Authors: Jason Elam
“Mom! Are you okay?”
“Riley . . . explosion . . . your dad . . . help . . .”
Skeeter burst through the front door and ran to Riley. “What—?”
“Shhh! Mom, can you hear me? Mom! Are you there?”
But there was no response. To his left, Riley heard Skeeter on the phone saying, “Scott, something’s happened at the Covingtons’
in Wyoming! Figure it out and call me!” He slammed closed his phone. “Pach, what happened?”
But Riley didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. Instead, he just stared at the computer screen looking for any signs of movement.
Finally, after a few minutes of stillness, he dropped his head into his hands and prayed.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:00 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Riley’s first impulse was to race to Wheatland, but Skeeter restrained him. There were too many unknowns, too many possible
scenarios. The best thing to do right now was to sit tight and wait for word.
More than ten minutes passed before there was any movement on the computer screen. When it finally came, there was a lot of
it. Police and paramedics suddenly rushed left to right across Riley’s computer.
“Hey! Hey, someone tell me what’s going on!” Riley yelled. Then he recognized one of the first responders from a charity event
he had hosted. “Sheriff Cooper! Sheriff Cooper, talk to me!”
The kitchen table was hit by someone or something and pushed backward. This shifted Riley’s view to the refrigerator, which
had been covered with pictures of friends and family and newspaper articles about himself. Now the door was completely bare.
Riley strained to listen to what was being said.
A woman crossed the screen rolling a gurney. The table was pushed back again, apparently to make room. This time, however,
the movement was too abrupt for the computer. The picture on Riley’s screen suddenly made a ninety-degree turn toward the
ground, then froze. A bubble popped up on Riley’s computer indicating, “Mom&Dad has left the iChat.”
“Wait! Wait!” Riley’s fist drove hard into the kitchen table. He tried reconnecting, but there was no response.
Soon afterward, Grandpa made a quick call saying he was making the seventy-mile drive from Cheyenne to Wheatland. An hour
passed after that call. Riley paced, he sat, he prayed, he paced some more.
“Skeeter, what’s Scott saying?”
Skeeter, who had positioned himself by the front window, shook his head. “Said there was an explosion. Said he’d call me back
when he’s got more.”
So many thoughts were going through Riley’s mind. The prospect of life without his parents was an eventuality that had never
even occurred to him. Riley’s family had always been small. His grandmother on his dad’s side had died right after Riley had
been born. His dad had had only one brother, the man whom Riley had been named after. He had been a marine who was killed
while guarding the final evacuation from Saigon in 1975.
Riley had never been very close with his mom’s side of the family. No real reason; it just kind of happened that way. He saw
his Grandma and Grandpa Hopkins every couple of years. His mom had two sisters and one brother, but it seemed the only time
he heard from his aunts and uncles or cousins was when they wanted an autographed ball or some tickets to a Mustangs game.
The waiting was killing Riley. His thoughts began flying all over the place.
That leaves me and Grandpa, which means that
I’m
about ten
to fifteen years away from being alone in this world. And Mom so desperately
wanted to see her grandkids. Why
couldn’t
you have found someone
to at least give her that pleasure? And realize that this has all happened
because of
you—
because of your great desire to go out and play soldier?
Stop it!
Don’t
go there yet!
What’s
taking Grandpa so long?
All mom wanted were a couple of grandkids so she could make little
blankets and Halloween costumes.
“Skeeter, try Scott again!”
“Will do.”
How come
I’m
not in the car right now driving up?
Because, like Skeeter said,
I’d
be playing right into their hands. But
what good am I here?
Answer the phone, Scott!
Lord, please help me to know what to do.
This cannot be happening. Help them, Lord. Protect them. Heal
them.
Watch over the responders;
don’t
let this be a trap.
It’s
been an hour.
Where’s
Grandpa? What did he say his record was
for that seventy-mile trip? Was it fifty-two minutes?
What am I going to do about all those goats?
Finally a familiar ring tone sounded on Riley’s cell phone. Even without looking at the caller ID, he knew it read “Grandpa
Covington.”
