Blackout (35 page)

Khadi reached down and gave Scott's goatee a solid tug, then went back to what she had been doing.

“Ow! Tough girl, Riley. Someday you'll realize she's a keeper.”

The intersection was alive with activity, and the sound of screams, chants, and sirens filled the air. Baltimore cops began flooding the street.

In the midst of the chaos, Riley looked up at Khadi, and their eyes met for a moment before she looked back down.

Yeah, someday I'll realize she's a keeper. Someday.

Wednesday, September 30, 11:45 a.m. IRST

Tehran, Iran

Cower before the world! That's the way to usher in the Mahdi! Hide behind the skirts of your mothers; the West is coming! Throw them a scapegoat! Bow before America and kiss the Zionists' feet! Cowards! The Supreme Leader, the president—all cowards.

Ayatollah Allameh Beheshti closed his eyes as he slowly walked, knowing that the men who walked alongside him would make sure he continued in the right direction. In the darkness of his mind, he could see the Grand Ayatollah and the president as they sat watching the last day of his trial. They had come to witness the verdict and the sentencing, another weak attempt on their part to show the world their commitment to justice.

Justice! Making me pay for having the courage to follow through what was in your very own hearts? That may be man's corrupt version of justice, but it is not Allah's!

He smiled with satisfaction, however, when he visualized the faces of those two hypocrites. The lines on their faces had become deep crevasses. They looked tired, worn, worried. Beheshti had also noticed the way the Supreme Leader had kept his right hand on his left wrist—a sure sign that the shaking that plagued him under times of pressure was attacking him full force.

You deserve to shake! You deserve to tremble! Live your life in fear, for your days may not be long.

The Sleeping Giant had been awakened. America had been temporarily stayed with the trial and convictions of Beheshti, Bahman Milani, Nouri Saberi, and the rest of Beheshti's team. But that would not last long. There was blood in the water, and the shark was circling.

A week ago, an American air strike on the North Korean presidential palace had killed Kim Jong Il. The next day, they had taken out Kim's youngest son and successor, Kim Jong Un. That second strike had immediately triggered a revolution in the country. Government leaders were dragged into the streets and beaten to death, and military and police commanders were assassinated by those under their command. A de facto government free of Chinese influence was established until elections could be held, and the border with South Korea had been opened. Already cries for reunification echoed through the streets of the North and the South.

Now many American government leaders were hoping for the same thing to happen in Iran. And the calls for revolution were not just coming from the West. Hundreds of thousands of adults and students carrying signs with slogans like “Death to the Dictator!” and “This Is for the World to See!” marched in the streets each day, dwarfing the size of the recent election protests.

As he opened his eyes, Beheshti thought,
Yes, you have every reason to be trembling, O Supreme Leader. Your time in this life will not be long, and then you will be forced to answer to Allah for your weakness and hypocrisy.

There was one area in which Iran's leaders and the protesters found agreement, however—the attacks on America must be paid for.
That's okay; I can accept the hatred of the world, as long as I have Allah's favor. Let all the people of this earth direct their derision toward me; I have done God's will. He will vindicate me for all eternity.

At this moment, it wasn't hard to believe that all the world hated him. The thousands of angry screams surrounding him were representative of tens of millions of others watching on a live Al Jazeera broadcast.

Beheshti lifted the hem of his robe as he ascended the steps. He had worn his best
qabaa
for the event and didn't want to soil it on his way up to the platform. When he reached the top, the jeers and calls exploded.

Let them see that you are at peace. Show them your confidence in the vindication of Allah.
Standing straight, with his head up, he slowly scanned the crowd that had gathered in the stadium. As his eyes passed each section, the screams wilted under his hard stare until only a low murmur was left.

Then one voice called out, “Death to the traitor!” and the entire stadium erupted again.

So be it,
he thought as he knelt on the rough wood and leaned forward.
I am not afraid.
As the sound of the rapidly descending sword cut through the din, he said, “Into your hands, Allah, I—”

Wednesday, September 30, 4:30 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

The first time Keith had seen a C-5 flying overhead, he had cheered along with everyone else. It happened the fourth day after the attack, and his stomach had been growling nonstop for the previous twenty-four hours. The helicopter supply drops had continued to bring water and MREs, but with the massive number of people in need, there was not enough of either to satisfy. Seeing an enormous plane like the C-5 meant that the airport runways had been cleared, and clear runways meant supplies coming in and refugees flying out.

Forty-eight hours later, passenger jets began to be interspersed with the cargo planes. Soon it was evident that a regular schedule had been established, and Keith began to expect a plane overhead every ten minutes like clockwork.

That same day, a massive wave of people began pouring through their makeshift bus camp and onto the Triborough Bridge. All were making the hike to LaGuardia, a five-mile trek along the Bruckner Expressway and the Grand Central Parkway.

After a while, Keith decided to walk alongside one middle-aged couple, each loaded with a backpack and a rolling suitcase. They were suspicious of him at first and didn't want to talk, especially with the sorry state of Keith's battered face. But once they connected his name with his profession, they opened up.

Tom and Laura Webb had lived in a very high-end apartment at 96th and 5th, overlooking Central Park. They had been home watching the football game when the lights went out.

At first there was nothing to indicate that it was anything other than an ordinary blackout. Then the first plane had dropped. The explosion shook the whole building. They ran to the window, where they could see the fireball rising from the other side of the reservoir. Then, as they watched in horror, another fireball rose no more than a hundred yards from the first. Then another and then another. Soon the whole park was aflame.

