David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

Riley was a terrible plebe, there was just no other way to say it. Brendan was only 5’10”, but Riley was even shorter. And heavier, a lot heavier. The kid had been off and on “Sub Squad,” Academy slang for the midshipmen who failed their quarterly PT tests, and without help from Liz and Brendan, he’d probably still be there. He was their project, and they’d picked a doozie.

Still, the kid had skills. With a near eidetic memory, Riley consumed information like most people breathed air, and some claimed his computer skills were hacker level. Unlike Brendan, this kid never had any issue with memorization, and his academic scores were tops in his class. But that wasn’t what had made Liz and Brendan choose him.

Riley was one of the post-9/11 crop of midshipmen, the ones who never would have considered a military career had they not been touched by the terrorist attack. His uncle, a bond broker, had been in the World Trade Center when the planes hit. Riley never spoke to him about it, but Brendan had heard that his uncle managed to call their home answering machine minutes before his tower collapsed.

No, they’d made the right choice with Riley. What the kid lacked in physical prowess he made up for in guts.

Liz dropped her hand and picked up the tethered life ring. She swung it wide, and Brendan watched the orange ring arc over the chop toward Riley’s pale face and red hair. Brendan killed the engine to stop their headway. Two more crew members took the rope from Liz and hauled Riley toward the boat. When he was close enough, they reached over the gunwale and hoisted Donald Riley into the cockpit.

The boy collapsed to the deck, splashing water over Brendan’s Docksiders, his pale belly spilling out from under his shirt. One of the crewmen muttered “fucking Riley” under his breath and took a seat on the bench.

Liz whirled on him. “What the fuck is your problem, Richardson? Have you forgotten we’re in a race here? Move it!”

The two crewmen scrambled forward to the winches as Brendan swung the helm and put them on a bearing to fill the mainsail again.

Liz knelt next to Riley. “You okay, Don?”

Riley sat up. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry, Liz. I just slipped and went off the side. It happened so fast…”

Liz held out her hand and pulled him onto the bench next to her. “Go get some dry clothes on, Don, and then we need you back on station. We’re in a race here, or have you forgotten like those other knuckleheads?”

“No, ma’am. I’m on it.” Riley gave her a bright smile. He slid forward and disappeared into the tiny cabin.

Brendan kept his face impassive as he watched from behind his dark glasses. He was going to miss her when they graduated, but she’d make a great officer — and besides, Marine green was a good color for her.

He watched Liz angle her body as the deck canted beneath their feet again. They had one of the faster boats in the regatta; if they kept this kind of speed on they might even place in the top five. She stepped back until she was next to Brendan. She bumped his shoulder with hers.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” she said softly.

“Does it really fucking matter?”

Al Jazeera was broadcasting live from Firdos Square in Baghdad.

Hashem had the sound muted, but the images on the screen needed no words. A US military M88 armored recovery vehicle was in the process of pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein in front of thousands of screaming Iraqis. The iconic thirty-nine-foot statue, erected in honor of Saddam Hussein’s sixty-fifth birthday, depicted the dictator with his open hand raised in friendship. But now there was a heavy chain wrapped around his neck and the statue leaned over at a twenty-degree angle. With a snap, the structure fell and hordes of Iraqis rushed to spit on the image and beat it with their shoes.

Baghdad had fallen.

Hashem had always assumed Saddam Hussein’s forces would fall, but the speed with which the Iraqi forces folded surprised even him. He shook his head and drew fiercely on the last of his cigarette before crushing it out in the overflowing ashtray.

A mere three weeks from the time the Americans entered the country until they took Baghdad. Unbelievable. CNN had taken to calling it the Battle of Baghdad. What battle? With a force that large it took almost three weeks just to drive there from Kuwait.

The crawler on the bottom of the screen said the whereabouts of Saddam and his two sons were unknown. Hashem wondered idly if he should have tied up all the loose ends from his last interaction with the Iraqi regime. No, he decided, killing Uday would have inflamed an already tense situation between their two countries. Still, with this latest news, the consequences would have been nil.

The door to the private room at the restaurant began to open, and Hashem shifted the ashtray to the sideboard, brushing cigarette ash from his suit jacket as he stood. His brother wore the robes of his office, the cream-colored qabaa . The garment fell from his thick shoulders, and a white turban framed his round face. Despite his fifty-one years, his beard was barely graying.

Hashem took a knee before his half brother. “Your Eminence, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

His brother nodded to the guard at the door to leave them. “Hashem! Off your knees, my brother. Rise, please.” He grasped Hashem’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

Despite his kind protests, the obeisance was part of their routine. Aban always liked to be reminded of his office, and Hashem felt obligated to pay his respects to his elder brother, the holy man. So they played the game each time they met.

“Let me look at you.” Aban grasped him by the biceps, holding him at arm’s length. The older man stood a head shorter than Hashem, and even though thirteen years his elder, Aban’s round face and youthful features made them seem much closer in age.

“You look like shit, brother.” Aban shook his head. “It’s those cigarettes. American cigarettes, no less!” He barked out a command. The door snapped open, and his bodyguard filled the doorway. Aban pointed to the overflowing ashtray. The man swept the refuse onto a tray and disappeared without a word.

Hashem licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette now more than ever. The sharp corner of the Marlboro package inside his jacket pocket pressed against his ribcage. To keep his hands busy, he poured the remains of his cold tea into the trashcan and drew fresh cups for himself and his brother.

Aban had seated himself at the table, his short legs spread wide beneath his robes, his belly sagging to touch his thighs. He pursed his lips as he watched the replay of the scene in Firdos Square. Every few minutes, Al Jazeera showed a split screen with a replay of the statue hitting the ground on the right side and some mindless commentator babbling on the left. They had cut the head from Saddam’s statue now and were dragging it through the streets, where Iraqis, features twisted with rage, smacked the face of their former dictator with their shoes.

The muted Al Jazeera network cut to a White House briefing with the US Secretary of Defense. He cackled silently, peering over the lectern nearsightedly. The news crawler said: RUMSFELD CLAIMS “EXCELLENT PROGRESS.” BATTLE OF BAGHDAD “AHEAD OF SCHEDULE.” Aban’s lips twisted.

“First the abomination of Israel at our doorstep, then we are labeled as part of Bush’s Axis of Evil, now this. The American noose tightens, brother.” As if making his point, he tugged at his collar. He took a loud slurp of tea and thunked the clear glass cup down on the tabletop. Tea sloshed onto the linen cloth. He turned to Hashem, his eyes fiery like when he gave his Friday sermons on television — Aban was famous for the length and ferocity of his Friday sermons. “Meanwhile, we make empty threats, religious protestations that ring hollow on the world stage. Allah wants us to be bold, to strike at the heart of this cancer…” He trailed off as he studied his brother’s face.