Lord, let it be good news.
He sat down at the table. “Hello?”
There was a pause, then he heard Grandpa Covington’s voice.
Rather than its usual soothing bass, it seemed tight and strained. “Riles, son, you need to know first of all that your mom
is all right. She’s got a concussion, but the doctors say she’ll be fine.”
“And my dad?” Riley asked hopefully.
Grandpa sighed heavily; then with a barely controlled voice he said, “Your daddy’s gone, Riley. They killed him. They killed
my son.”
Riley felt dizzy. He wanted more information—needed more information—but couldn’t think of the questions to ask. “Why? How?”
“Someone rigged the barn door. When Jerry opened it, a bomb went off. The security detail was with him when it happened. One
of them’s dead and the other is pretty near.”
Riley felt another punch to his gut. Not just his dad, but two more lives snuffed out on his account. Two more families destroyed
because someone wanted revenge on him.
“Grandpa, I’m . . . Grandpa, I’m so sorry. They did this to get to me. I wish . . . I’m just so sorry.” Riley was doing everything
he could to keep himself together, but he was failing.
Suddenly, Grandpa’s voice changed, and anger filled his words. “Don’t do that, Riley! Don’t you dare take this on your shoulders!
My son was an honorable man, and he died an honorable death living the life that God called him to. Don’t you take that from
him. Somebody is responsible for this, but that somebody isn’t you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Riley said quietly.
“I said, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Riley responded, more out of reflex at hearing a commanding military voice than out of any conviction.
“Good. Your Grandma and Grandpa Hopkins are on their way here. Should be another few hours. I’m going to stay with your mom
until then. Then I’ll be coming down your way.”
“Grandpa, shouldn’t you stay up there with Mom?” Riley protested. “Besides, it seems like I’m not the safest person to be
around right now.”
“Listen, son, I need to see you. Whether you need it or not,
I
need it.”
Plans for revenge had already begun forming in Riley’s mind. The last thing he wanted was for his grandpa to come down and
talk him out of it. “Listen, Grandpa, I don’t even know where I’ll be in three or four hours. I’ve got a call in to Scott
Ross right now.”
Grandpa’s deep bass was back, but there was no soothing in it. “No, you listen, Riley. You’re the only blood I’ve got left.
We need to talk. I’m asking you to be there when I arrive.”
Riley sighed. How could he say no? “Of course, Grandpa. I’ll be here. I just can’t promise how long.”
“Fair enough. I love you, Riley. We’ll get through this.”
Riley hung up the phone. He felt dazed, like when he took a fullfrontal collision from a fullback.
Dad’s
dead?
It seemed so surreal.
Dad, who had survived two tours in Vietnam, who had made it through a horrific head-on accident with just a punctured lung
and two broken legs, who had bested his high blood pressure by switching to goat cheese.
Dad, who was a husband, a father, a navy man, a patriot, a church deacon, a farmer.
Dad was dead—taken out by someone simply as a way of drawing out his son.
Dad was a casualty of war—collateral damage.
Riley felt Skeeter’s hand on his shoulder. “I heard, man. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Skeet.” Riley stood and walked to the kitchen, where he leaned forward against the granite-top island. “I .
. . I feel like I should be crying. But I can’t. It just doesn’t seem real.”
“Ain’t no way to
be
feeling, except how you
are
feeling.”
Riley nodded.
“Talked with Scott. He’ll get here soon as he can.”
“Thanks.” Then a thought struck him. “Is . . . ?”
“No, man. I told him to come alone.”
“Good. I appreciate it.” As much as he would have liked to see Khadi right now, after their last meeting her presence would
only serve to confuse things more.
Skeeter went back to his position by the door, leaving Riley to think. For some reason a picture of learning to ride a bike
flashed in his memory. It played like a movie in his mind, maybe because so many times he had seen the video his mom had taken
that day.
There he was, pedaling along with his dad holding on to the seat. It was a Saturday, and Riley could remember how strange
it had been seeing his school parking lot so empty. Riley and Dad would make a pass across the parking lot, then turn and
go back the other way. Bit by bit, he was starting to get the feel of balancing the bike.
