Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  The men fell into a stupor. It was not what they had expected to be shown. Things were moving far too quickly! A smell of sickness seemed to seep into the air.

  “Where did you—” the foreign minister started.

  The king waved him off. No time to go through that. It didn’t matter anyway.

  The minister leaned against the back wall, his face turning dark gray. His mind raced, trying to absorb the terror of it all. The dead king. The crown prince. Both of them killed by Al-Rahman! A new king now among them. A new direction. A new track. And yes, King al-Rahman was a strong man, but he was as mindlessly ambitious as any man in the world. And now this, now these weapons. It was a terrifying thing! He sucked a deep breath, giving himself time to think.

  The room was deadly quiet. The men only stared. It was all they could do. After a full thirty seconds of silence, the oldest prince finally breathed. “When?” he asked dryly.

  “Soon,” Al-Rahman answered. “A few weeks. Maybe less. There are a few things yet to do, and the timing is critical.”

  The younger prince shook his head. “No, King al-Rahman!” he muttered in fear. “You will destroy the kingdom. You will destroy Medina and Mecca! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it is suicide.”

  Al-Rahman moved toward him, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his hands clenching, his breathing labored and fast. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been telling you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you understood anything?”

  “But brother, if you attack the United States, their position is clear. They will retaliate. They will kill us. They will destroy the entire Middle East. They will not absorb a nuclear detonation on their country and not retaliate.”

  King al-Rahman looked at him, his eyes on fire. “Oh, my brother, my dear brother, if you only understood. If you only knew what I know now, if you could only see what I see. It has all been so long in the making. And we are not alone. We have many allies; men are on our side, men that you don’t know about, unseen advocates and sponsors. There are many who will be working to ensure we succeed.”

  The younger brother shook his head. He was growing more scared, even angry. He trusted his brother, but he was not a fool. And he resented being dragged here, to this underground hole, to be shown a row of weapons that, if used, would only guarantee the kingdom’s destruction.

  His heart skipped, the spit in his mouth turning suddenly sour. “Brother, you know I love you,” he started to say. “But if you do this thing, if you attack the United States, then we are dead men. You must certainly know that. This isn’t good news. These weapons are not our salvation, they are our destruction, I’m sure.”

  The king glared at him a moment, angry thoughts rolling around in his head. The young prince looked away cautiously, seeing the emotion in his brother’s eyes. “King al-Rahman,” he mumbled, forcing himself to look at the king once again. “I trust you. You know that. I would die for you, my brother, you know that I would. Give me a knife, say the word, and I would thrust it deep in my heart. I would cut out my own intestines if you commanded me. But I have to tell you, dear brother, I simply do not understand what you’re thinking. I do not know your plan, but I am certain of this—if you choose to use these weapons, if you detonate an atomic warhead anywhere in the United States, they will find out who did it, and we will all be destroyed.”

  King al-Rahman stared into his eyes, then shook his head and showed a sudden smile. “Yes,” he answered tartly, “without the right preparations, we would be destroyed. If it was us against them, then I would be a fool.

  “But you see, Prince Mohammad, there is something more that we can do. Preparations. Arrangements. And before we use these weapons—and we will use them, my brother—we are going to change the world in a magnificent way. We are going to realign every ally, every enemy and friend. We are going to change the geopolitical world in a very fundamental way.

  “Then, when we have completed our work, it won’t be us against them. It will be the United States against the world; it will be the United States against the Middle East, the Arab nations, every Muslim on earth. It will be the United States against most of Europe and Asia. It will be the United States against China and South America as well. It will be the Americans and their lapdog Israelis against the rest of mankind. And they will be the criminals. They will be the ones who are feared. It will be the Americans and the Jews who will be hated and despised.

  “When we are finished, the world will not only support us, they will see justice in our cause. Then they will not only allow it, they will help us see our enemies destroyed.”

  FOURTEEN

  Camp Freedom, Central Iraq

  Sam sat with Bono at the end of the dining hall table. It was early morning, and the two had just come back from patrol. Although they were not on the same team, they had been on the same mission, patrolling on the western edge of Baghdad, where there had been reports of insurgents recruiting from among the poorest neighborhoods. Both men were exhausted, their faces blacked with camouflage and dirt. The patrol had been fruitless, and all they had found were two dead Chechen soldiers, easily identified by their Russian boots, who had been bound, their faces covered, and then shot in the head. They were finding more of this kind of thing now, and it gave them a some hope. If the terrorists were killing each other, that clearly made their job easier; more, though, it indicated the growing divisions between the various terrorist groups. Although bound by their common hatred for the United States, they also hated each other, and it wasn’t unusual to find the results of their fratricide.

  Sam rested his arms on the table, sipping a 20-ounce bottle of imported water from some unpronounceable desalinization plant on the eastern shore of Qatar. It tasted like saline solution, but Sam had grown used to it. It was cold and wet, and that was all he required anymore.

  The chow tent was a little cool—it had been a cold night—but it was growing warmer as it became more crowded during the change of patrols, some on their way in, some getting ready to go. Bono was wolfing down a huge pile of scrambled eggs and dry toast. He kept his fork moving while Sam sipped his drink. They didn’t talk much until Bono was nearly finished with his powdered eggs.

