Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

Suddenly, an ancient, peeling soccer ball bounced off the side of his head. “Nice reflexes, Cheetah,” Ziad laughed. “What are you daydreaming about?”

“I was just thinking about Uncle Ali.”

“I don’t like to think about him. He scares me. People say he’s friends with Uday. Could that be?”

“I don’t know, Ziad. I think it’s best not to ask too many questions.”

“Yeah… I hope he leaves my mom alone tonight. I don’t like the things he says to her or the way he looks at her.”

Ziad was the son of Uncle Shakir, the second of the three brothers. When Shakir was killed three years ago while fighting in Iran, Hakeem’s father had brought his brother’s family-Aunt Shatha, Ziad, and Ziad’s four-year-old sister, Zenab-into his own house.

The voice of Ziad’s mother rang out from across the dirt field, interrupting their thoughts. It was almost time for Maghrib , the sunset prayer time.

“You realize that this will be the site of your great humiliation,” Ziad taunted in the pompous language they used when teasing each other.

“Tomorrow, Ziad, your pride will be shown to be as empty as your mother’s purse!”

That struck a little too close to home for Ziad, and he pounced upon Hakeem, quickly taking him to the ground. The boys laughed and wrestled, until the voice of Aunt Shatha came a second time-this time with a little more force and the addition of the word Now!

“We better get going. The field will still be here tomorrow,” Ziad said. “I’ll race you. Last one home’s a goat kisser!”

“You got it! Ready… set…”

Ziad’s forearm swung up, catching Hakeem right under the chin.

I fall for that every time, Hakeem thought as he dropped to the ground.

“Go!” Ziad yelled, bolting off to take full advantage of the lead he had just given himself.

Hakeem sat in the dirt for a few seconds, counting his teeth with his tongue. He was in no rush. He knew that no matter how large a lead Ziad created for himself, his cousin had no chance of winning. Hakeem would run him down, and then tomorrow he would make him pay on the soccer field for the cheap shot.

As he got up, he spotted his nemesis. Ziad was about halfway home, puffing with all his might. Beyond his cousin, Hakeem could see his mother and Aunt Shatha laughing and cheering Ziad on. Reclining on the roof were his father and Uncle Ali, shaking their heads and grinning. Here’s my chance to show Uncle Ali what his “little” Hakeem is made of. Hakeem jumped up and began running at full speed.

Suddenly, the world became a ball of fire. The concussive wave knocked Hakeem off his feet. He lay flat on his back. Flames singed his entire body.

The first thing that entered his mind as he glanced around was Look at all these rocks we’ll have to clear off the field tomorrow. The high-pitched ringing in his head was making it hard to think. As he slowly got up, a pungent smell hit his nose-a mixture of smoke, dust, and… what was that last smell?… Burnt hair?

What happened? Where is everybody? Ziad was running home… Mother and Aunt Shatha were at the door… and Father and Uncle Ali were on the roof. Hakeem looked around, trying to make sense of things and attempting to get a bearing on which way was home, but the dirt and grit in his eyes were making them water. Everything was a blur.

When he finally figured out which direction was home, he saw no roof, no door, no house, no Father, no Mother, no Uncle Ali, no Aunt Shatha, no Ziad. He saw smoke and dirt, fire and rubble. Hakeem stumbled toward where his home had been. He could only think of one thing: Mama! Now he began to feel the burns on his face, starting with a tingling and quickly growing to a fire.

Panic began to well up inside of him. Mama, where are you? Hakeem tried to call out for her, but all the heat, dust, and smoke had reduced his voice to a congested croak.

The ringing in his head began to subside, only to be replaced by a more terrifying sound-screams. Screams coming from all around him. Screams coming from within him.

People were running on his left and on his right-some carrying buckets, some covering wounds. Hakeem stumbled past a smoldering heap of rags that deep inside he knew was his cousin, but he couldn’t stop-couldn’t deal with that now. He had to find his mother. Mama, I’m almost there!

As he crossed his father’s property line, he fell into a deep, wide hole. An exposed piece of rebar cut a long gash into his leg. Blood poured out, soaking his torn pants, but still he forced himself up.

Mama, I’ll find you! Oh, Allah, help me! Allahu akbar, you are great! Show me where she is! Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll save you!

He grasped for handholds to pull himself out of the hole and felt something solid. He grabbed it and began climbing up the side of the crater. As he reached the top, he finally saw what he was holding on to. It was an arm-visible to halfway up the bicep before it disappeared underneath a massive block of cement and metal.

Hakeem instantly let go, falling back to the bottom. He twisted and landed on his hands and knees and began to vomit. As he hovered over the newly formed puddle, he could hear the screams all around him. He dropped to his side and rolled onto his back, closing his eyes tightly, trying to will himself not to look at the arm. As long as he didn’t look up, didn’t see the very familiar ring around the third finger of the hand, then maybe it wouldn’t be true. Maybe he could just stay down here, and eventually his mother would find him. She would help him out of the pit, put ointment on his face, bandage his leg, hold him tight, and tell him everything was going to be okay.

But Hakeem knew that would never happen. He knew Mama would never hold him again. The distinctive ring he had glimpsed was one he had examined often as he listened to stories while lying in bed. It was a ring he had spun around his mother’s finger as he sat with the women and children in the mosque, listening to the mullah condemn America and the Jews.

This has to be a dream, he thought. Please, Allah, let me wake up! Tears began and quickly turned into torrents. I don’t like this anymore; please let me wake up! His heart felt like it would explode. He didn’t know what to do. Somebody help me! Anybody help me!! He didn’t want to look back up at the hand. He didn’t know how to get out of the hole. He didn’t know how he would stop the bleeding on his leg. He didn’t know if he would ever stop crying. Oh, Allah, please help me!

Now his screams began again, and they continued on and on until finally Hakeem’s world faded into an unsettled blackness.

2003

Operation Enduring Freedom

Bagram Valley

Helmand Province, Afghanistan

His count was off. Second Lieutenant Riley Covington of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command was on watch at a perimeter security post. He had been lying at the top of a low rise, watching his sector, for four hours, and each time he had counted the boulders on the hill across the small valley, he had come up with thirty-six. This time, however, the count reached thirty-seven. Keep it together, buddy, Riley thought as he rubbed his eyes. He shifted slightly to try to allow the point of a rock that had been boring into his left leg to begin a new hole. I have no doubt these guys scattered these rocks out here ’cause they knew we were coming.

“You seeing anything, Taps?” Riley whispered into his comm. At the other security post, located on the opposite side of the harbor site, Airman First Class Armando Tapia was stretched out behind a small, hastily constructed rock wall.

“Everything’s good to go,” came the reply.

On this sixth night of their mission, Riley had chosen a less-than-ideal position to set up their camp. He didn’t feel too bad, however; there were probably fewer than a half dozen ideal sites in this whole desolate valley. He was positioned on a low hill to the east of his Operational Detachment Alpha, and Tapia was planted to the north of the team. Rising on the south and west of the ODA camp were steep cliffs. If anyone wanted to approach their bivouac, they would have to come through one of the two security posts.