"Mother, I am going to get help-"
She grabbed his arm with surprising strength and shook her head. She pulled on his arm, and he understood she wanted him closer.
Asad Khalil bent over so that his face was only inches from that of his mother.
She tried to speak again, but coughed up more blood, which Khalil could now smell. She kept her grip on him and he said, "Mother, you will be all right. I will go for a doctor."
"No!"
He was surprised to hear her voice, which sounded nothing like his mother's voice. He worried that there was damage done inside of her and that she was bleeding internally. He thought he might be able to save her if he could get her to the compound hospital. But she would not let him go. She knew she was dying and she wanted him close when she took her last breath.
She whispered in his ear, "Qadir… Esam… Lina… Adara…?"
"Yes… They are all right. They are… They… will be…" He found himself weeping so hard he couldn't continue.
Faridah whispered, "My poor children… my poor family…"
Khalil let out a long wailing sound, then screamed out, "Allah, why have you deserted us?" Khalil wept on his mother's breast, felt her heartbeat beneath his cheek, and heard her whisper, "My poor family…" Then her heart stopped, and Asad Khalil remained very still, listening for it, waiting for her chest to rise and fall again. He waited.
He lay on her breasts a long time, then he stood and walked out of her room. He wandered in a trance through the rubble of his home, and found himself outside in front of the house. He stood looking at the scene of chaos around him. Someone yelled nearby, "The whole Atiyeh family is dead!"
Men cursed, women wept, children screamed, ambulances came, stretchers took people away, a truck passed by, loaded with white-shrouded bodies.
He heard a man say that the Great Leader's house nearby had been hit by a bomb. The Great Leader had escaped, but members of his family had been killed.
Asad Khalil stood and listened to all that was said around him and noticed some of what was happening, but everything seemed very far away.
He began walking aimlessly and was almost hit by a speeding fire truck. He kept walking and found himself back near the munitions building where Bahira lay dead on the roof. He wondered if her family had survived. In any case, whoever was looking for her would be looking through the rubble in the area of the living quarters. It would be days or weeks before she was found on the roof, and by then the body would be… It would be assumed she died of concussion.
Asad Khalil found to his astonishment that he was still thinking clearly about certain things despite his grief.
He moved quickly away from the munitions building, not wanting any further association with that place.
He walked, alone with his thoughts, alone in the world. He said to himself, "My whole family are martyrs for Islam. I have succumbed to a temptation outside the Sharia and because of that I was not in my bed, and I have been spared the fate of my family. But Bahira succumbed to the same temptation and has suffered a different fate." He tried to make sense of all this and asked Allah to help him understand the meaning of this night.
The Ghabli whistled through the camp, blowing up dust and sand. The night was colder now and the moon had set, leaving the blacked out camp in total darkness. He had never felt so alone, so frightened, so helpless. "Allah, please, make me understand…" He lay face down on the black road facing toward Mecca. He prayed, he asked for an omen, he asked for guidance, he tried to think clearly.
He had no doubt who it was that had brought such destruction on them. There had been rumors for months that the madman, Reagan, would attack them, and now it had happened. He had an image of his mother speaking to him. My poor family must be avenged. Yes, that's what she had said, or was about to say.
Suddenly, in a flash of understanding, it became clear to him that he had been chosen to avenge not only his family, but his nation, his religion, and the Great Leader. He would be Allah's instrument for revenge. He, Asad Khalil, had nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for, unless he took up the Jihad and carried the Holy War to the shores of the enemy.
Asad Khalil's sixteen-year-old mind was now set and focused on simple revenge and retribution. He would go to America and slice the throats of everyone who had taken part in this cowardly attack. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. This was the Arab death feud, the blood feud, more ancient even than the Koran or Jihad, as ancient as the Ghabli. He said aloud, "I swear to Allah that I will avenge this night."
Lieutenant Bill Satherwaite asked his weapons officer, "All bull's-eyes?"
"Yeah," Chip Wiggins replied. "Well, one of them may have overshot…" Wiggins added, "Hit something though. A line of, like, smaller buildings."
"Good. As long as you didn't hit the Arch of Mario."
"Marcus."
"Whatever. You owe me dinner, Chip."
"No, you owe me dinner."
"You missed a bull's-eye. You buy."
"Okay, I'll buy if you fly back over the Arch of Marcus Aurelius."
"I flew in over the Arch. You missed it." Satherwaite added, "See it when you come back as a tourist."
Chip Wiggins had no intention of ever coming back to Libya, except in a fighter plane.
They flew on over the desert, and suddenly the coast streaked by below, and they were over the Mediterranean. They didn't need radio silence any longer, and Satherwaite transmitted, "Feet wet." They headed for the rendezvous point with the rest of their squadron.
Wiggins remarked, "We won't hear from Moammar for a while." He added, "Maybe not ever again."
Satherwaite shrugged. He was not unaware that these surgical strikes had a purpose beyond testing his flying ability. He understood that there would be political and diplomatic problems after this. But he was more interested in the locker room chatter back at Lakenheath. He looked forward to the debriefings. He thought fleetingly about the four 2,000-pound laser-guided bombs they had let loose, and he hoped everyone down there had enough warning to get into their shelters. He really didn't want to hurt anyone.
Wiggins broke into his thoughts and said, "By dawn, Radio Libya will report that we hit six hospitals, seven orphanages, and ten mosques."
Satherwaite didn't respond.
"Two thousand civilians dead-all women and children."
"How's the fuel?"
"About two hours."
"Good. Did you have fun?"
"Yeah, until the Triple-A."
Satherwaite replied, "You didn't want to bomb a defenseless target, did you?"
Wiggins laughed, then said, "Hey, we're combat veterans."
"That we are."
Wiggins stayed silent awhile, then asked, "I wonder if they're going to retaliate." He added, "I mean, they screw us, we screw them, they screw us, we screw them… where does it end?"
BOOK III
America, April 15 The Present
Terrible he rode alone
With his Yemen sword for aid;
Ornament, it carried none
But the notches on the blade.
"The Death Feud" An Arab war song
CHAPTER 18
Asad Khalil, recently arrived by air from Paris, and the only survivor of Trans-Continental Flight 175, sat comfortably in the back of a New York City taxi cab. He stared out the right side window, noticing the tall buildings set back from the highway. He noticed, too, that many of the cars here in America were bigger than in Europe, or in Libya. The weather was pleasant, but as in Europe, there was too much humidity for a man used to the arid climate of North Africa. Also, as in Europe, there was much green vegetation. The Koran promised a Paradise of greenery, flowing streams, eternal shade, fruits, wine, and women. It was curious, he thought, that the lands of the infidels seemed to resemble Paradise. But the resemblance, he knew, was only superficial. Or perhaps, Europe and America was the Paradise promised in the Koran, awaiting only the coming of Islam.