“Do what with terrorists?” asked Father Maloney, sitting down next to Woods and removing his breakfast from his tray.
“Morning, Father,” Woods said, debating with himself whether to tell the chaplain. Why not. “Have Congress declare war against terrorists. Then go after them with the military to take them out.”
“I didn’t know Congress could do that.”
“I didn’t either. But I thought of it last night, and asked the JAG officer. I don’t think there’s any limitation against it. He’s still thinking about it, but he didn’t say anything right away.”
“Hmmm,” Maloney said, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs that had an odd green hue to them. He stopped. “Are these powdered eggs?” he asked no one in particular.
Big replied. “I don’t think so. They may be sneaking in some powdered with the regular, but I saw them break mine and scramble them.”
“I wasn’t watching.”
“They may have poured yours from the special pitcher,” Big said, emphasizing “special.”
To Woods, the Chaplain said, “Do you think such a war against a terrorist or a group would be a just war?”
“Absolutely,” Woods answered immediately. “How could it not be? If we’re attacked, we can respond. Why wouldn’t that be true if the attack was only against one person?”
Maloney nodded slowly. “Have you ever studied the theory of the just war of Aquinas?”
“No,” Woods answered. “But I’ll bet you have.”
“It comes up in my reading—”
Big stood up. “I’m out of here. This is too heavy for me.” He looked at Maloney. “Sorry, Padre. Aquinas didn’t write any good screenplays, so I don’t know much about him.” He spoke to Woods. “I’ll be in the ready room.”
“Okay, see ya in a minute,” Woods said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “I’ve got to go too,” he said, rising, trying to get away from Chaplain Maloney.
Maloney continued, almost to himself, “… You have the seven requirements, as outlined by Grotius in the seventeenth century, which was really just a refinement of Aquinas…”
“I’m sure it’s very interesting, but I’ve really got to go to the ready room. We’re having an AOM in a few minutes.”
“That sounds very important. What is it?” Maloney asked innocently.
“All Officers’ Meeting.”
“Well then, I won’t keep you.”
“See you later,” Woods said, standing. He was about to walk away when a thought occurred to him. Turning to Maloney, he said, “You know a lot about this just war stuff?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A lot is saying a lot.” Maloney smiled. “Little word joke there. Um, I suppose so. I studied ethics at the Catholic University, and my area of emphasis was the ethics of the use of force, warfare, those sorts of things.”
“I’m going to write a letter to my congressman telling him that we should declare war on terrorists who attack the U.S. or its citizens,” Woods said. “Do you think it would be a just war? ’Cause if I can convince them it is, they’ll have no reason at all not to do it.”
Maloney regarded Woods with his pale intense eyes. “I don’t know, I haven’t considered it. I’ll have to think about it…”
“I’m going to do the letter tonight, and send it off by e-mail. It’d be great if I could attach something from you, saying it would be a just war. Might just make the difference.”
Maloney nodded tentatively, unwilling to commit himself.
The ringing phone startled Woods. The sound of a jet being thrown off the carrier by catapult four made him wait a few seconds before answering. “Lieutenant Woods.”
“Trey?”
“Pritch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s up?”
“I was just reading a report that I thought you might be interested in seeing.”
“What kind of report?”
“The investigation into Vialli’s death.”
“Murder.”
“Right. Murder. It gives a lot of facts about it.”
“Like what?”
“I think you should read it.”
“I will. But give me the heart of it.”
“I don’t know. I think it’d be better—”
“Just give it to me.”
“Okay.” She turned a couple of pages. “Four people were killed. They didn’t kill any of the teachers, or the kids.”
“I know that.”
“They shot a soldier, the driver, Vialli, and the woman—”
“Irit.”
“Right,” she confirmed, surprised he knew her name. Then she remembered the story of how Vialli had met her. “Tony had been hit in the mouth with a gun butt, hit on the head with something hard, and then shot in the back.”
Woods closed his eyes. “In the back?” he whispered.
“Twice. Close range. Basically assassinated.”
“Why?”
“That’s what nobody can figure.”
Woods had tried to put it behind him. “Anything else?”
“Irit was shot in the back too.”
Woods tried to control his breathing. “What about the soldier and the driver?”
“Soldier got it in the chest, and the driver got it in the back of the head.”
“They were after someone.”
“I don’t know what to make of this.”
“Who were they after? Because whoever it was, they got him.”
“You think they were after Tony? And Irit just happened to be there?”
“Sure looks like it.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure going to find out.”
Sami pulled up into his parents’ driveway in Woodbridge, Virginia, a beautiful, tranquil northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. His father had done well for himself. He had left the diplomatic service of Syria over serious disagreements with Hafez al-Assad, the President of Syria, who had been there for two generations and had maintained his position through brutal oppression and eradication of dissent. Sami’s father, Abdul Rafiz Haddad, couldn’t stomach selling the Syrian propaganda internationally anymore. He had been warned by friends in Damascus that his name had been put on the list of the disloyal. He had walked out and had never been back.
Sami looked at the large, brick colonial house and grew angry as he did every time he came. His father was often critical of the United States and its declining morality, its general lack of sophistication, its materialistic culture, the ugliness and coldness of the cities, but he was always ready to take advantage of the good parts. The ability to buy a big house and own an acre of land, to raise a family in freedom, to read an Arabic newspaper and the Washington Post at breakfast, and to loudly and freely criticize the government of the country in which he lived and the one from which he had come.
Never happy, Sami thought, slamming the door on his Nissan as hard as he could and waiting for the car to stop shivering from the blow. He went to the door and opened it without knocking. He had gone to high school from this house, taking the long bus ride to St. Alban’s Episcopal School at the Washington National Cathedral every day. His father, a devout Muslim, had decided to send Sami to the Cathedral school because it was supposed to be the best in Washington. He saw no irony in that.
Sami went to the back porch, where he knew his father would be. “Father!” he called out as he approached the door. His father hated being surprised. “I’m home!”
He opened the sliding door from the family room to the enormous screened-in porch and saw his father sitting in his favorite chair reading an Arabic newspaper.