Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  Jalal hands me my briefcase and shakes my hand. “We will meet again soon, Agha. I have your address in Chicago. I will write soon. I will also send you the money I owe you.” He gets out and closes the door. Still grumbling and talking to himself about the mortal danger and risk he is taking by having a foreigner in his car, the taxi driver drives me to Merhabad Airport.

  The drive to the airport gives me a chance to reflect on Jalal and our relationship. There is something mysterious about that young man. One day, we will meet again and hopefully discuss those topics that have been avoided for the past two years, even the unmentionable personal topics. I am determined to get answers no matter how uncomfortable it will make Jalal.

  I am an outsider lost inside something I cannot control. I have limits. The people of Iran have realized they have no limits; they are true believers that Khomeini will take them to their promised land. They believe he will not betray them. He incites his most fervent followers against the Shah and the foreigners. He has identified me as one of his enemies.

  On the streets, at the bank, in the airport, I felt their loathing scorch through me. I measure the shame surrounding me as if I am fighting for my life in a fog. Grief like no other circles my mind like a vice and holds me. A life of darkness beckons. The smallness of my future burns and lies shattering in front of me, resting uneasily in my thoughts. Will I ever see light again?

  CHAPTER SIX

  It is nearly curfew time when I finally manage to push and bully my way into the airport building. Without having to move suitcases or be encumbered by boxes, carpets, or children, I am able to squeeze through gaps speedily. Once inside, I move toward a row of benches. I get there just as a siren goes off. Soldiers using megaphones shout to the mob inside to move toward the row of benches. They instruct the people outside to move toward one of the hangars a few hundred yards away.

  An old woman suddenly jumps up, nearly knocking me over, shouting that she wants to go with her family to the hangar. Struggling with a large fat man, fury ignites as I push him away so hard that he nearly overbalances. Breathing hard, I push myself into the old lady’s vacated seat.

  Soldiers lock all doors leading into the departure lounge. No one can come in or get out. Large arc lamps are turned on, illuminating the whole area so soldiers can immediately react to any potential threats or terrorist acts. Three tanks clank noisily outside, each moving into a designated area as they take up their positions for the night.

  Making sure that everyone in the lounge can see and hear them, soldiers set up a machine gun near each of the doors, shouting for people to move away from the guns. Soldiers, their guns at the ready, pace out twenty steps, shoving people away from the doors to give them an unobstructed line of fire. They place sandbags around the guns and the soldiers manning them.

  Families who have been sitting near the doors scatter in all directions, move away from the guns, trying to get out of the potential line of fire. Nervously, they watch as soldiers take up battle positions. The loud din in the room has ceased. People became quiet and speak in hushed voices as they try to find as much space as possible to settle in for the night.

  Neither riches nor influences can help anyone this night. Trying to escape out of Teheran has introduced a commonality. Sitting on the floor is a great leveler of rich and poor. No one admits he or she is escaping. All speak of looking forward to their vacations, visiting friends and family. However, the only thing of importance inside the airport tonight is how many square inches of space a person can occupy before an elbow or foot intrudes into one’s personal space.

  Having a seat gives me status. I know it causes envy and resentment. I can see it in their eyes as people prepare to settle themselves on the floor. Suitcases and valuables are stacked in piles. Vigilantly, family members position themselves strategically around the piles of suitcases, backs resting against their property, sitting with legs stretched out in front, hands ready to ward off thieves. Resourceful women have brought food, tea, soda and water.

  I’ve hardly eaten or slept much. The next twelve hours will be my second night without sleep. I’d only drunken two cups of tea today, and my stomach rumbles constantly, craving and demanding water, food, anything. I can smell and taste foulness in my breath. However, money will not buy me even a crust. If I want to eat, I will have to trade or swap something. I can only trade my seat for food to one of those sitting on the floor, but nothing will make me give up my seat.

