Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  He understands immediately how I reacted the way I have.

  When the tape finishes playing, Josh says, “Without that recording, I would never have believed you—not in a million years. What do you want me to do? This is Chicago. I’m not FBI or CIA; this is an American problem.”

  “Remember my partner, Kameran Samimi?” Josh gives a slight nod.

  His fingers begin drumming on the desktop. I recognize the sign of irritation.

  “As the highest surviving elder of the Baha’i religion, all Kameran had to do to live was to obey the mullahs. By refusing to sanction their orders that yellow stars be worn on all clothing of the Baha’is so Iranians could see who in their communities were Baha’is and non-Islamists, he wrote his own death warrant. Khomeini’s mullahs killed Kameran by torturing him to death in Evan Prison. What a terrible waste of a man who had so much to offer his people. Kameran was wrong. The Baha’is needed a leader who was alive, not a dead martyr.”

  Josh took out a packet of gum, threw a stick my way, and popped two pieces into his mouth. “I gave a lecture to a group of new recruits in Washington last month. None of them realized that throughout the history of the world, no man over the age of eighty has ever been able to do what Khomeini did. Gandhi was much younger. Sitting under a tree in Paris, without an army, without so much as even a gun in his hand, espousing the Koran and outsmarting the Shah, he was able to crush the Shah, the most powerful ruler in the Middle East, with one of the best equipped armies in the area.

  Josh leaned back in his black leather chair. “Khomeini was able to humiliate the Shah, take away his country, and butcher his supporters. History will recognize Khomeini for the brilliant genius that he was. His messages are now taught in every Islamic Maddrassa and school in every country where there are Muslims. Half of Africa is Islamic, most with Sharia as their religious beliefs. Talk about humiliation. The American people were humiliated even more when Khomeini took hostages in Teheran. Every talk show host crucified Jimmy Carter. Far right, far left, didn’t matter.

  “After Carter’s rescue plan failed—which could only have been conceived by Loony Tune kindergarten kids, Operation Eagle Claw was a stupid rescue mission that resulted in failure and the deaths of eight American servicemen, one Iranian civilian, and the destruction of two aircraft. The population reviled him even more, and the impotence of not being able to rescue the hostages and the humiliation was worse than Vietnam.

  “Khomeini released the hostages minutes after Reagan was sworn into office. They had been held for one year, two months, two weeks, and two days. I believe that it wasn’t Reagan who beat Carter, though the election was a landslide; it was Khomeini who beat Carter. It really didn’t matter who opposed Carter, because the Americans were ready to vote for Elmo of Sesame Street, or any person other than the peanut farmer. Khomeini would not release the 52 hostages, toyed with them for 444 days, insulted America at the UN, and railed against them at every Arab Summit.

  “Jay, what we all missed here in the States was that all the Arab countries were well aware of the way Khomeini was showing America who was boss. For them, this was an important lesson on how to deal with a weak United States president like Carter, who didn’t even have his own party’s support.

  “Remember a couple of years ago, the day Monica Lewinsky testified before the Grand Jury, terrorists tried to blow up American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. What is happening here in this country now with the latest scandals that have been uncovered and talk of the American president being impeached is what terrorist groups wait and plan for. On the Internet Terrorism Course 101, they teach the process of harassing the enemy hard enough so when that enemy is distracted, hit them hard and fast, then run like hell.”

  Josh was on a roll. I simply sat there on his hard guest chair and listened. Much of this I knew already.

  “Jay, human evil is now our adversary. If Congress begins impeachment proceedings, watch out for an all-out attack by Al Qaeda and its fellow traveler terrorist groups. They’ll come from every direction and directions that you didn’t know even existed. They’re smart, they’re organized, and as committed as the Iranians who did the buses this morning. We wait every day for suicide bombers. We know they are planning to mount all-out attacks on American communities living here or overseas. We know terrorist cells are here in America already, but our hands are tied because the Americans have to protect their citizens through the courts of law. Unfortunately, Americans don’t see the Moslem Brotherhood, Hezbollah, or Hamas as imminent threats.

