by Rachel Brune
The door opening electrified the apartment. Seated at the table, Eddie raised a nine-millimeter to the entrance and cocked the hammer. The other men stood quickly.
Marcus stopped short in the door. “Yo.”
Eddie jerked his chin and eased the hammer down. He laid the weapon back on the table. “Yo.”
Marcus ignored Alan, went to the fridge and pulled out something cold and wet. Alan had overlooked the beer for the past couple of days. “How’s your face, man?”
“Fine.”
“Huh.” Marcus popped the cap off his beer, walked in the living room and collapsed on the ratty couch next to Dodger.
“Hey man,” said Dodger. Soon the sounds of a football game filtered back toward the kitchen.
It seemed as if Alan and Eddie both began breathing again at the same time. Eddie unconsciously touched his eyebrow, split in Alan’s attack, but now scabbing over.
Alan saw the movement. “Hey. How is it?”
Eddie recognized the overture was as close to an apology as Alan was going to get.
“It’s fine, man,” said Eddie. “Forget it.”
Alan sat down at the table across from Eddie. “Do you remember when I first came to you?”
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugged.
“You thought I was just another guy asking something from you.”
“Yeah.”
“What were you in prison for?”
Eddie stared at Alan, wondering where the conversation was going. “I told you. Assault.”
It had been six months after Eddie’s brother Alec had been brought back home in a box, when a cop and her partner had started hassling him for loitering on a street. He hadn’t much wanted to move, and they kept at him, when something inside him snapped. His vision went red, and he started for the two cops. He had beat one pretty good, ripping the American flag off the officer’s sleeve, before the second managed to drop him and cuff him. It wasn’t his first offense, and he wasn’t surprised to find himself back in prison.
“That uniform pissed you off?”
“Fuck.” Eddie wasn’t interested in a examining his inner psyche. “Yeah, whatever.”
“You remember what I promised you?”
Eddie looked up at Alan. “Yeah.”
“I am going to fulfill that promise,” said Alan. “We are going to kill and hurt the same people who sent your brother to kill my brothers.”
“So what’s with all the secrecy?” asked Eddie. “What’s with bringing in your little sidekicks once we’ve risked ourselves out in public for your little plan?”
Alan shook his head. “Eddie, we’re going to get revenge for your family, I promise. But I must have people I can trust around me.”
“Trust?” asked Eddie. “We trust you, and we don’t even know what you’re planning to do—what you’re planning to have us do.”
Alan smiled. “Here is what we are going to do.” The points of his teeth glittered in the weak yellow light. “We are going to strike and strike hard. You will see. First, we’ll get their attention, and then they will not be able to look away.”
Eddie was still for a moment, then nodded. The bluster stripped away, he gazed at Alan. “Tell me.”
And Alan sat with him, and told him his plans. Most of them.
The rooftop was freezing, but had a beautiful view of the sun setting over the staggered ramparts of the adjacent buildings. Alan, Said and Abdel finished their evening prayers, murmuring as they prostrated and sat up. They finished with a moment of silence, before neatly rolling their rugs. The three men enjoyed the time of uninterrupted meditation, away from the unwashed warmth of the tiny apartment, and the thoughtless coarseness of the men they had chosen to be their foot soldiers.
Abdel, barely at the end of his teen years, sometimes vibrated with anger at the insults the men threw his way. Said cautioned him against displaying his true feelings, encouraging him to escape to the roof to pray when needed. None of the Americans would willingly venture into the December weather if they could help it. This way, they kept the tenuous peace that had been restored with Marcus’ casual return.
Alan gazed at the two men. Their time was getting near.
Said broke the silence. “Alan, I am worried about these two. This reporter and this soldier.”
“I know,” said Alan. “But they are a problem for me to take care of.”
“I understand,” said Said. “But we are here for you, brother.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Alan. “I know you have questions about the way I’m handling this, and the men I’ve brought in, but our mission will be accomplished.”