Riley could still remember the feeling. As long as Dad was holding the seat, he knew he was safe. So Riley pumped the pedals
moving faster and faster. But this time, when he looked back to see if his dad was keeping pace, there was no one there. His
dad was standing way back in the parking lot with his thumbs up in the air. Riley panicked and almost lost control. But then
he suddenly realized that not only
could
he do it on his own, he
was
doing it on his own.
Dad’s
not going to be there to hold on to the seat anymore. But you
know you can still make it. Thank You. Thank You, Lord, for the time
You gave me with Dad. Please help me as from here on out I learn to ride
on my own.
Riley went back to the table, put his head on his arms, and tried to shut down his brain.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 5:45 P.M.
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Evening brought no relief from the busyness of Istanbul’s streets. Al-’Aqran limped past the open stalls and small storefronts,
his old walking stick taking some of the pressure off his knees. Hamad Asaf, speaking on his cell phone, slowed his usual
pace in order to remain alongside his leader. As they traveled the narrow road, each open door brought a different sound—a
stereo system, pans clattering on a stove, men arguing in Turkish, women haggling over fabric—that blended with the many smells:
baking
simit
and
lavash
,
kebabs
and
shawarma
, cloves and saffron, coffee and spiced chai.
As the two men weaved through the mass of people, al-’Aqran reflected that the flow of pedestrians in these tight streets
must be as mysterious and bewildering to a stranger as experiencing the automobile traffic patterns of a foreign country.
A Westerner would always be easy to spot as he bumped into one person after another. But al-’Aqran and Asaf easily found their
way through the hundreds of passersby.
Asaf hung up the phone. “It is done,” he said to his leader.
“Both the mother and the father?”
“Just the father,” Asaf responded with an apology in his voice. “The mother is injured.”
“Hmmm.” Al-’Aqran walked a few more paces, thinking. Finally, he said, “It is enough. A man would be a fool to go to war for
his mother. But for his father? Honor demands a response. Is there any movement from Covington?”
“No,
sayyid
, not yet.”
The old man nodded. “It will come.”
Al-’Aqran turned into a teahouse and sat at a table near the door. He was not thirsty, but he was finding these walks back
from the
’
Asr
prayer at the mosque harder and harder to take. Tea was as good an excuse as any to give his joints time to rest.
He ordered for himself and for Asaf. “And what of the pig-eater in Chicago?”
Asaf retrieved his phone, pressed a number of buttons, then passed the phone to al-’Aqran. A still picture showed on the small
screen. A man was sitting in an expensive-looking chair. There was obvious fear on his face.
“Press the button marked ‘OK’,” Asaf told him.
When al-’Aqran did so, a video began. The man said, “My name is Mohsin Ghani.” Then his eyes widened and a red hole appeared
to the left of the bridge of his nose just before the back of his head exploded out. The video ended.
Asaf took back his phone and said, “Our man retrieved the three backpacks from the apartment. One of them he used at the home
of Covington’s father. The other two he is holding for a future need.”
“And tell me—” Al-’Aqran stopped himself as the black tea was delivered to the table. When the waiter retreated, the old man
wrapped his hands around the tulip-shaped glass until he could feel the burn slowly penetrating his thickly calloused hands.
“And tell me of the preparations for the next phase, once these initial waves are completed.”
“The warriors are waiting to be awakened. We know whom we will use and where they will attack. Logistically, phase two will
be much easier than phase one. Easy-to-conceal automatic weapons will be used, and the security is very low. The martyrs will
be carrying many rounds of ammunition, and obviously, the targets will be congregated together.”
“Very good, old friend,” said al-’Aqran, grasping Asaf by the forearm. “You have done excellent work. Have Tahir let our people
know that it is time to launch the next step of our initial phase.”
“Yes,
sayyid
.”
The chair creaked as al-’Aqran leaned back. Other than one coward, everything was going according to plan. Soon America would
hear from the Cause again, and what little confidence they had left in their security would come crashing to the ground.