  “Americans only have an inconvenience when they go through airport security. Imagine what the fans in Chicago would say if security guards had to search them before every Bulls game or Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Take it one step further: if they had to go through detectors before entering a shopping mall, supermarket, or movie. Life’s nice and easy here. What America doesn’t realize is that the bad guys can do attacks like the buses every morning. They’re pros and maybe this is a prelude where American communities will become the new targets. I hope like hell that I’m wrong and over-reacting.

  “Fanatical Islam has declared war on America, yet like ostriches that bury their heads in the sand when danger comes, we are wetting ourselves trying to be Iran’s friend.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Josh says, “Before going to their Farsi paradise up on high with all those hundred some virgins, maybe they decided to party a little bit and wanted to try a last paradise on earth. Catch my drift? Let’s go. I’ve got two people who specialize in dragging out information they can turn into sketches of the Iranian faces that you’ve seen. If we can get the composites onto the street, some of the girls might remember them.”

  I follow him down the stairs two at a time. We take a right down a narrow passage and walk a few steps. Josh opens a door marked Professor Russell Leslie, CHA, and motions for me to follow him in.

  “Russell, this is Jay. Need your best, Russ, no farting around, okay?” He closes the door. I sit down in a chair next to Russell. Russell must weigh over three hundred pounds; he is enormous. Grossly fat, his neck overflows his collar. Big, watery eyes look at me through thick bifocals.

  He breathes loudly through his half-open mouth. “Hi, Jay, I understand Big Daddy’s in a hurry. Describe one of the people. Was his face round, square, fat, thin, long, young, or old? Those are the types of things I need to know. Was he black, brown, white, yellow? Height, weight, distinguishing marks, scars on his face, lips thick, thin, ring pierced through the lip, if so where, cheeks eyes nose, nostril hair protruding, eyebrows, any piercing, hair, facial hair, ears, anything hanging from or in his ears, tattoos. All that sort of good stuff.”

  I close my eyes, concentrating on the leader of the group. I can see his face clearly, remembering the coldness and suspicion in his eyes. “Iranian, Middle Eastern, swarthy skin tone, middle thirties, five ten, black curly hair cut short, no gray, no mustache, thin lips. Thin face, high forehead, longish aquiline nose, flared nostrils, heavy thick eyebrows, moles, a small cluster above left eyebrow, no glasses.”

  We go to a large table. Spread on its surface are neat piles of photos of every face part, hair, and head shape. I choose the head shape. Russ draws, it using a pencil and eraser. Then the hair; he draws it onto the head. We I move through each pile of photos, select what I feel is what I remember. He works quickly, making changes as I direct him. Unbelievably, a face begins to appear. The likeness is incredible.

  We start on the second face. Still breathing through his half-open mouth, Russell begins to sweat. Sweat pours down his face, through his hair and drips onto his collar, streaming in a widening pool down the back of his light blue shirt. Wheezing, he sketches and sketches. Hours later, we hold pictures of all five men. Each picture is numbered one through five.

  Red-faced, his eyes now filmy and slightly bloodshot, Russell asks if I am sure there are no more changes. I feel we have captured about an eighty percent likeness. Enough to identify them. For the past
hour, we had been going round and round trying to get a more exact resemblance, but were unable to and kept on returning to the same features.

  I am tired, unlike Russell, who is finding energy and adrenaline from some unknown source.

  Finally, I say “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  “We gotta go one floor down.” Heavily, Russell pushes himself up from his desk, grunting as he does so. I follow him to the next floor, smelling the heat of the man’s sweat. He draws deep, short breaths, gasping as if he suffers from emphysema.

  We take the elevator and turn down a long hall. Stopping, Russell opens a door and introduces me to a man named Pidcock. “Anthony, your turn now, I’m finished. How is Sammi?”

  “Fine, Russell, just fine. She got back from Logan Square yesterday,” Anthony answers.

