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Authors: Michael Lawrence Kahn

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BOOK: The Screaming Eagles
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Only Syria and Libya opposed the condemnation.

The American president’s popularity rating after acting so decisively was measured at a staggering 94%, the highest ever recorded.

In Baghdad, President Abdel Amir, the only survivor of the bomb that blew up the bunker, recovered from his injuries. His left leg had to be amputated and as he lay in the hospital bed recovering, he thought many times of how brilliantly he’d planned the greatest of deceptions ever.

For thousands of years, Persia and Iraq had been fighting wars. Now for the first time in their histories, one had been annihilated. Eleven Iraqis, masquerading as Iranians, had traumatized the United States into such mass hysteria that Iran’s elimination was thirsted for and demanded by the whole country. Americans believed now their honor had been vindicated. His Screaming Eagles, all dedicated patriots, could not be rewarded in this world, for their secret had to die with them. But, in heaven where the just and righteous live forever, the Eagles would be saints. He regretted that everyone who participated in the plan had to die, even, his son. But he could not take any unnecessary chances and let them live. What a fool Saddam Hussein had been, trying to annex Kuwait. This was so much easier and simpler.

For the first time in centuries, a leader would stride mightily across the world, walking now with only one leg. The true descendants of Mohammed would at last take their rightful place. Iraq and China would be the two most dominant powers of the twenty-first century. Once America was neutralized, the Islamic Revolutionists and the Chinese could divide up the world in the same way that America and Russia had divided the world for seventy years into capitalist and communist countries.

The whole nation mourned for forty days for his son, who was to have been his heir, and all the cabinet members who had been killed by the explosion. Prayers were said five times a day by the faithful for the deliverance of their beloved President from death.

In Mosques it was clearly acknowledged that without Allah’s intervention, President Abdel Amir would surely have died. The prophets for centuries had foretold that another Saladin, praised be his name, would arise from ashes and lead Arab nations to glory and world domination. Allah had decided in his infinite wisdom to choose President Abdel Amir for this holiest of holy missions. The Jihad against the infidel was about to begin. It would take time to achieve all of their objectives, but time was on the side of the righteous.

For years, politicians at all levels, military generals in the various armed forces, economists, bankers and executives in major multi-national corporations had all been carefully targeted and put on Iraq’s payroll. This was accomplished brilliantly by his nephew Sadegh. Sadegh was the key, and he would be well rewarded soon. When the time was right, America, England and France would be in Abdel Amir’s control. The funding had come discreetly, efficiently and secretly for years from Saudi Arabia. Through complicated dummy corporations and banks, the Saudis now owned most of the oil companies in those three countries. Americans believed that Japan, Britain and Holland were the largest outside investors in their country, but the Saudis now controlled far more than the combined Japanese, British and Dutch investors ever would. When the time was right, and it was getting closer every day, the Saudis would unleash an economic attack that would paralyze the West.

The atom bomb that the Israelis and Americans thought was being built at Osirak would be destroyed in a few years time when Israel once again felt threatened. But Iraq would have its nuclear arsenal. Osirak was only a ploy, a diversion. The Abu Hafez underground city, beneath the Imperial Palace compound, was nearly completed. The first neutron bomb was nearly ready. Tons of chemical gas was being produced. It was far more toxic than sarin, which the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan had used in their subway attacks. Russian scientists, unable to find work once the Soviet Union crumbled, had flocked to Baghdad. He had most of their best brainpower. Only power, not oil, would force Iraq and ultimately its Arab friends to be accepted as an equal with China. Japan, would be annexed by China and America would become the Islamic Republic’s most prized possession.

This was his destiny, his sacred duty. He would not fail.

BOOK THREE
JALAL
CHAPTER ONE

Julie kissed him slowly, hoping to ignite his desire to make love. He smelled the familiar perfume on her neck. Her kisses became more passionate. Michael forgot about the lateness of the hour. They started undressing each other with the urgency new lovers have when passion burns and lust consumes them.

