Dana Stabenow - Prepared For Rage

He was still arguing with himself as he walked into the airport the following Monday morning. They always flew on Monday mornings, Isa's dictum holding that they were less likely to stand out in the crush of back-to-work business travelers. He had checked in online from his home computer-he gave a wistful thought to Brittany waking alone in their bed that afternoon, warm and sleepy and reaching for him-and checked his one bag. This also according to Isa, that people who checked bags were less an item of interest to the ponderous and so easily circumvented security roadblock the Far Enemy had thrown up against incoming travelers.

He smiled at the woman behind the counter and handed her his boarding pass. She was twice his age but that didn't stop him from running an admiring gaze over her. She scanned the bar code and returned a rather stiff smile before fastening a tag to his bag and putting it on the conveyor belt. She stapled the claim check to his boarding pass and handed it back. "Thank you," he said warmly, but she was unresponsive. Evidently not a morning person. He turned away, not seeing the man behind the counter who plucked his bag from the belt before it disappeared.

As he reached the line snaking out of the security checkpoint, someone tapped his shoulder. "Mr. Maysara?"

He turned to see a nondescript man in a tired three-piece suit smiling at him. "Yes?" he said, unalarmed. Perhaps he had left his passport behind.

"May I ask you please to follow me?"

Afterward he wondered why he had. The mild-mannered man in the unremarkable suit with the receding hairline and the belly going slightly to paunch had seemed so inoffensive, so little a threat. There was, too, something in the way he turned immediately after making his request, not once looking over his shoulder, as if he had never a doubt of Yaqub following him when he asked him to.

Whatever the reason, Yaqub followed him. It was done so quietly that barely a head in the crowd turned to watch them go through a gray door whose outline was almost indistinguishable from the gray wall that surrounded it. It led into a small gray room with another door. The man opened it and motioned Yaqub inside with a hand he then used to stifle a yawn.

"What's this about?" Yaqub said, finally asking the question, but he stepped obediently through the door.

A hand covered his mouth and he saw a confusing blur of motion from several unidentified people. There was a sharp sting in the side of his neck. He felt hands around his ankles, he was suddenly horizontal and in motion, and he plummeted down, down, down into a deep, dark well, absent sight and sound and sense.

HOUSTON

"Do you think it was deliberate?"

"What?" Kenai said. "Oh. Do you mean was the Arabian Knight planning to incite an international religious riot from the International Space Station?" She paused to consider. "I don't think so. But then I don't know him very well."

"None of us do," Rick said. "It's a problem."

They were still worried about the remarks the Arabian Knight might make when he broadcast from the shuttle. None of them spoke Arabic. "Then he speaks in English only," Kenai said. "One of us stands by the on-air switch and flips it if he shifts into Arabic."

Joel consulted the ever-present clipboard, a ruse because there was no way he could have anything on it pertaining to this discussion. Wisely, he said nothing.

Rick looked at Kenai. "You say you don't think he meant any harm. Why not?"

Kenai shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know him very well, but he just doesn't have the smell of fanatic to me. He's an arrogant, self-righteous little prick with delusions of grandeur, but I don't think he'd ever put himself in danger. He likes the high life way too much, and while he's really looking forward to being on orbit, he's looking forward even more to coming back and bragging about being a bona fide astronaut. What a shuttle ride means most to the Arabian Knight is an upgrade in arm candy, from Paris Hilton to, I don't know, Princess Stephanie."

"That's an upgrade?" Laurel said.

"Whatever." Kenai was impatient, wanting to get back to work, and not a little incredulous that this was still even a topic for conversation.

Rick frowned down at his feet. "All right," he said, ignoring Laurel 's muttered comment. "But, Kenai, I want you to demand to see in advance whatever remarks he is preparing to read. Make sure there's nothing even remotely incendiary in them."

"I thought you already looked at them."

"I did. Now I want you to look at them. Try to time it to be as close to just before we go up as possible."

Kenai nodded. She had no time for this nonsense, none of them did, but she knew better than to argue. "Wilco."

Rick nodded, a quick decisive gesture. "All right." He looked at Joel. "Anything else?" The set of his mouth indicated that there probably shouldn't be.

Joel shook his head.

"Good. Let's get back to work." Rick straightened up and walked out of the room.

Mike stood up. "Well," he said.

Kenai interrupted him with one hand held up, palm out.

The door opened and Rick stuck his head back in. "I'll take a look at the Arabian Knight's scripts again, too, Kenai."

"You bet," Kenai said. "Just in case," Rick said. "You bet," Kenai said again. Rick nodded and withdrew.

With a sigh, Bill said, "Why he's commander, I guess." Laurel looked at Joel. "Just how bad do we need to launch this frickin' satellite, anyway?"

Only she didn't say frickin'.

GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

"He woke up on the C-12," Patrick told Kallendorf on the phone. "He shouted a bunch of questions, in the worst English accent you've ever heard, and in German. We didn't answer him."

Kallendorf was impatient. "You didn't feed him, you didn't water him, you let him pee and shit where he sat. SOP, Patrick, I get it. What's he saying?"

"It's only been a day and a half, sir. We haven't even gotten him to admit to his own name yet. We have to be patient."

"Patient, my ass!" Kallendorf said.

The bellow was clearly audible all the way across the room. Bob and Mary pretended not to hear. Ahmed, clearly enjoying himself, made a fist and pretended to jerk off, rolling his eyes and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth.

"Isa's got a timetable, Patrick, which means our clock is ticking, too. You make that little son of a bitch squeal like Ned Beatty in Deliverance or you tell him I'll be down there myself to bite his nuts off with my teeth!"

Kallendorf slammed the phone down. His ears ringing slightly, Patrick replaced the receiver and heaved a relieved sigh. It could have been a lot worse.

Ahmed grinned at him. Bob, a short, hairless man with bulging biceps, looked at the ceiling. Mary, even shorter and thin almost to the point of emaciation, looked at the floor.

Robert Shadura was an ex-Ranger who had seen action under fire from Panama to Beruit to Afghanistan. When he had to retire, he'd settled in New York and done consulting work with an international security agency that specialized in the return of kidnapped American businessmen, which subsidized his basement flat on the Upper West Side. He entertained no leftover angst from any of the wars he had fought in, had no drinking habit, no family, and his only sin was a lust for Harley hogs, three of which were parked in a rented garage off Canal Street and one of which was an antique, a 1912 8XE V-Twin Legend, lovingly restored, that was worth over a hundred grand. He wouldn't have taken a million for it.

He was also a gifted actor. In the South Side Players, the amateur theatrical group to which he belonged, he was famous for his portrayal of Macbeth in the Scots play, and he doubled as choreographer for all the fight scenes in all the plays the South Side Players produced. He looked thirty-five, was actually fifty-two, and dated an unending series of beautiful actresses. All such relationships ended amicably, and one so blessed had been known to say in an awed, grateful voice, "I never met a man with such control!"