  Russell, still breathing heavily, nods and closes the door. I hear Pidcock’s broad English accent and wonder what a Brit is doing with the Chicago police.

  “I’m ever so pleased to meet you, old boy. Call me Tony. Do you see this jolly old projector and all its funny little gadget things? Well, old boy, we, you and I, are going to play ourselves a really fascinating little game. This Lismore stock projector was a great investment and helps me to build up and create facial likeness. Fascinating, what? Be a good fellow and look through these old folders. Like fingerprints, we earth people all fall under standard characteristics unless we’re deformed or damaged goods. Ha, ha. Just joking, old man, just joking, let’s get on with it, old chap. You’ll find it ever so interesting.”

  Tony, a well-muscled and fit forty-something with a shock of black hair, moves surely around the office. The walls are covered with shelves of video tapes, neatly numbered and stacked, are tightly packed on each shelf. He opens a folder marked “Foreheads,” and keeps turning pages until I see number one’s forehead.

  Pursing his lips, humming softly to himself, Tony extracts a thin sheet of plastic, puts it onto the top of his projector and notes its code number. Quickly I find eyebrows, eyes, nose, lips, chin, and so on. Each time Pidcock positions them carefully checking to make sure that angles and spacing are correct. When I nod, he fastens them onto the sheet using paper clips.

  Soon, number one’s face is complete, including the cluster of moles. Code numbers are written on the bottom of each page. I have my first Identi-Kit face. We start working on number two. By the time we’ve finished number five, my head is spinning, the corners of my eyes sting and hurt like hell. A clock above Tony’s desk shows 7:30. I’ve been doing composites and Identi-Kits for more than five hours.

  Still humming, Tony lifts the receiver on his telephone, punches in some numbers and says, “We’re finished. Okay, I’ll bring him now.”

  He rises smoothly, his movements economical and quick. “Let’s go, old chap, It was absolutely delightful meeting you. Good show, old man. For a first-timer, you were really pretty damned good, you know. Would have enjoyed having a bit of a chat with you. We could’ve had a spot of real English tea, but the man upstairs wants you in his office right away. We should do it again some time. Pop by anytime you’re in the area.”

  Walking quickly, we go down a long passage. Stacks of cardboard boxes stand chest high on both sides of each door. Pidcock stops at a door, pointing for me to enter. “This is the one. Cheers. See you around.”

  With a wave that is half a salute, head down as if he is examining the floorboards, Pidcock walks away, humming to himself.

  I open the door, holding both the sketches and the Identi-Kit advanced facial transparencies.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Josh takes the sheets from my hands, puts them on his desk, an Identi-Kit above the sketch below so that he can examine both. Carefully, he looks at all five, storing and possessing each face. “This might be the break we’ve needed for the buses. Unless something else comes up soon, my gut tells me these are our guys.”

  “Am I in any way their target?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  Josh shrugs, “A long time ago, when I was a young man, I had a friend named Cracker Lee who farmed rattlers. He sold them mainly to zoos. One night, he showed me how a rattler can spot its prey even in the dark because it has a built-in heat sensor that allows it to hunt at night. A snake hunts its prey carefully and quietly, and then strikes with a swiftness that is truly incredible to see. Able to incapacitate much larger animals, it’s a magnificent, efficient, killing machine.

  “Jay, when you went into the hotel room, if you had been their target, there’s no way those snakes would have let you come out alive. They’d have had your picture front and center. They would have known you were the owner of an electronics company, and recognized you just as soon as you walked into their room.

  “They could’ve found you in the dark, just like a snake would have, and eliminated you any time they chose, slowly or with one shot, depending on their mood.”

  Josh shakes his head. “Not to worry, Jay. I’m not a betting man, but you don’t have to look over your shoulder. It’s not you they’re after. If they were, you wouldn’t be here now. We’d probably have pulled your body out of Lake Michigan. However, you can be invaluable to us. You’re the only one who has seen them. We can presume that they don’t know they’re on tape.”

