
“Thirty seconds.”
It was a huge risk, and lots could go wrong, but they had little choice. Major Williams had a soft spot for kids, and John wondered if Williams had been thinking of his own seven daughters back at home when he’d decided to execute this mission. John had no doubt that if it were the barrel-chested commander’s own girls in that building, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the whole city if that’s what it took to free them. But the time for wondering was past. Now it was time to—
“Three…two…one…Execute! Execute! Exec—”
As the commands echoed through his headset, John yanked a wire, and whoomp! The wall in front of him vanished in a cloud of debris.
Go, go, go!
Half a second later, Task Force Valor’s breach team hurled themselves through the hole, fanning out to the left and right, their advanced camouflage uniforms disappearing like ghosts into the dust cloud he’d just created.
John charged into the breach himself, the seconds ticking away in his mind as the team exited the first room into a hallway. He could hear the children screaming at the far end of the hall.
From somewhere in front of him came the sound of glass shattering. He sprinted down the hallway on the heels of his men, desperate to get to and through the doorway at the end but afraid that they might be too late.
Gunfire erupted behind him in the hallway, but John didn’t stop. He kept his eyes on Sweeney, already pushing the cafeteria door half open. John saw him toss a stun grenade underhanded through the gap and turn away.
Still running, John shut both eyes as the flash-bang detonated, covering the last two steps to the end of the hallway with them closed. No sooner had the stun grenade exploded than Sweeney and Hogan were through the door, one breaking left, the other right.
Without slowing, John cut left through the doorway, his carbine moving with his eyes as he scanned the center of the large room. He could hear his comrades’ weapons chattering on either side, but his focus was on the AK-47 in front of him and the terrorist swinging it toward his face.
The assault rifle spat flame, and rounds flashed by John’s head as his own weapon coughed twice, guided by a muscle memory born of hundreds of hours in the tire house back at Fort Bragg. The terrorist dropped as if he’d been hit with a falling anvil.
“Clear!” Sweeney called out.
“Clear!” echoed Hogan.
Team Sergeant John Cooper scanned the smoke-filled room, taking in a huddled mass of terror-stricken children who watched him wide-eyed. Then he noticed something wrong in the room.
The lights were still on.
Sainiq Refugee Camp, Lebanon
LIZ AND HANAN WATCHED as the authorities led Nabila’s aunt from her home. It was obvious that she was being taken away for questioning, possibly for arrest. Her younger daughter, crying, clung to her mother’s skirt.
A soldier reached out and pried the child’s fingers off. The little girl let out a thin wail, reaching for her mother who was being put into one of the cars with the flashing lights. Not unkindly the soldier held her hand and looked at all the silent watchers. “Who will take the girl?”
For a time no one moved. The women dropped their eyes. The men looked away.
Liz understood, as did the others present, that “taking the girl” might mean raising her, feeding her, finding her a husband. Depending on her father’s response to the new situation in his home, he might not want to be bothered with her, and her mother may or may not be coming home again.
There were two reasons for their reluctance to help. One was purely practical. Another mouth, no matter how small, meant less food for the rest of the family. The other reason was cultural and religious. The women couldn’t make such a decision without the approval of their husbands, and the husbands, at least those present, didn
’t want to add a girl child to their homes. What if she was like her sister and brought trouble with her?
Liz sighed. Had Nabila’s aunt even thought about the plight of the younger daughter when she decided to kill the older one?
Hanan was the only one who didn’t look down. She turned to a man standing with four others across the road. Her chin was high as she waited for a response from him. He frowned, and Hanan’s chin went higher. He glanced at the official, then down at the crying girl. He gave a quick nod.
Hanan smiled at the girl and held out her hand. “Come, Salma.”
Uncertain and afraid, Salma reached for her mother who sat in the car, staring straight ahead. Liz’s heart broke for the little girl. What had she seen and heard in that dark house? Had her sister pled for her life? Had she screamed for help? Had Salma seen her mother kill her sister?
Hanan took the girl’s hand. With a last look over her shoulder at her mother, Salma followed willingly. She stood beside Hanan, tears washing her face though she no longer made a sound.
A stretcher was wheeled out. The sheet covering Zahra’s body had been haphazardly thrown over the small corpse, and the tip of the plastic bag still over her head showed. A rope trailed in the dirt, still attached to her wrist.
Liz watched, sorrow for the poor, dead girl a weight pressing on her heart. That such barbaric things as honor killings still happened in the twenty-first century was unbelievable, and she was sickened by all the ruined lives in the needless, sordid tragedy.
At the same time her reporter’s mind was recording sights and words for the article she’d write about today’s events. She wished she dared take out her digital camera. She should have paid more attention to the ad that kept appearing on her laptop for a camera the size of a quarter.
“Did any of you hear anything?” one of the soldiers asked the crowd. “Can any of you tell me what happened?”
As if by magic, all the women disappeared, Hanan included, fading into their shadowy homes. The men turned and began talking among themselves, backs turned. The soldier shook his head and climbed into his car.
One by one the various vehicles disappeared, the ambulance with its sad cargo last in line, until only Liz was left. She stood in the street, studiously ignored by the Palestinian men.
She walked to Hanan’s house and knocked on the battered screen. “Hanan?”
Hanan appeared, her face carefully blank as she looked at Liz without opening the door.
“Is Salma all right?” Liz asked softly. “Nabila will want to know.”
“She is fine. She cries. She misses her mother. She misses her sister.”
“Has she said anything about what happened?”
“Salma told me that her mother is her hero because she has removed the family’s shame.”
Liz felt like she’d been struck. “Do you agree with her?”
For a moment Hanan didn’t speak. She looked over Liz’s shoulder to a man standing two doors away with three others.
Liz followed her gaze. “Your husband?”