  “You hear about the Lizards?” Bono asked, referring to one of the other combat teams.

  “What’s that?” Sam looked up.

  Bono laughed as he leaned across the table. “A couple of their guys were working one of the checkpoints leading into the airport. Some fool comes speeding toward them, doesn’t even slow down. They fire warning shots, take out his tires, you know that routine. At the last second, the guy steers the car toward them, opens the door and bails out, even as the car is racing forward. The Lizard guys drop behind their cement bunkers, expecting a huge explosion; I guess little ol’ Lieutenant Ramirez has got to change his underwear tonight. The car screams toward them, hits the cement barricade, and . . . that’s it. No car bomb. No big explosion. Nothing. The guys come out from behind the barricade, wondering why they aren’t dead. They see the Iraqi running away, but he’s gotten too far for them to shoot. Then they see the money scattered all around.”

  “Money?” Sam wondered.

  “Yeah. A couple hundred thousand. Cash. U.S. bills.”

  “What? Why?”

  Bono shook his head. “No one knows.”

  Sam thought a minute. “So some crazy guy goes careening toward the checkpoint, refuses to stop, gets his tires shot out, steers toward the barricade, jumps out, and runs away, leaving behind a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash to spill on the ground?”

  Bono nodded and smiled. “Yeah. That’s what I was told.”

  “They don’t know what—”

  “They don’t know squat, my good friend. Just another day in this paradise we all call home.”

  Sam shook his head in disbelief as a stranger approached them and sat down at Bono’s side. Although there was plenty of room at the table, he sat close to them. Bono looked up and nodded, then turned back to his
eggs.

  The man was dressed in dark jeans, heavy boots, and a tan jungle shirt. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with short black hair and skin tanned from too many days in the sun. The stranger caught Sam’s eye, nodded his head in greeting, and turned back to his coffee, blowing over the hot brew. Sam studied him while he sipped. Who was he? Definitely not one of the U.S. civilian contractors. Too lean. Too relaxed. Those guys all drove around with a target on their foreheads, and every one of them was as skittish as a chicken in a yard full of wolves. Support staff from the civilian affairs office in Baghdad? Maybe. But if he was, he was new to the country. It would take him a couple weeks to get that scared look in his eye, the darting pupils, the constant swivel, the unremitting suspicion that most of them couldn’t hide. Got to be CIA, Sam thought. Plenty of them around.

  The man looked up and caught his eye again, then leaned toward him. “Captain Brighton?” he said, keeping his voice friendly but low. “I’ve come a long way to see you. Could we get away and have a quick talk somewhere?”

  Sam hesitated. “And you are?” he asked.

  Bono stopped eating and looked over. The stranger turned and nodded to him. “And you too, captain. I’d like to talk to you both.”

  “What about?” Bono demanded.

  The man extended his hand. “Colonel Gass,” he answered with a crushing grip. “Come on, men,” he said, pushing away from the table. “Like they say in the movies, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Washington, D.C.

  It was a little after nine in the evening, and General Brighton was just getting ready to leave his office when his computer chimed, telling him he had another batch of e-mails. He had already turned his monitor off, and he hesitated to turn it back on. He was supposed to meet Sara at a dinner party for the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, way out in Chevy Chase, and he was already more than an hour late. But he couldn’t resist.

  Fourteen new e-mail messages had been loaded into his inbox, but there was nothing so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning. Then he saw the last message, this one from Sam. It was short and ambiguous, but not so coded that Brighton didn’t understand:

  Dad,

  Things are going well here. Nothing earth-shattering to report (or dangerous, Mom will be happy to hear).

  Thought you might want to know that I had an interesting conversation yesterday morning. Met a guy who made me a very tempting offer. It looks like all those days of playing cowboys and Indians when I was a kid will come in handy.

  I’m real excited. I think this is my calling in this world. And if I can help this gig turn out good, that is a good thing and I’ll be proud.

  Just thought I’d let you know.

  Tell the family hi.

  Tell Mom I’m happy and doing well and that I think of her every day.

  Sam

  Brighton read the message quickly, and then typed a short reply:

  Very good. I am proud of you. It is a great honor, but one that you have earned.

  I pray for your safety every morning and night.

  Come home when you can.

  Dad

  FIFTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  Azadeh walked toward the bright sun, which was just cresting the top of the great Zagros Mountains. The craggy peaks, topped in dark granite, had sloughed off ten million years’ worth of broken rock, and a huge boulder field spread across the foothills on the west side of the range. Above the Zagros Mountains, the sky was clear and open, a deep blue that had not yet taken on the lighter hue of mid-morning. Azadeh breathed the air, smelling hints of salt water and rotting seaweed mixed with the deep musk of junipers and pines from the dry forest on the mountain ridges to her right. The morning was crisp and clean, and though it was still chilly she felt the soft rays of the sun beginning to warm the skin on her face and the backs of her hands.