Their lovemaking had been intense and erotic from the very beginning. Michael prided himself, on being able to satisfy any woman before he satisfied himself. But with Julie, he lost himself inside her. No matter, Julie also lost control, again and again, each time they were together. This time was no different.

Exhausted and tightly entwined, they looked at each other breathing softly. Michael looked into Julie’s eyes, finding in their depth endless promises of love. Beneath her tough corporate exterior, he discovered a kind and compassionate person who truly loved what she was doing with her career, yet could sob unashamedly sitting at a movie. Michael had found his dream woman. He was living his fantasy. Was it true love? Michael sensed Julie was in love, or nearly so. They were soul mates, two peas in a pod, lovers, and best friends. Both knew that this was unlike other relationships from their past, where game playing of the word “commitment” had had not been given, or wanted. This was different, but no way in hell was Michael going to admit that to Julie. He was determined to keep a tight lid on his feelings for her.

Both had their own demons and baggage to deal with.

He recalled their first weekend together. Was it months, years or days ago? She was now so much a part of his daily life. That first weekend when her shouts had woken him from a dreamless sleep, a sleep satiated from their lovemaking. Heavy with sleep, he’d woken to find her clinging to him fiercely holding with strength that radiated fear. He’d kissed her forehead, tasting salt dampness of her sweat near her hairline and eyebrows, his hands gently caressing her back until the gasping became less ragged, until she breathed in deeply, slowly expelling a terror that had been her nightmare. It had taken a long time for her breathing to become quiet and eventually normal. Her fierce embrace finally relaxed, “I’m sorry,” she said as she lay back on the pillow, turning her head from him. The streetlights outside her apartment shone through a tiny chink where the curtains hadn’t quite closed, casting uneasy shadows upon the far wall. The light enabled him to see a dim outline of her upper body lying next to him, her face hidden in the deep shadow of her pillow.

Lying close to her, seeking and finding her hand, his fingers felt hers tighten over his. “Do you want to talk about it, or should we try to get some sleep?”

She didn’t answer, just held his hand, her thumb slowly sliding across his thumbnail and second joint. Nothing was said, no connection between them, just the harshness of her thumb jarring the nail as she moved hers over his. He started to say something, thought better of it and just lay with his mouth close to her shoulder, wondering if her eyes were open or closed.

“I’m scared,” she’d said, her face still turned away from him. “I’m scared that you are becoming too important in my life. I never expected I could ever feel for some one, the way I felt for my husband. I have been hurt too much by loss, and don’t know if I could survive living through more pain.” He could hear her begin to cry. She still faced away from him. The soft ticking of the clock next to her bedside was the only sound he could hear as her crying subsided. He did not know how long they lay side by side, their hands the only parts of their bodies that touched, yet he felt connected, close to her. His mind was alert, fearful of what she would say, yet fearful if she said nothing and turned away from him emotionally, in the same way as he was holding her at arms-length. He was afraid to acknowledge it, but she too had become important to him. His mind had been exploring different scenarios of their relationship and what to do if this or that happened?a plan B and a plan C. She startled him when she began speaking.

“I was a successful career woman who suddenly one evening met the man of her dreams. I married him and we had a son and daughter. My world revolved around my husband. I had never had a truly best friend, lover and protector. We adored each other and when he looked at me with eyes that made me feel as though I was the most special person in the world, I thanked God over and over again for bringing him into my life. People say that opposites attract, well, we were not opposites, we, were ‘two souls melded into one.’ He was my one and only, we were a team. We could attempt anything, do anything. As long as we were together, we would succeed. Our lives were complete, we doted on our children for they were a small part of each of our genes, conceived in love, and beloved from the moment they were born. Together we made our plans for a future, never anticipating that one day, in the blink of an eyelash, in a flash of flames and fire, my husband and children would no longer be there. Six years ago, my husband was returning home along Lake Shore Drive with our two children, when a car, going in the opposite direction, lost control, jumped the center island, smashed into our car, killing all three of them outright. The car burst into flames and in less than a minute, it exploded. Have you ever buried your children Michael, or one child Michael? Do you know what it is like to bury innocence knowing the one time in their lives, mommy wasn’t there to make it better, or keep the bogey man away?” She did not wait for him to reply but continued as if a question had not been asked.

