Over the next few days, Hakim watched the news almost every minute he was awake. He listened to the reports: which plant went down when and how that had caused the next plant in the grid to shut down. Before long, the whole interconnected, tangled monstrosity strangled itself and shut down. He got on the internet at the local internet café rather than use his own computer. He looked at the poster on the wall. It had four words on it in simple, government block letters: See Something. Say Something.
That was enough of a warning for him to work harder at blending in. He could not risk an investigation. From the café, he conducted further research as carefully as he could, using multiple accounts and a trick he learned in Iran on how to bounce his IP address off different servers to confuse anyone trying to trace him. If he was lucky, all his effort was just paranoid. If not, it may save him and his cause.
Power had by now been returned to most of the affected areas. It was therefore relatively easy for him to find out what happened in Detroit and Cleveland. People were all too willing to go online and vent their frustrations at the public utilities over slow response times. He sifted through complaints in New York City how thinly spread the police forces had been and took note of the fact that most of the time the cops were driving around with their lights on to reassure the public.
Hakim wrote everything down on a yellow legal pad. He didn’t chance printing materials from the café computer—that could be traced, he figured. Handwritten notes could not be traced by anyone unless they had the original.
He was disappointed that there wasn’t large scale looting and rioting, but comforted by the fact that everyone feared that possibility and most commentators were even surprised when it did not occur. He had cursed often over the previous few days as the power was restored, bit by bit. He had noted with some small satisfaction, however, that many so-called experts were genuinely worried that if the power had been out only a little longer, rioting and looting would have erupted like a volcano in the bigger cities.
Fifty million Americans without power all because one power plant, located in Canada, New York or Ohio was overloaded. That was the general consensus three days later. No one was sure what started it, but those three regions were the prime suspects. Terrorism was ruled out almost from the start, and rather smugly at that, Hakim thought. He found it amusing that even now, so long after the attack Americans were still jittery at the memories of 9-11.
A real nation would have learned an important lesson and made itself stronger. A brave nation would have used the images of that day to redouble its resolve. You people are weak. Soft. You try to avoid remembering what happened so you can sleep better at night. You had already forgotten, until three days ago. Fools. He flashed a contemptuous smirk at the screen and continued reading articles.
Yet even while the officials confirmed it wasn’t terrorism, they admitted they didn’t know the cause. Hakim found that very amusing. If they didn’t know what caused the Great Blackout, how could they rule out terrorism so fast? Everything was geared to keeping the populace calm and unworried. It all went back to the fear or rioting and general unrest, he figured.
Terrorism, indeed. Hakim smiled and looked at his stack of yellow legal pads. His was a righteous cause, a crusade, a jihad—not mere terrorism. But if the Americans wanted terrorism, he’d give it to them. Hakim picked up his pre-paid cell phone and made a short call.
“Hey, Bob! How ya doin’?” He asked cheerfully. His mid-west accent was flawless.
“Great, John! What’s up?” The voice on the other end could easily have been in any suburb in the nation. Just a regular guy, relaxing in a hammock in the back yard with a glass of iced tea.
“Got some good news for you,” said Hakim, glancing at his notes.
“Great! You going to the game tonight after all?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Hakim before hanging up. He laughed out loud at the ease of it all. So, one part of his plan was set in motion.
Now, to start the inroads of a truce. We will need allies, he thought. It all balanced on whether or not he could get help in his fight. He felt they were ripe for the picking, yet needed a little more convincing. He got up and closed the browser, then walked out of the cafe with a smile for the girl behind the counter. Outside, he blinked in the sunlight and casually dropped his cell phone in the first trash can he found on the way home.
Hakim headed down street towards his just-above-slum-level apartment building. With a three day growth of beard and half a cigarette in his mouth, ratty jeans and a plain white tank top undershirt on, he rounded the corner into the steamy Chicago summer sun. He tucked the notepad as carelessly as he could under his arm and tried to affect the air of one who had no cares at all. He looked just like anyone else in this depressing neighborhood of inequity and sin. Just as he had expected, only a few blocks away, he found his dealer.