  For the first time in 24 hours, I feel I am establishing my superiority perversely over this fucking group of Iranians who are forced to sit at my feet. These people hate me and I have begun to hate them with a passion. Closing my eyes, not wanting to see people eating, nor wanting to betray how hungry I am, I try to close my nose to seductive aromas of food.

  Checking my watch, I calculate that it will be almost nine hours and forty minutes before this prison will be unlocked. I try to formulate a plan of what to do when morning comes. Breathing deeply, I repeat a mantra, but can’t concentrate. I try doing relaxation exercise techniques to calm myself, but I know I am starting to hallucinate from lack of sleep and lack of food.

  * * *

  In the army, there had been a drill we had gone through many times. They called it T-R-O-D—“The Road of Dreams,” but we’d all known it was only a drill. A shower and a hot meal would be there at the end as we compared and joked about the levels of hallucinations we had gone through, what we’d experienced, and how long we could hold out from lack of sleep and food before we collapsed.

  But nothing had prepared me for the trauma, tension, and terror I have experienced over the last twenty-four hours. This is real life, not a drill. A great rage draws inside of me. I am trapped—and I am to blame.

  By midnight, I know that the Devil has opened a branch of hell in the airport. I must have fallen asleep, for I suddenly awake to see the Devil floating in a black chador. Wherever I look, it follows me, floating into my vision. It has no eyes, but I know it sees me. Our relationship is friendly. I am not afraid.

  All toilets in the airport are by now blocked and overflowing. A ripe stench of sewage wafts everywhere. I feel sure I can feel it settling in a mist falling thickly like a spider web and settling into my hair and all over my body. Babies and adults piss and shit where they sit. Some people have diarrhea, moaning in pain as their bowels open, unable or unwilling to move. Smelling the stink, gagging, people try to move away, but there is no place to move. They implore the soldiers to open the doors, offering them money and pleading with them, all to no avail.

  From past experience, knowing what will happen to the toilets, the soldiers have come prepared. They have neck scarves over their noses and mouths. The soldiers trust no one, suspect everyone. If anyone comes too close, they scream, guns cocked, ready to shoot anyone for doing anything. They are jittery, their eyes scissor everywhere, expecting to be attacked, not knowing where it will come from, sure that it will happen this night.

  A few hours ago, I realized I needed to urinate badly. Tried sitting cross-legged. Tried moving from side to side. It is like a grinding, persistent knife turning in my groin. The pain is becoming so unbearable I can’t endure it any longer. Politely, with hesitation, for these are the first words I’ve spoken to the man sitting to my right, I ask if by chance he has a tin, pot or bottle I can use to relieve myself. I apologize most profusely for bothering him, but I am in pain and cannot wait any longer.

  The man on my right just turns his head and ignores me, not bothering to answer. The man on my left apologizes and says that unfortunately he has nothing that can be used. He says he is alone and only has one small suitcase. Turning away from me, the man continues to count the circle of Moslem prayer beads, divided into three sets of thirty-three. These were the ninety-nine Tributes to Allah, praising Allah at all times, always held in the right hand, the hand of righteousness.

  By now, I am writhing in pain. My head throbs and aches, the lightheadedness returns, and with it, the Devil mo
cking my pain. I spit on the floor near the shoes of the man sitting on my right, drawing a sharp stare from him sitting primly picking at his teeth while his wife and children sit on the floor.

  Grabbing the man’s elbow, I squeeze hard. He recoils, but I put my mouth next to his ear and hiss, “Agha, I am a madman with a Devil on my shoulder. I was released from an insane asylum this very morning. It is with pride I say I am truly crazy and I enjoy killing people. If you do not give me a container to piss into right now, I will piss on your suitcases, over your clothes, and onto you as I hold you down on the floor and piss in your ugly loathsome face. Do I get a container now or do I piss on you?”

  His mouth opens and shuts, blowing like a fish, his eyes bulging, for I am lurking over him ready to throw him to the floor. He turns to his wife furiously, “Stupid fool, give this man an empty bottle quick, any bottle. Don’t look at me like that, woman, must I beat you first? Give me that Pepsi bottle there, that one on the floor.”