“I buried ashes, not people. I remember how strange it was looking at ashes and wondering suspiciously if I was burying bits of car parts or really my husband and children, or was it ninety percent car and ten percent people, or vice versa. I was obsessed, needing to extract every possible ounce of flesh or hair so that I could bury all the pieces and body parts of my family. When my babies were born, I counted their fingers and toes. When all you have is ashes, how do you know if all fingers and toes are there?

I realized I was in a state of shock and my hysteria to find bits and pieces of flesh, was getting out of control. That afternoon, I buried three bottles or urns, as funeral directors prefer to call them. Michael, did you know that graves have to be a minimum of four feet deep in this country, but urns can be buried in only twelve inches of soil? Did you know that?

I remember waking up the next morning after the sleeping pills had worn off and walking past my dressing table mirror. I knew for certain that I could not be the person reflected there. I looked at my eyes in the mirror and insane vacant eyes, drugged and lifeless stared back. They weren’t my eyes, couldn’t have been? They were a crazy, demented person’s eyes silently flashing screams of pain. I saw a face bulging and puffy with slack skin blotched and discolored, distorted by deep lines I had never seen on my face before. There was a terrible ugliness about that tortured face. I knew that ugly person could not really be me as we stared at each other.

For a long time, I don’t know how long, I just stood seeing color reflections changing in my irises and pupils as I watched tears forming. The tears swelled, my eyelashes held them prisoner for a split second. Then, bursting out free they became torrents, pouring and dribbling down each side of my nose. I could actually see thin lines of clear water cascading down my cheeks eventually falling in large uneven drops off my chin. Most of that first day was spent in front of that mirror looking at how ugly I was becoming and realizing how hopeless my future without my family would be.

Days became the same as nights. I kept my curtains closed, didn’t want to see the sun shine. The light of my life was no more. My future without them would forever be darkness. Hours didn’t matter any more. I’d turn off the lights in my bedroom, light a candle and turn on the radio loud. It was strange how I would look at the radio not hearing it, and hear the candle instead. The candle burning was my music. The flame with its continuing bursts of energy moving in different directions had a sensuousness and fragile beauty. Its movements were a fifty-piece orchestra playing music to me. A music that only I could hear. The flame was alive. It was continuous, yet its shape continuously changed. I could watch the candle for hours on end. It had a timelessness like Tony Bennett singing, ‘Fly me to the moon’ the night we got married and danced together for the first time as husband and wife for all the world to see. The flame sang to me all the Frank Sinatra duets my husband and I had sung together when we drove in our car and held hands. The flame symbolized life, and of the four of us, I was the only one left to see it in my desperate silence. I was so alone, so very much alone. They betrayed and cheated me by dying and not letting me die with them.

For the next two years, I had therapy twice a week trying to cope with my fears and live with my losses. The pain Michael is still there, dull, but there. Their birthdays are especially difficult days for me for I try to imagine what they would look like if they were now alive. I would walk past shops and think what clothes they would wear and what my birthday gifts to them would be. I even planned to have an artist look at their photographs and on each anniversary of their birthdays, age them by a year, paint in the lines, gently make them mature and grow older in front of me. The updating of the pictures would let me experience the pleasure of seeing my children grow up, and see my husband’s hair each year going a little more gray.

The driver of the other car walked away without a scratch until the police noticed how unsteady his walk was. They found his blood alcohol count was five times higher than it should have been. He was forty-four years old and had been arrested eleven times for drunk driving. He was uninsured, unemployed and driving without a license. That man was sentenced to fifteen years in jail, but because of prison overcrowding, served only two years and two months. I however, was sentenced to life without a family.

BOOK: The Screaming Eagles
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