“Hakim, my man!” said the young black youth by way of greeting. Hakim figured him at no more than 16 or 17 years of age. They slapped hands and shared cigarettes.
“What is happening, my friend?” asked Hakim, forcing his Middle Eastern accent for the amusement of the young drug dealer. Americans always thought it sounded funny and innocent . “You have the smack-down, yes?”
“No, man, it’s just smack,” laughed the drug dealer. He casually reached into the paper bag sitting on the steps to the row house he was in front of and handed over a small dime bag to his Arab friend. "You goin' to school?" he asked with a grin.
Hakim started to nod and explain but Tahru pulled out a fancy cell phone and began to type a text. Hakim frown. The rudeness of American youth was stunning. In Iran, the boy would be beaten halfway to death for insulting an elder thus. It was clear that to Hakim that Tahru didn’t give a rat’s ass about the ignorant Arab immigrant he saw. Hakim babbled on about taking a class in English as a second language. He paid well and was friendly enough, so Tahru was lulled into thinking of him as harmless. Ah, what was the word? Rube? Yes. The boy thinks I am a rube.
Hakim finished speaking and took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. He looked up the street and pretended he didn't care that Tahru was reading a message and not paying attention him. If he wanted to ignore the man who didn't seem to notice that the poison Tahru sold him was only 50-50 and not worth a quarter what he charged, that was fine by Hakim. He fantasized about showing the young thug Allah's mercy at the point of a scimitar. That would get his attention.
This has to be delicate…thought Hakim, taking the drugs and handing over his cash. Hakim despised drugs on principle and would merely toss what he purchased in a trash can after getting what he wanted from Tahru. He once again marveled that such a transaction occurred in broad daylight in America. Truly this place deserves the name Great Satan. And to be sold these filthy drugs by a child!
The Arab casually glanced around the street, making small talk with Tahru. Hakim noticed that Tahru had his customary comb sticking out of his mop of tangled greasy hair the boy called his ‘fro’. He forced his mind to not criticize the foolish American. After all, Hakim was there to recruit, not alienate.
“My friend, Tahru…I am wondered…:” he paused as Tahru laughed. “I see this man. A black man…a great black man on the television.” Tahru was gyrating gently to his own internal music, seeming to not pay any attention to his customer. No doubt he is high on something, observed Hakim silently.
“Yeah?” asked the kid, eyeing the street for Pigs and competitors.
“His name, I cannot say—Frakahan…Frankenhan…he say he hate the white man—“
“Oh, you mean dat fool Calypso Louie. Shit…” said Tahru, shrugging and gesturing with his hands. Hakim always had a hard time following his drug dealer when the young man slipped into slang speech like that. “You axe my brotha Malcolm ‘bout dat fool. I ain’t know shit ‘bout him.”
Hakim already knew this but acted confused. “But my friend, you only have a one-brother, Jamal?”
Tahru made a cl
icking sound of derision with his mouth and tongue. “Tsst! Man, why you be trippin’? You know…Malcolm…oh—snap!” Tahru laughed. “Dassright…he done converted before you came ‘round last time. Say he all up in dat Islam bulls—“
“Praise be to Allah!” Hakim said before the insolent fool in front of him could blaspheme the Faith, inadvertently or not.
Tahru grabbed his 40oz beer and swilled away. “See? Dat’s the same thing he be sayin’ all the time! Always with his Allah this and Allah that. Shoot…crazy motherf—“
“Ah, thank you my friend! Thank you,” said Hakim, interrupting again. The foul mouthed American would face Allah’s wrath for speaking such. “I did not know your brother was a true believer?” He masked his face in surprise though he knew very well of the older brother's recent conversion. It was part of his plan to recruit new converts like this Malcolm nee Jamal.