“I just want to ensure that we do everything in the proper way,” said Said. “Will our mission be compromised if we use men who do not have proper hearts?”
“‘If Allah punished men for their sins, not one would be left’,” quoted Alan. “In their hearts they may not believe, but their actions serve us now.”
“I would like to kill them all,” said Abdel. His pride in his religion had been most wounded watching the men downstairs as they ignored him when he studied the Koran, flipping on pornography right in the same room, or distracting him with noisy debates on the merits of various players of baseball, a sport Abdel loathed.
Alan grew more serious. “That would be a mistake.”
“How?” Abdel demanded.
“Those men downstairs are like our Muslim brothers overseas,” said Alan. “They believe, but they are like children in their belief. They have never been tested, and they don’t know what it means to completely submit.”
“I hate them,” said Abdel. “I hate this entire country and the weak Muslims who live here.”
“You are like our jihadist brothers,” said Alan. Abdel straightened at the compliment, but Alan continued. “You, like them, have lost focus. We are not meant to kill our fellow Muslim brothers and sisters—they can still be brought back to the path of the righteous Muslim. Rather, we are going to strike the Americans. We are going to show them they are not as safe they claim to be.”
Abdel was quiet, reflecting. “Na’am, imam.”
Alan felt a small amount of pride, flattered at the honorific. Modesty compelled him to correct the boy. “I am no imam, achi.”
The boy gave a thin, proud shiver. He felt in turn flattered that Alan called him brother. The sun had dropped precipitously and night came quickly. As they talked, the gloom covered the roof. Alan could barely see the two other men, lit only by a weak lamp over the rooftop exit.
* * *
Taggert was slipping, Mark thought. He stared at his producer.
“You want me to start what?” asked Mark. He desperately hoped Taggert would smile and tell him he was joking.
“You know … one of those Spacebook, or myblog, or whatever they’re called where you update it every five minutes and let people know what you’re doing,” said Taggert. “Like Britney Spears.”
Mark had a few stock replies saved up that he had created for any possible interview or conversation situation that might come up. He pulled them out when the people he was interviewing said something completely crazy and he needed to guide them back to the topic at hand within the time limits of the sound bite. At the moment, though, he was coming up blank.
“You think I’m Britney Spears?” asked Mark. “You want me to start a Twitter account?”
“Well, you’re not as famous, but you are blond,” said Taggert.
“What would I Twitter about?” asked Mark. “Hi…I’m editing video…I’m editing video…I’m riding in the news van…?”
“Of all my reporters, you’re the one who keeps exploding,” said Taggert. “That’s exciting! That will get viewers!”
“I thought good stories got viewers,” said Mark.
“Shut up, wiseass,” said Taggert. “You’re not star enough to have a sense of humor.”
“Okay,” said Mark. “But if I’m in the middle of a story, I don’t have time to Twitter, and after the story, everyone can just
watch it on television anyway.”
Taggert thought about it. “What about on your way to the story?”
“Great,” said Mark. “While I’m at it, I’ll draw up a map and broadcast it for all the rest of the networks to pick up on and beat me to the story.”
“Okay, fuck Twitter,” said Taggert. “Twitter sucks. But we need to get you your own interactive news page where we can pretend that you’re best friends with a shitload of people to get them to watch our program. You’ve got until five, then I want to see a friend request from you on Bookface.”
Mark made a mental note to start a new page, one that had nothing to do with the Facebook page he already had. All he needed was for Taggert to see what he had really been posting about his job online.
“Yes, sir, I’ll get right on that,” said Mark.
Satisfied, Taggert stalked away, searching out more journalistic prey for his modernizing ideas. Mark shifted in his seat. Almost a full pot of coffee hadn’t helped much in waking him up this morning.