  I grab the bottle from her outstretched hand, unzip my pants, and start urinating. Embarrassed, the woman turns away from me. Urine unable to flow dribbles out slowly, causing me so much pain I groan. Gritting my teeth, for the pain is excruciating, I continue voiding slowly into the bottle.

  It takes a long time to fill the bottle. When it overflows, I continue to urinate on the floor, oblivious of people staring at me. Eventually I open my eyes and see the disgust and loathing on their faces. Looking at them, I smile, close my eyes and continue pissing.

  Many hours have passed. I drift in and out of sleep. Most people are asleep. I feel lightheaded again, pleased, relaxed, and so very happy. The Devil is happy, too. We continue to laugh together. She is now sitting lightly on my shoulder, comfortable and at ease.

  I suddenly realize if the Devil wears a chador, she must be a women. This will be our very own secret. No one else will know that the Devil is a woman. I start to smile at the fact that I have a secret, a devilish secret. Every religion thinks that the Devil is a man; only I know the truth. The enormity of this revelation is breathtaking. Laughter takes control of my body. Small personal giggles at first. I try to laugh quietly, but can’t. My body shakes, twitching and trembling while I fight to control it, wondering how far I am in T-R-O-D., how far down the pathway have I traveled on “The Road of Dreams.”

  I am sure I have never reached this depth of craziness before. I am scared. I’d learned that sleep deprivation and lack of food were the surest way to break down any enemy. When physical and mental faculties starve, the brain and body start to fail rapidly. It is starting to happen to me and I am powerless to stop it. I can feel myself moving toward insanity. Demons are fighting in my brain, overpowering and taking possession as I struggle to stop laughing with a hundred people sitting on the floors of the hell that is an airport.

  Tears stream down my cheeks, overflowing. I have no control and my body shakes for a long time until I fall asleep.

  At six o’clock in the morning, soldiers open the door. Fresh air roars into the terminal, jolting me awake. Confused and disorientated, I struggle to comprehend what is happening. From a great distance, I watch the stampede of people charging outside. Fully awake now, I can see them fighting for spaces to relieve themselves, men on one side of the road, and women scrambling to look for bushes or trees, their frightened children running after them screaming. No one can wait, so when the bushes are filled with women and no more space is available, the rest of the women run further away in their frantic search for bushes.

  I suddenly remember the American paratrooper’s card with its 24-four hour number to call. Focusing, trying to use all of my concentration, I remember that it is in my wallet. Relieved to know where it is, and that it is not lost, I decide I need to rest a while longer and regain some of my strength before taking the card out of my wallet.

  Suddenly I hear shouting. Alarmed, I look up. People are running towards various ticket counters. Ticket counters sell tickets. Tickets mean a plane. A plane means freedom. Instantaneously I realize that no matter what, I must get to a ticket counter. Somehow, from where I do not know, a small hidden reserve of energy scorches through me. Jumping up, I run swearing and hopping over people stretched out on the floor, lifting my arm as I run hit out with my briefcase at people in my way until finally, I get to the Pan Am counter. Panting, chest heaving, sucking in deep breaths hungrily, I rest my briefcase on the top of the counter. I am first in line.

  The ticket clerk doesn’t look at me. Instead, he counts out his tickets. Fistfights break out behind me with people who try to break into a line. The clerk gets up holding a ticket and shouts, “Athens, leaves 11 a.m. Cash only in a foreign currency.”

  I shout at him, “I am first in line, I want that ticket.”

  He ignores me and listens as the bidding behind me starts, at $1,000, then $1,200, $1,500, and continues to $2,500 and stops. A man comes forward stands next to me, saying he wants four tickets. He pulls out a money belt and begins counting out U.S. dollars. The clerk ignores me, shrugs his shoulders, and counts the money. When he has counted $10,000, he gives the man four tickets.