Tahru, pacified by the beer, leaned confidently against the rusty handrail and plucked at his own soiled ‘wife beater’ tank top. His dark skin glistened with sweat in the summer heat. He pulled his flashy sunglasses down a bit over his nose to see Hakim clearly. “Man, you gots to meet Jamal—" he clucked his teeth in mock irritation. He put his hands together as if in humility and prayer before saying, "I mean his Holiness Malcolm Abdul Rashid.” Tahru laughed at his serious sounding voice and over enunciated words. "Jamal done gone off an' found religion," he laughed again.
“May I meet Jam—I mean, Malcolm? I wish to discuss the teachings of—“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever man. Just go on in—hey, watch the smack man, don’t step on that." Tahru hastily gathered his wares and shifted postiion on the step. He waved a hand over his shoulder as a local girl came into view. "Momma in the kitchen, she tell you where to go.” Tahru absently waved Hakim past him, eyes on the girl. Almost as an after-thought, he called over his shoulder, “Momma! Man here to see Jamal!” He smiled at the girl, drowning in gold chains, who blew him a kiss.
From inside the dark and stagnant row house Hakim heard a deep female voice call out, “Tah-ruuu! Don’t you be sendin’ no mo’ o’ yo’ crackheads in my house! And yo’ brother name Malcolm!”
"How you doin', baby?" asked Tahru. He looked up at Hakim and hissed, "Man, go on in...you makin' me look bad!"
Hakim paused for a second, his hand on the rusty doorknob to the screen door. Allah protect me from these barbarians! Your will be done…
For his plan to succeed there had to be an expansion of the alliance. Here was his first try at diplomacy. Everything depended on this moment. Hakim entered the row house with a smile on his face.
SARASOTA
The Calm Before the Storm
Present Day...
ERIK LOOKED AT the list in his hands. Everything in his bug-out-bag was listed and numbered. The first aid supplies: tapes, bandages, gauzes, antibiotics, iodine tinctures, band aids, tissues, safety scissors, ibuprofen, Tylenol and decongestants were all listed with expiration dates.
The next category was tools, then everything non-food/first aid related. The trash bags for making impromptu shelters or ponchos. There were the plastic ties, good for securing just about anything. Work gloves—the leather kind, not too expensive, but just enough to protect hands in a rough environment. The aftermath of a tornado or a hurricane can be a nasty place.
He had flashlights, batteries, rubber bands and safety pins. There were playing cards and a pocket Bible. He had sets of clothes to change into, two full sets of toiletries, and his favorite, the old surplus USMC K-Bar with a mini-survival kit crammed full of fishing line, sinkers, hooks and other small implements of destruction, all secured and lashed on the sheath in parachute cord.
As far as weapons were concerned, he had more knives and swords than he had fingers and toes and Brin rolled her eyes every time she saw them. Try as she might to save space, Erik would not part with them. As a history buff and teacher, Erik was especially fascinated by the Dark Ages in Europe. He also loved Japanese History and had even studied in Japan for a year in college, traveling with his Japanese History Professor and the rest of the class. Swords were a natural outreach of that fascination with history. They were tools of the time, relics, collector's items. Swords were pieces of history.
This was a large part of the reason that Brin’s protective family had accepted him so readily. Brin’s father, Tom Hideyo, an electrical engineer, was a second generation Japanese-American, the son of Japanese emigrants who fled the Land of the Rising Sun shortly after World War II. Brin’s mother, Allison Stewart, was a card-carrying California girl who thrived on beaches and tanning oil. It was an eclectic mix, the scientist and the beach bunny, but they had produced a stunning young woman in Brin.
She had the smallness and grace of her Japanese ancestors, yet retained the hardiness and strength of mother’s Colonial English forbearers. Through some mystery of gene-sequencing, Brin was a 5’4”, light skinned, dark haired, blue eyed beauty with the alluring slightly almond shaped eyes that many Japanese-Americans enjoyed. She looked remarkably similar to her grandmother.