Laura had tried to call their daughter, Maddie, who was at an evening biology lab at NYU south of their apartment. That was when they discovered that the phones weren't working. Telling Laura to stay put until he got back, Tom had left to find Maddie. At first he planned to catch a cab, but when he ran out the door, he saw 5th Avenue packed with dead cars. So he began running.

The streets had filled with people. Panic was everywhere—people afraid to stay in their buildings, but terrified to be in the street. Twice Tom had to go around the wreckage of fallen planes. Bodies and pieces of bodies littered the blocks surrounding the crash sites. But Tom didn't have time to be horrified; he just wanted to find his daughter.

It took him three hours to run the four and a half miles to the university. When he was still five blocks away, he saw smoke billowing into the air above the buildings ahead. Dread filled his heart. He prayed the smoke wasn't from the university.

When he finally came around the last corner, his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. Flaming wreckage filled Washington Square Park, and the university buildings surrounding it were burning uncontrollably.

Tom pushed through the crowds of people, calling out Maddie's name, constantly passing other parents and spouses and boyfriends and girlfriends who were doing the same. Tom stayed there searching until noon of the next day. When he had started his long, lonely walk back to Laura, he hoped beyond hope that he had somehow missed his daughter and that she was now back safe with her mother.

But when he finally arrived home, Laura was still alone, anxiously waiting for him. She burst into tears when she saw that Maddie wasn't with him. Tom told Laura that witnesses had reported to him that students had flooded out of the buildings when the crash first happened. Maybe she was with them, hiding in a girlfriend's apartment. For five days Tom and Laura had waited, hoping and praying that their daughter would come walking through the door. She never did.

After 9/11, Tom and Laura had had a long conversation with their only child. They all agreed that staying in New York City was like living under a giant bull's-eye. So they had decided together that if another terrorist attack should ever happen and they had to evacuate the city, they would find a way to get to Laura's sister's place in Charleston, South Carolina. And if, for some reason, they got separated, that would be their rendezvous.

Now they were heading to LaGuardia to try to get on a plane so they could eventually find their way down to Charleston, where hopefully Maddie waited for them. But even as Tom said the words, Keith could see despair in the other man's eyes. He knew the words were most likely only for Laura's sake. Tom had been there. He had seen the devastation. He knew the truth.

Keith had gone back and reported what he'd learned to Coach Burton. The next day, the whole Colorado Mustangs organization had joined the flood of refugees—all except for him. After talking with Tom and Laura, he had spent a long night wrestling with what he had heard. When the morning came, he realized that he couldn't leave. There was too much to be done here. There were too many hurting and needy people.

He couldn't blame the others for leaving. If he had a wife or kids, he would have fought to get the earliest flight available. But as things stood, it was just him. His epiphany had come when he recalled that for nearly a year now he had been praying for a purpose, a way to leave a lasting legacy. Now he had the chance to make a difference.

Keith had heard from passersby that a large refugee camp had been established near Penn Station. The Army Corps of Engineers had cleared the tracks of the Northeast Corridor and had replaced the electrical engines with diesel locomotives. Now they were running trains every half hour north to Boston and south to Philadelphia. As word got out, tens of thousands of people flooded the area. Soon a large tent city had been established. Food and water were provided by volunteers, and security by the National Guard. That was exactly the kind of opportunity Keith was looking for. So after letting a surprisingly understanding Coach Burton know what he had planned, he said his good-byes to his teammates and set off on the five-mile hike.

As he walked through the devastated city, he felt himself passing from celebrity to obscurity, from selfishness to selflessness. He was amazed that in the midst of the horror he saw all around him, he was finally discovering peace.

The past ten days in the refugee camp had been the most difficult of his life. However, he wouldn't have traded them for anything. One of the blessings of working so hard was that now when he closed his eyes at night, he was too tired to dwell on the vision of Afshin's lifeless stare or the horrible morning when he had led a solemn procession of his teammates to deliver his dear friend's body to the gruesome bonfire that had been created to protect the city against disease.

Keith walked toward the tracks and waited for the approaching train to pull into the station.
If Riley could see me now, he would absolutely crack up! I'd probably never hear the end of it.

He wore a black-and-white checkered vest and a big straw hat that was adorned with a checkered band. His first reaction at seeing the getup was to absolutely refuse to wear anything so ridiculous. But after taking some time to think about it, he swallowed his pride and put on the giant chessboard. Because of the job he had been given, people needed to be able to spot him.

When he wasn't serving meals, he was charged with welcoming the volunteers who arrived with every new train. While still on the train, new arrivals were told to look for the greeters in the checkerboard vests. They were there to answer questions and direct them to the processing tent, where everyone would be given their assignments. Regardless, it still didn't make him look any less like a buffoon.

The long train slowed next to him. Usually they kept the volunteers in the first car or two, so he made his way in that direction. As he walked, he thought about Riley, as he often did. He picked up a lot of news from the people coming off the trains, and anytime anyone had information about his friend, he stopped them for a longer conversation.

It was through the new volunteers that he had heard about Riley's part in stopping the attack on Washington, D.C. It was also through them that he found out about Scott's injury.

When satellite communications were first set up in the camp, Keith had sent off an e-mail to Riley to congratulate him and to see how he was doing. Since that time, though, the lines at the computers had been ridiculously long.
Besides, those people need it more than I do. They're trying to set up the next steps for their lives.

I, on the other hand, don't have any next steps. Which, when you think about it, is actually not that bad of a place to be.
That pleasant thought put him in just the frame of mind that he needed as he walked toward the opening doors and the shell-shocked volunteers who were in the middle of dealing with their first glimpses of just how bad New York City really was.