Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“As-salaamu alaikum,” this man greeted Hakeem.

“Wa ‘alaikum as-salaam.”

“My name is Zalfikar Ali Khan. I lost my family six years ago in an American raid across the Afghanistan border into Pakistan. As you avenge your family, inshallah , you will be avenging mine.”

Hakeem nodded silently.

Khan opened the door of the closet where an oversized vest was stored. Once it had been brought into the house, Hakeem insisted on never letting it out of his sight. The Pakistani lifted the suicide bomb with an audible grunt and placed it on the dresser.

“When I put this on you, you will feel its weight. There are twenty-seven kilos of C-4 and another seven of steel bearings. Most people couldn’t walk far wearing this, but I was told that you could handle the load… Just remember, it will tire you out before you expect it to.”

Hakeem remained quiet.

Khan turned to the other two men. Stretching his hand out toward the vest, he said, “If you would be so kind.”

As Jabr and Mahmud reached for the device, Hakeem put out a hand to stop them. He delved deeply into his pocket and pulled out the brass coin.

The medallion had been so very important to him for so long. It had been a symbol of who he truly was, a constant reminder of his purpose in life. He had been born to die. But not just to die a common death; he had been chosen-called-to die with honor.

As he looked at the three faded daggers etched into the brass, he drew strength from his roots. The words his uncle Ali had repeated to him over and over echoed in his ears: “Never forget who you are, Hakeem. Never forget who you are.”

Hakeem pressed the disk to his mouth and felt the warm metal on his lips. Then he slipped the coin into the mesh ball-bearing pouch that would soon be covering the left side of his chest. Turning to Jabr and Mahmud, he nodded.

“Let it down gently,” Khan said to the two men, who did as they were told and then stepped away. Taking half of a metal buckle in each hand, Khan told Hakeem, “When I make this connection, there will be no turning back. Are you prepared to do this?”

The two men locked eyes, each seeing the sharpness of grief and the emptiness of revenge reflected in the other man’s stare.

“Very good.” And with an audible click, Khan locked the suicide vest onto Hakeem’s body. Hakeem closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. Something cold and metallic found its way into his hand. Looking down, he saw that Khan had given him a shiny silver cylinder. “Please notice that the detonator has a metal cap on it. When you are ready, flip the cap up with your thumb and press the red button underneath.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Hakeem asked.

“No, you are ready.”

“Then please leave me.”

Khan bowed slightly. “Very well. Ma’salaama.”

Hakeem nodded slightly without replying.

When the three men had left his room, Hakeem picked up his button-down shirt. He slid his arms through the sleeves and slowly did the buttons, staring absently at an inky scribble that had been etched in the richly finished dark wood of the dresser. A small, empty jewelry box had been strategically placed directly over the shaky red letters. But the movement of the vest on the dresser’s surface had shifted the disguise, revealing the blemish. Hakeem smiled weakly as he pictured a little girl running out of paper and, the need to express herself overwhelming her common sense, scribbling her name onto her parents’ prized bedroom set.

Oh, Alessandra…

“I have no time for this,” he said out loud and pulled a canvas barn jacket over his shirt. Turning, he examined his reflection in the mirrored sliding closet door. With the vest on, he looked like a man who a couple of years ago had traded in his barbells for Budweisers. Satisfied with the effect, Hakeem removed the jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The vest was definitely heavy, but he’d be able to tolerate it. Although it would be just one bomb, the explosion would be big and devastating. Besides, this was not so much about the blast itself as it was about the where and when of the attack. Today, a dagger would be thrust into the heart of the American people, and hundreds of millions worldwide would know of the weakness of this once mighty nation.

Sunday, February 1

Rose Bowl Stadium

Pasadena, California

2:30 p.m. PST

“You know, today reminds me of my second PFL Cup down in Miami,” said ex-coach and current analyst Buddy Minter. His contribution to the ESPN expert panel was to tell a lot of pointless stories that rarely came to a conclusion. “Except Miami was a lot warmer and we were playing the Pittsburgh Miners-wait… If it was the Miners, then that would have been my third PFL Cup, and we would have been in the Galaxydome… No, I’m pretty sure-”

“Well, I’ll tell you what it doesn’t remind me of,” interrupted Willy Schaefer, former All-Pro defensive lineman for the Twin Cities Norsemen. Willy was the clown of the group, and his jokes were often as unintelligible as they were plentiful. “It doesn’t remind me of New York, New York. If the Rose Bowl had to last a New York winter, it’d never bloom! Ha, ha, ha!”

“You got that right,” agreed Warner Schab, a former major-league first baseman who had inexplicably made his way into the football analyst’s chair. Warner rarely had an opinion of his own; even his feature segment, “Warner’s Winners,” in which he predicted the results of the day’s games, was scripted by a staff writer.

Dale Dewey, ESPN lead analyst and the only one on the panel who really knew what he was doing, just shook his head. Dale had never thought he would miss his stints covering curling up in Ottawa for ESPN2. But from the moment he had been placed with these buffoons, he had been pining for the good old days. “Well, it’s definitely not New York. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Southern California. The people of Los Angeles are really taking advantage of this rare occurrence when the PFL Cup is not being played in a PFL city. This is a huge first salvo in the city’s battle for an expansion team.”

“Yeah, maybe they’ll call them the L.A. Can’t-Keep-a-Teams! They’ll play their games in U-Haul Stadium! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy said.

“See you later, alligator,” Warner added.

Having learned long ago to ignore most of what the rest of his team said, Dale continued, “And as you look around the sea of Liberty and Dragons jerseys, you’ll see an equal number of purple number-32 James Anderson jerseys, blue number-86 Sal Ricci jerseys, and many others wearing the Predator and Mustang colors.”

“Great show of support,” Willy agreed in a rare serious moment.

“Awesome,” Warner said.

Buddy looked like he was about to start a story, but a look from Dewey quickly shut him down. The lead analyst continued, “Security is extremely tight around the stadium, and the lines are unbelievably long. Each person entering the stadium is being individually checked.”

“Yeah, I’m still having trouble walking after my examination! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy interjected, pretending to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Ouch,” Warner empathized.

“You know, that reminds me of one time when I went to the doctor to-,” Buddy began.

Dale quickly jumped in. “Well, it looks like it’s shaping up to be an interesting game. The Liberty could be in for it this afternoon. Everyone’s going to be watching to see if they can recover from the loss of Matt Tayse due to that freak ankle injury coming off the bus.”

“First step’s a doozy! Ha, ha, ha!”

“No doubt.”

“You know, that reminds me of when we lost Ronde Jennings in the ’85 wild card game. The Dragons cleaned our clocks!”