Mark had spent the weekend getting his first—and he devoutly hoped last—taste of Army living by playing “OPFOR” or opposition forces, for Mabry’s Reserve unit. He had shown up a half hour late, and been treated to a sarcastic sermon from the commander on how if he was really an embedded reporter, the convoy would have left his lazy ass back on the base. Mark found himself uncharacteristically intimidated by Mabry, who looked even larger than usual in his uniform and full battle rattle.
Throughout the weekend, the soldiers had spent all their time “in the field,” at a mock prison camp in the woods near Fort Dix, NJ. About twenty members of a sister unit had dressed in bright orange jumpsuits and pretended not to speak English to serve as “detainees.” Mark had to apply for a press pass to enter the compound, and been subjected to following all of the regulations regarding photographing and interviewing prisoners that a real, embedded correspondent would have to follow. He had been prepared to be adversarial—in fact Mabry had privately requested that he be as annoying as possible—and he had played the role to the hilt. He did, however, find himself growing more impressed by the professionalism and dedication of the young soldiers.
At one point in the exercise, the OPFOR simulated a mortar explosion within the compound, with full pyrotechnic accompaniment. Mark had been in the prison filming, and after recovering from his heart attack, had a front seat for what happened next. The Observer/Controller had quickly pointed at the senior members of the team and told them they were killed, that three prisoners had been injured, and that the team leader, a twenty-year-old sergeant from Queens, was in charge. The soldier, who Mark later learned was a college student at Hofstra University studying criminal justice, calmly stepped up, directing security, calling for medical evacuation, and communicating with the command tower to meet the demands of the situation.
After the “emergency” was over, Granger had expressed his admiration. The soldier shrugged it off. He explained, that one mortar was nothing. They—meaning his squad—had gotten hit many times in Iraq and responding to an emergency was second nature.
“You might forget the exact words to the call for medevac,” explained the soldier. “But you never forget that you need to save your buddy’s life and you have to act right away.”
Mark wrote down that quote, thinking of what he had been doing at age twenty, most of it involving drinking and attempting to date good-looking communications or musical theater majors. He shook the soldier’s hand and promised him a copy of the footage. He had started editing a video for the unit when he got home, and was going to work on it at night, hoping to present it to the unit later.
On their last night at Dix, the unit had moved into a barracks, showered and cleaned up, and headed to the NCO club for some rest and relaxation. Mabry unwound slightly, enough to share stories over beers with his platoon leaders. Mark pulled up a chair and opened his ears, reveling in the temporary bond he shared with the soldiers. He had begun to understand the appeal of the military organization.
Later, Mark had asked Scott if the training exercise had been what the company had done overseas.
“Nope,” said Scott.
“What did you do?” asked Mark.
“We were part of a police transition team,” said Scott. “We mentored and trained the local police.”
“So why are you training detainee ops?” asked Mark, enjoying the way the jargon slipped comfortably off his tongue.
Mabry smiled. “The optempo.”
“Optempo?” Mark had more jargon to learn.
“Operational tempo,” said Scott. “It means we have to be ready to go at any time to do whatever needs to be done. We’ve got to train for everything and everyone. Even annoying reporters.”
At that, Mark felt his earlier suspicion. He narrowed his eyes. “You were going to help me all along, weren’t you?”
Mabry just smiled and bought the reporter another beer.
* * *
The mailbox notification pinged, breaking Mark’s reverie. He clicked the highlighted item. Anticipation began to burn again in the pit of his stomach.
Mark had always imagined that his producer’s office would be much like one seen in a television movie—a glass enclosed room with Venetian blinds to roll down for privacy when needed, but left open much of the time for the boss to keep an eye on the newsroom. Jefferson Taggert had no such urge to keep an eye out on anything. The only glass in his office was the wide view-enhancing picture window. He kept his door shut, ensuring that any interruption from the floor would be nerve-wracking for the reporter intrepid enough to break his solitude, thus guaranteeing the importance of whatever matter was being brought to his attention.
“This better be good!” The roar from the inner sanctum was Mark’s invitation to enter. He closed the door behind him, but didn’t move any further into the room.