  This would be a good day. She felt it inside. The day before, her letter to Omar had been returned, “Deficient Address” stamped across the back flap. Staring at the unopened and tattered envelope, Azadeh realized that if she were to get out of Khorramshahr it would be on her own.

  Earlier in the week, she had talked to one of the U.N. headmasters, a stern Muslim woman from some unknown village along the Pakistan border, about being allowed to attend classes at the improvised school. High-school classes were held in the cafeteria tent between meals, but so far only young men had been allowed to attend. There was talk now of letting the young women attend the classes as well, and Azadeh had been the first to sign up when the list of those who might be interested had been passed around. Today she would get her answer and she was full of hope.

  Standing outside her tent, a small, aluminum, semi-permanent structure mounted on a plywood platform and covered with a wide sheet of canvas to keep the rain off, Azadeh sniffed the fall air, and then glanced around, realizing she was going to be late for breakfast if she didn’t hurry along.

  She was just turning toward the chow line when something stopped her. She paused, thinking a long moment. Then words she had spoken in her morning prayer repeated themselves in her mind: “I would like to do something good today.”

  She hesitated, wondering why the words would come back to her now.

  I would like to do something good.

  She looked quickly around.

  There was no one there. No one who needed her.

  “No. There is someone.” The voice was clear in her mind.

  Turning left and right, she confirmed once again that she was alone; the row of small tents under the canvas sheet appeared empty, and the dirt path that ran between the rows of tents was deserted as well. She could hear the low sound of the gathering crowd in the distance, up near the top of a small hill where the refugees were forming up in the chow line, but no one was around her, and she didn’t understand.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  “No. There is someone near.”

  She shook her head, thinking, then put the feeling aside. Turning, she started walking to the cafeteria hall. She was already late, and those last in line got very little to eat.

  Then another voice came to her, soft, subtle and yet unmistakably clear. “If you want to help, you’ve got to listen.”

  Listen?! That was not how Allah worked. He had no voice, no spirit, no intention to speak directly to man. He caused. He controlled. He manipulated. He dominated. But Allah did not speak. That was not how Allah worked.

  Yet she stood there, unmoving, and then slowly nodded her head. “I will listen,” she answered in an uncertain voice.

  She closed her eyes, her head low, and waited. But she didn’t hear anything. And the feeling didn’t come back again.

  A minute passed. Then another. She caught a whiff of coffee, hot oatmeal, and brown sugar drifting down from the cafeteria tent. The wind had picked up, coming now from the mountains. She remained still, and the shadows fluttered as the canvas over the tents flapped in the gentle wind.

  Still she waited, unmoving.

  She heard the sounds of the eager voices diminish as the refugees who had been standing in line received their daily rations and started eating in silence. She felt the air getting warmer as the sun rose over the mountain peaks.

  “I will stand here all day,” she said to herself. “I will stand here all year if I have to. I will stand here forever until I understand.”

  Then she heard it, a soft sound behind her, but not one she had expected to hear.

  * * *

  Pari al-Faruqi was too old to consider the possibility that she might one day actually live in freedom. She had been in the camp too long to even remember what it was like to live somewhere else, and the thought of leaving Khorramshahr was almost distressing to her now. Knowing she would never leave, she had accepted this place and sought to make it her home.

  Pari’s assigned quarters were a small plywood and tin-roofed hut with prefabricated pieces of fo
am insulation tacked to the ceiling and walls. Most of the 600 refugees in Camp Khorramshahr lived in these semi-permanent structures—the newest refugees stayed in tents until a plywood hut became available—and Pari had decorated her small home to an almost ridiculous degree. A single, small window and door took up most of the front wall, but she had taken colored chalk and painted fantastic murals on the other walls, the only paintable surface available to her in Khorramshahr. The colors were bright, with oranges, pinks, and blue hues depicting a sunrise over the mountains, spring flowers, and the black sand and deep green water of the Persian Gulf. The paintings were awkward—whatever talents Pari had, painting was clearly not one of them—but they were certainly more pleasant to look at than the bare, foam-insulation walls. Under the murals she had placed tin cans filled with wild chrysanthemums and croton plants she had gathered along the fence, back where a small stream kept the ground wet and agreeable. In one corner of the hut she had set up her small, foot-operated sewing machine, the only object from Iran she had brought with her to Khorramshahr, and through the years she had taken odd scraps of cloth and crafted dresses for the younger girls in the camp as well as colorful quilts, one of which was on top of her cot. Her clothes were neatly folded and arranged on top of a small bureau, and the only pair of shoes she owned was placed neatly at the foot of her bed. The floor was covered with a threadbare Persian rug, a gift to her from one of the U.N. volunteers who had worked in the camp some eight or nine years before. On the bureau was a black-and-white photograph of a young man, handsome, light-haired, with blue eyes and a thin nose, clearly not Persian. A silver cross, highly polished, hung over the head of her cot.

  It was a home of poverty by any measure, humble but clean, warm enough but never quite comfortable, adequate, but without even the simplest luxury. It was a home filled with as much beauty as she was able to create from the barren environment around her and despite its lack of elegance, Pari was satisfied.