  “What now? I’m really, really tired.” I say.

  “Briefing room,”

  “What’s that?”

  In his low, matter-of-fact voice, Josh fills me in. “We’ve taken over a situation room. Follow me. I’ll update you while we walk. Until it’s over, the situation room is our home. I’m also in charge of the Midwest Subversive Unit, which is the multi-jurisdictional unit monitoring domestic terrorism. The various militias, fringe groups, and overseas terrorist groups are considered by us as an identical threat because they all plant bombs and usually take hostages.

  “The groups are armed to the teeth and want our government to be overthrown through violence. We fall under Congress’s discretionary budget. Most cities have their own units similar to ours. We’re police, but have far more latitude than cops on the beat. We fall into a sort of gray area. The Subversive teams will be briefed, as will the FBI. We have to bring everyone up to date, divide duties, then go find the assholes. Many times, we don’t take prisoners.

  “Jay, our world has shades of gray, shadows that mean in some cases we stop playing softball, and take off the gloves. If there is a reason not to take prisoners, and it’s us or them, we do what needs to be done, shut up, and go on with our lives.

  “These Iranians are human evil. Their plan is to kill lots and lots of us. On the tape are five different departure areas at O’Hare airport. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people will be there. Those innocent people are their target so far is. We have no idea if there are another five, or fifty-five of those killers in our country. What’s the point of taking prisoners, if we can’t ‘coerce’ them into telling us anything?

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “The ACLU and bleeding-heart liberals will lawyer them up and it can take years before they come to court. In the meantime, all Americans will be at risk, they’ll take hostages, demand that we release them, and Al Jazeera television will have a special, showing another American’s throat being sliced open and beheaded on live TV. When they finally chop through the vertebrae, and the head is held up, the audience cheers and claps, and dance in the streets on top of burning American flags.”

  Josh stops talking as we enter a large, well-lit room filled with people talking quietly to each other in small groups. Maps of Chicago take up one complete wall. A screen and slide projector, two easels with blackboards, erasers, different colored chalks and Identi-Kits are piled neatly on one of the tables. Notepads, pencils, and a coffee machine are on the other. Multiline phones, some with lights flashing, are scattered all around the room.

  Near Josh is a large radio communications monitor emitting static and growling softly. Josh nods to me, gesturing to sit next to him. The thirty or so peo
ple suddenly quiet and make their way to their seats. Josh glares across the room, clears his throat, and begins talking in clipped police jargon, explaining who I am, what I’ve done, and how the tape has come into his possession. Curtly, he asks me to play the tape and translate simultaneously.

  I look at my audience. All are in casual to grubby clothes. A quarter or so are women. Each of them has a small pile of IdentiKits in front of where they sit. As soon as I start speaking, all take notes. Some are chewing gum, others lean back in their chairs, arms folded, watching me intently. No one smokes. Josh’s no-smoking crusade has obviously expanded from his office to this room.

  When I finish, I look at the people around the table. Examining the crowd more closely, I see their jeans, pierced ears, tattoos, and bizarre hairstyles, judging them to be between 25 and 45 in age. All look to be typical Chicagoans ordinarily seen walking in the street or inside any shop. None gave the faintest impression that he or she was police.

  I marveled at how easily they could blend into any group of people, fooling them with their outward appearances, looking exactly the way they were supposed to look with body language that matched. Actors, that’s what they are. Actors who are lethal, playing their parts on a daily basis. How many will

  sleep tonight free of anxiety, an anxiety I still acutely feel ominously invading my mind as I cringe, imagining the Iranians finding me.

  I recall a time when I was a lot younger, doing army training, naive and far too dumb to be scared of anything. On how many occasions had I been given a mission where eliminating enemies had been a necessity of war? No matter how it was explained intellectually, it was a fact of life that what soldiers were expected to do when their country is at war is to kill other soldiers. However, when the war is over, the soldier could mentally and physically shed the war by taking off the uniform, adjust a mindset, and become a civilian.