Taggert looked up from his computer. “What do you want?”
“I just forwarded you an e-mail,” said Mark. “I think you are going to be interested to see what it says.”
Taggert looked annoyed. “It better not be bullshit.”
“It is,” said Mark. “I mean, it’s not. It’s good stuff.”
“Let me do the producing here,” said Taggert. He opened the e-mail. Mark could see his interest reflected in the flush that spread up his neck. He finished reading it, then looked up.
“This is good stuff,” said Taggert.
“I haven’t verified if it’s real or not,” said Mark. “The address is different than the one the last message was sent from, but it’s signed the same way, and the language appears the same.”
“Who gives a shit if it’s real or not?” Taggert said. “They’re making death threats against my star reporter. This is gold.”
While Mark was happy that Jeff was about to greenlight his story, he fleetingly wished his boss wouldn’t be so ecstatic about the fact that an unknown terrorist group had just sent him a very graphic and specific death threat.
“So I can run with it?” asked Mark.
“You’d better run with this,” said Taggert. “Actually, that might be a good spot—some B-roll of you running, getting in shape, while one of our anchors reads the text of the email over the spot…I wonder if we could get them to take a shot at you.”
“What?” asked Mark.
“I mean of you…a shot of you,” said Taggert. “Sorry. But maybe you could start running in public.”
“I’m going to show this to the police,” said Mark. “They’ve got to know about it.”
“Yeah, yeah sure,” said Taggert. Mark could see his interest wane as his eye was caught by something popping up on his computer screen. The reporter let himself out of the room, a star reporter exiled to second-rater status to an e-mail machine.
Mark knew that Taggert was a good producer—he had the ratings to prove it; he was one of the few producers the network had hired who had not only stopped their downward slide, but actually reversed the trend. But the
re was a limit to what he could take. Mark thought about the e-mail in his own, private account. He would need time to whip his resume into shape, but after this story was over, he would probably need it.
Chapter Fourteen
The days were getting so short the sun hadn’t yet risen by the time Nina was seated in her office, drinking a double espresso. This time of year it was harder for her to get up for her morning run, but she did it anyway. The feeling of exhilaration that kicked in with the endorphins helped her get through the long hours stagnating in her office. It kept her on an even keel when dealing with the less rewarding aspects of her job. Nina breathed deeply, still feeling the ache of the cold in her lungs.
Kyle MacAllister knocked on the door.
“Yeah, Mac, come on in.”
Kyle grabbed a seat. He was sans coffee, but pulled out a piece of caffeine gum and popped it in his mouth.
“How’s everything going in your department?” asked Nina.
“Pretty good,” said Mac. He let his gaze wander around her office. She shared, but her desk was still the biggest. “You get my slides?”
Nina winced. “Yeah, don’t remind me, I’ve got to put all those together for the command brief this afternoon.”
Mac smiled in mid-chew. “Better you than me.”
“Ha ha, funny guy,” said Nina. “A good leader knows her people, and I know they teach all you Army schmucks how to work PowerPoint. Piss me off and I’ll have you put this together.”
“I quit,” said Mac.
“Just try it,” said Nina. She took a sip of her espresso. “Seriously, how is your team?”
“They’re fine,” said Mac. “Working hard.”
“And Scott?” she asked.
Mac lifted his shoulders. “He’s fine.”
“You check up on him?” asked Nina.
“As much as I can,” said Mac. “He’s hard to get a hold of.”
Nina twisted her lips in a grimace. “Kyle, I know for a fact that you are in touch with my old commander, who happens to be your old commander, and Scott’s current commander. So, don’t bullshit me. How’s he doing?”
Kyle sighed and sat up straight. It was a small Army, the saying went, and when you were dealing with New York Reservists, it got smaller still. He wasn’t surprised Nina had been using her contacts to check up on Scott. It wasn’t paranoia. Rather, it showed genuine concern on her part.