Erik smiled as he remembered the early days of their courtship. He had bonded with Brin’s grandparents almost from the start. Erik had impressed them by demonstrating his knowledge of Japanese culture when he removed his shoes before entering their house. He had shown the proper respect to his elders in the form of bows and a dose of stoicism. Erik shocked them even more with his rudimentary knowledge of the Japanese language, which he had picked up on that trip with his professor.
Even his passion for swords was impressive to her family. Brin’s paternal grandfather, Hatori Hideyo hailed from a family long known to be the caretakers of their master’s Samurai’s swords. The family tradition, in western terms, would be that of the hereditary squire. Not merely a lowly position for a serf, but one of honor in the East. From that first meeting, when Brin and Erik had barely started dating, as far as the grandparents were concerned, the fair skinned and red haired giant was to be considered a son. Erik had been grateful to learn that old Hatori and his wife Sachiko had put considerable pressure on Brin’s parents to give their blessing to Brin’s marriage to Erik.
One of the best memories Erik had of that trip had been watching his girlfriend, her father, and her grandfather all performing a slow karate kata, a practice routine in the Japanese martial arts. Brin’s grandfather had served in the Japanese Army in World War II in a minor capacity and had been trained in the martial arts by his father long before. When he was old enough, Brin’s father had been taught the ways of karate and later his daughter as well. Erik had dabbled in Karate and joined a dojo in college, but had never advanced beyond a mere initiate. Quickly he found Brin a willing teacher and soon her father became his sensei. While Brin easily outpaced Erik in skills and grace, Erik would usually win their sparring contests just from his sheer strength.
He had mentioned on more than one occasion that should he ever be in a bar fight, he wanted his girlfriend at his back, to the amusement and disbelief of his friends. Each time Brin and Erik would make the trip to California to visit her grandparents, they would marvel at the young couple’s budding love and smile at their partnered katas. Her grandfather then began to instruct Erik in the art of iaito, the way of the sword.
Now that they were in Florida, he had finally started towards his PhD in Japanese Studies. Once he had finally landed a job at the local high school as a history teacher, he devoted all his spare time to his thesis. In spare moments, Erik would promise himself that as soon as he and Brin got a house and he got a room to himself—a library or office or study—he’d start to seriously collect and display his swords.
Having a shotgun around would be a lot better, he admitted to himself. The creative part of his mind still clung to the vision of him charging towards an burglar in the middle of the night, katana glistening in the moonlight to defend his house and family. There was just something...uncivilized about a gun. Any brute could fire a gun. It took a trained warrior to wield a sword
. That was a man's weapon. Up close and personal.
Brin's grandfather had many times told him, "If you aim to take a life, have the honor to do it yourself. That is the way of the samurai. Do not let a bullet do so for you from a distance. There is no honor in that. Just death. That is the way of the barbarian. Easy and impersonal. There is no challenge, no combat, no honor."
He glanced up at the poster on his wall, a picture of a Navy SEAL emerging from a patch of dark water in the moonlight. There was no big rifle, just a camouflaged man rising from the water in the black of night with a knife in his hand and a look of terrible resolve on his face. A fearsome sight for an enemy to see, probably the last thing said enemy would see. The caption read in bold letters:
The gun is just a tool. I am the weapon.
United States Navy S.E.A.L.s
Erik brought himself back to the task at hand and checked off the other odds and ends. He had to remind himself that he was deep in his semi-annual task to make sure nothing was expired in his emergency kit.
He looked over the US Coast Guard rations and other non-perishable foods he had stored in the large duffle bag. A camping utensil set, emergency stove, some candles, water…
Everything looked in order. Erik picked up the bag and winced—it felt like it weighed over thirty pounds. Still. He had been trying to lighten the load lately after the idea formed in his head that maybe he and Brin might not be able to ‘hunker’ down at home. If they had to leave, the bug-out-bag would be a chore to carry for any length of time, even for him.
Erik guesstimated they had about a three week to a month supply of canned foods, soups, beans and rice, not to mention the SPAM and Vienna sausages and crackers. Maybe they wouldn't need to use the bag anyway. They could just stay put during an emergency.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 2