“Yes. You are a reporter, aren’t you?”
Liz nodded.
“You are going to write about this?”
“I am.”
“I cannot stop you even if I plead with you?”
“No.” Liz didn’t bother to explain that it was her job to tell such stories. It was also the call of her heart to show the narrowness and arrogance of Muslim extremists, especially in their dealings with their women and girls, trying to show by contrast the freedoms women found in a more open society and especially in Christianity.
Hanan sighed. “No, I do not agree.”
Hanan’s eyes moved past Liz again, and Liz felt a presence behind her. She glanced back and saw the handsome man who was Hanan’s husband coming toward the house.
He stopped a few feet from Liz, his expression fierce. “You must go.”
The men he had been standing with were now all watching her, their expressions resentful and antagonistic.
Liz nodded. She turned to Hanan. “May I come back to visit you again after things have calmed down?”
Hanan looked again at her husband. Liz saw nothing pass between them, but Hanan gave an abrupt nod, turned, and disappeared into her home.
Her husband watched as Liz climbed into her car, turned in the narrow street, just missing a three-legged dog, and drove away. In her rearview mirror, she saw all the men staring after her.
By the time she got back to her parents’ house in midafternoon, Liz was emotionally spent. She wanted nothing more than to go rock climbing to purge the morning’s horror. The concentration required would force the scene from her mind.
But first things first. She dragged herself from the car and went inside. She dreaded the conversation she had to have with Nabila who came running from the kitchen as soon as Liz opened the front door.
Liz looked at her hopeful face and felt the weight of what she must say. “I’m sorry.”
Nabila started to cry, great wracking sobs. “I knew it. I kept hoping I was wrong, but I knew it.”
Liz gathered her close and held her. “I got there at the same time as the authorities. Zahra was already dead.” She tried to blank out the picture of the small body on the stretcher, the edge of the plastic bag showing and the piece of rope trailing.
“My aunt?” Nabila managed between rocky breaths.
“The authorities took her away. She is to be tried for murder.”
Nabila shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Good.”
Liz agreed as she led Nabila to the living room couch and helped her sit, then sat beside her. “You did the best you could, Nabila. You gave Zahra a chance when you found the family to take her in during her pregnancy. You warned her again and again never to go home. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“Maybe if I’d been there…”
“You know that wouldn’t have made any difference. Hanan who cared very much was only three houses away, and she couldn’t prevent the tragedy.”
Nabila wiped her eyes. “I know, but it hurts so much.”
Annabelle Fairchild walked into the room. “Oh, good, you’re home, Liz.” Belatedly she noticed Nabila’s distress and stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“My young cousin was killed today,” Nabila said, fresh tears streaming.
Annabelle looked pained. “The one who was pregnant?”
Nabila nodded.
“An honor killing.” Annabelle made it a statement.
“Liz tried to stop it, but she was too late.”
Annabelle stared at Liz, clearly unhappy at that piece of news. “You went into the camp?”
Liz shrugged. “I had to try.”
“I don’t like your going there. It’s dangerous, especially for someone like you.”
“Like me?”
“Clearly an American. Clearly uninvited. Obviously a woman.” Annabelle shook her head. “You worry me, Liz.”
“There were soldiers and police. I was safe.”
“This time. What about the next time?”
“I have been invited back.” If Hanan’s curt nod could be called an invitation.
“And you’re going?”
“Of course.” Liz gave a small smile. “You know me. I’ve got to save the world.”
“That’s the trouble with you fundamentalists, whether you’re Christians or Muslims.” The deep voice came from the doorway to the hall. Charles Fairchild had come home, and no one had heard due to their intense conversation. “You want to save the world, but strictly according to your view of truth.”
Liz looked at her father and forced a smile. How many times had she heard that comment? “Hello, Charles.” Somehow calling her father by his first name seemed more eccentric than ever, but he insisted on it, just as her mother insisted on Annabelle.
“Not now, Charles.” Annabelle walked to her husband and gave his cheek a kiss. “Liz and Nabila have had a very bad day.”
Charles looked at the wee
ping housekeeper, then at Liz. “What happened?”
Quickly she recounted Zahra’s tragic story.
“Nabila.” Charles went to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I am very sorry.”
Nabila tried to smile, clearly moved by his kindness. Charles was the one who had found her wandering about the American University of Beirut campus the day she escaped from the camp. He stopped, spoke with her at length, and brought her home to be their housekeeper/cook.
He treated her with the same benevolent neglect he showed Liz and her sister Julie. He bought her books to help her pass the necessary tests to enter AUB and arranged to pay for her classes. Nabila thrived. She also worshipped the ground Charles walked on.
He squeezed her shoulder, then turned to Liz. “Are you all right?”
Liz shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
“I’ll bet.”
“All of you stay here while I go get some tea.” Annabelle headed for the kitchen with a swish of her long, flamboyantly colored skirt.
Liz watched her go with a small smile. There were rare times when Annabelle acted like a regular mother, and this afternoon was one of them. Even Nabila noticed. She glanced at Liz. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
With a small smile Charles left the room, and in a few seconds Liz heard him close the door to his office.
The two women sat quietly on the couch. Liz was still caught in that dichotomy that struck writers, whatever their experience. Her heart ached for Zahra and the woman whose faith was so skewed that she killed her own child in the name of her god. At the same time, her reporter’s mind was wondering what would be the best opening lines for her article.
In a few minutes Annabelle came in, carrying a tray with four cups and a teapot, cream, sugar, and lemon. Four spoons clanked gently as she set it down on the coffee table.
Liz stared in amazement at the tray. There were even some small slices of baklava on a plate and four brightly colored napkins. If someone had asked her five minutes ago, she’d have said her mother didn’t even know how to make a pot of tea, and here she was with the whole complement of service.