  Dazed and in shock, I stand staring at the clerk as he gets up, shouts, “Cairo.” The frenzied bidding begins again. There is no longer a line of people. It is as if I am in a bazaar with people crowding and massing behind me bidding and negotiating merchandize. Athens would normally sell at about $250. All I have in my wallet is $1,200 in cash, $5,000 in traveler’s checks, and credit cards.

  Crushed, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I can no longer stand where I am, I have to get away. I give up. Pulling my briefcase off the counter top, I begin moving away. No one looks at me, for all eyes are riveted on the clerk.

  I must get to a telephone and call the embassy. I make my way towards the banks of pay phones. A terrible feeling of hopelessness washes over me grabs and twists my heart, and I feel my hands trembling.

  Unexpectedly, the crowd parts. Surprised, I look up and see a group of soldiers marching on either side of a general. Gold leaves shine on his helmet, his back ramrod straight, medals decorate his chest. I see Sadegh.

  I shout, “Sadegh, Sadegh!” and move towards him. Immediately, the soldiers surrounding him turn to fire at me. I drop my briefcase and put my hands up high above my head, fingers spread, and fall to my knees. They don’t shoot, but form a ring around me, rifles pointed at my head.

  I call to the general, “Sadegh, it is Jay, Jay Reilly.” No one moves. No one talks. No murmurs from the crowd, just a hum of silence. I look past the soldier standing straight in front of me. I can smell his breath floating against my cheek. He suddenly moves backward as Sadegh eases past him. Recognition flies briefly across his face. His gaze fixes, sharpens, and pulls into my eyes. He continues looking at me, measuring, calculating, and weighing his options. I know he is deciding whether or not he should walk away—or have me shot.

  “Jay, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to get out of here, Sadegh. Please help me. You know I can be of assistance to you in the States with my contacts. Sadegh, you and your family will soon need my help when you come there.”

  He mentally calculates how I can help him. Am I worth the effort? Moments connect, drifting through silence that screams. I have seconds to live. Six shots. I will die quickly.

  The shadow of a smile tightens. Sadegh’s eyes are thin flints of ice, “Of course, I’ll help you my friend. We are good friends, yes, best friends, you know that. Do you want to go to Chicago?”

  I nod. He turns to one of the soldiers and motions for him to help me up. Then he turns away. The soldier assists me to stand, retrieves my briefcase, and I follow Sadegh. The soldier walks steadily behind me, his gun pointed at my back.

  * * *

  When I board, I am first on the plane. I grab a window seat. Putting my briefcase on the floor, I place my feet on top. I can’t have someone steal my passport from the overhead bin while I sleep. I fall asleep within minutes.

  I am aw
akened by a couple sitting next to me, arguing fiercely. I look through the window and see it is snowing outside. The plane is three-quarters full. People trickle through from the terminal, a few at a time making their way towards the plane. My seat cost nothing. Sadegh needs friends, contacts, and references, not money. If he and his wife have to flee, I would be an additional insurance policy for him in the States. Sadegh made no demands of me, so I presume the overthrow by Khomeini is eminent—days, weeks, maybe even hours. I fall asleep again.

  I am awakened by the thrust of the jet engines accelerating as the plane rises into the air. A great cheer goes up as passengers congratulate each other. They become boisterous and friendly. I am now fully awake. My watch says 6:15. The plane had to leave before curfew. Luggage is piled high in the aisles for the length of the plane. No flight attendants will be serving meals.

  Briefly, I wonder how much money the clerks will take home tonight. Then I peer out the window, watching the lights of Teheran fade as the plane climbs confidently higher and higher.

  Teheran, 6:15 p.m.

  The room is dark. The penlight finds the time on his watch face. Shadows and fingers of light flow out into the room. Jay must have flown out of Teheran today, as he would have had to be home before curfew. The committee will take this building tonight. They had to wait until curfew and must be getting ready to find their way to one of the houses nearby in the street that they can hide in and prepare for the storming of this building.

  Jalal knows they will kill him if they find him here. He twists again and the flash eases into the groove of the camera. He turns off the penlight and pockets it. Then he lifts the larger flashlight and turns it on.