The Howl of the Wind

This story is 7000 words long. So grab your favorite adult beverage, get comfortable on your couch and settle in. Its long but its worth it.

You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows----

----Bob Dylan, 1967

The wind howls. Some people call it the Devil’s Wind. In this part of the world they call it Hamsin. It blows out from the desert and stops at nothing until it hits the sea. When the Hamsin blows, the air is hot and dry, causing sand storms, cracked lips and red eyes.

The only relief is the cool afternoon breeze coming off the Mediterranean that seems to overtake the desert wind. In Um-al-Salam in the northern Sinai, halfway between the Nile River and the Egyptian border with Israel, a meeting is taking place which might very well change the world as we know it. And, the wind continues to howl.

Three men exchange pleasantries inside a mud-brick room. A Single photograph of a young man in traditional Arab dress adorns the plain walls.

In the beautiful swirl of Arabic scrawl a caption underneath reads, “Honor to all those passing into paradise.” A checkered curtain on the window sways slightly, an indication that air is seeping through the closed window frame.

In the corner is an old 50’s style O’Keefe and Merrit four-burner gas stove. The “it” of the Merrit is missing from the logo. The porcelain is chipped in many places, evidence of years of wear mostly from the nomadic style of moving from place to place.

No matter, thanks to a propane tank on the other side of the wall, it works to the delight of its owners. On top of the front burner sits a tin pot heating water for coffee, which is about to be served.

The smell of Java permeates the room, mixing with the stale air and stifling heat. They converse in low tones, so low that sometimes their words are drowned out by the howl of the wind.

The door opens and a fourth man walks into the room. He uncovers his keffiah, which protected him from the sand propelled from the force of the Hamsin outside.

“Salam alekam”

“Alekam Salam my brother. You are just in time for coffee Achmed. Woman!”

The oldest man in the room snaps his fingers and from the side room of the hut comes a veiled woman scurrying so as not to anger the one who gave her the demand.

From the far corner of the table, the venerable old man, sips his first taste of coffee and halts the chatter in the room. Understanding the importance of this meeting he guides his group by getting right to the point. “What news have you for us, Achmed?”

Achmed looks at the other three men, gazing at each one carefully to be certain they are prepared for what he is about to say. “We’ve established contact with the Americans. They are very interested. We will strike a blow to the infidel that will make Ata’s mission look like a small party.”

“Alla be praised”

“Allau akbar”

The giving of thanks, prayer and laughter fills the room for the next minute while the Devil Wind rises in intensity almost in agreement with the group’s elation.

After the men return to a composed coffee drinking state, gradually picking up again the small talk that they all love to engage in.

“Omar, have you found a husband for your oldest daughter yet?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s cold, although the sky is blue and the sun is shining. The howling wind rips through the streets with gusts up to fifty miles an hour. Sandpoint, Idaho, a town fifty miles south of the Canadian border, is hosting something evil today.

At the “Hanging Lady,” on Liberty Ave., four men sit in the corner discussing, planning and scheming. The room is dark. Vintage Merle Haggard fills the empty space as a bare breasted woman in a white cowboy hat dances suggestively, her only partner a three-inch diameter chrome pole.

Marcus Stewart, in a three-piece suit could be mistaken for a lawyer. He is college educated and never uses contractions when he talks.

“Gentleman, we cannot afford to turn this down. This is our chance to hit ZOG with everything we have got. It would be a momentous victory for freedom. And, besides, we will make enough on this to execute with further strikes afterward.”

The other three men look rather ordinary, two wearing Dockers pants and the third in blue jeans. All three are clean, wholesome, not the type anyone would ever suspect. They sit, sipping their beers, trying to absorb their dream coming true.

“Think of it gentlemen, the revolution will start in three weeks. When the Zionists and their nigger allies are dead, the United States of America will once again become the free nation it was meant to be.”

“Bill Larson, the CPA who has his office only two blocks from the “Hanging Lady,” needs to clarify some things in his mind. Stewart knows him so well he can see that look on his face.

“What is it, Larson? You look like you have bug up your ass.”

“How do we know we can trust those sand niggers? What guarantees do we have that we get our money before we do this thing—because if we wait until afterward, we’re never going to get anything out of those fucks?”

“Our money has to be deposited into an account of our choice. We’ll set that up with our German friends. We don’t blow the device until it is. If they are as serious as I think they are about attacking here they will come up with the money.”

“Then they have to trust us.” Larson rubs his brow with his thumb and forefinger like he always does when he is uncomfortable with his understanding of something.

“Yea, so…Bill Isn’t that better than we having to trust them.”

“I don’t like it. Why will they trust us? We are no more to them than they are to us.”

Cliff Barnes, the one in blue jeans has sixty-seven acres of dairy farm ten minutes out of town.

“ No, Bill, they know we hate Jews just as much as they do. What they don’t know is that we can’t stand their greasy, slimy, towel covered asses either."

The four men chuckle around the table but it can’t be heard because the juke box is blaring. The blond on the stage is dancing rather awkwardly to a Bob Dylan song.

“And, they don’t have to know,” continues Stewart. They know we’re going to blow something up. And, that is all they need to know.“

Bill Larson slowly nods his head, as it all seems to fit nice and neat into his mathematical mind.

Mangus Alexander, who had been quiet up until now, speaks up to clarify his worries. “Who is going to actually set and explode the device?”

“ I have in mind a good man, ex army, trained in explosives although not the nuclear kind. But he is smart and tough and just crazy enough to do anything for a buck.”

“Who is it. Marcus?”

“I do not want to reveal that right now, maybe later. The less each one of us knows what the other is doing, the better until the very last moment. Ok?”

The other three men stare at their half drunken beers and nod their heads in agreement. They all seem to be satisfied.

“Now, I want each of you to take an assignment. Larson, I want you to reserve a number of vehicles from the border to Seattle. The more we have, the longer the government will take to figure out who we are. By the time they do, we will be far away enjoying a beach with one of the local island beauties.”

With that remark each of the men turn to look at the naked girl on the stage dancing, suggestively utilizing the chrome pole.

“Cliff, go to Seattle. Since you have your dairy convention there in two days anyway it gives you the perfect cover. I want you to look for the most ideal place to set our little friend. Remember to keep in mind we want to destroy as much of it as possible. We only have one device. Let’s make it count for the maximum.”

Cliff looks at Stewart approvingly.

“Mangus I need you to make the arrangements for our getaway. Cars, plane tickets, destinations, hotel reservations etc.”

Mangus takes out a small pad and jots the list that Marcus is reeling off. Typical of Mangus Alexander's fastidious habit of being so organized. Suddenly, Stewart slams his hand down on over the pad covering both Barnes notes, and the hand with the pencil.

“Don’t do that, Mangus. We don’t want any written record. Right?

“Sure, but I was just going to memorize it and then destroy it completely.”

With contempt, Stewart wags his finger at him, “No, you memorize here without writing anything down. Is that clear?”

“Yea,” Then Stewart raises his hand and tears off the piece of paper that Mangus was writing on, lights a match to it and watches it disintegrate in the ashtray.

“ That goes for everyone,” Stewart looks around the table getting everyone’s attention, “No writing anything down. The last thing we need to do is to incriminate ourselves by jotting down notes.” The men all nod in agreement.

They sit for a minute. Stewart takes a deep breadth. Is there anything else gentlemen? No? Then let us dispense, and we will meet back here in one week. No contact until then.”

“Ok?”

All is in place. The men rise to leave the bar. Outside, across from the bar, the cold wind howls, violently shaking the real estate sign across the street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the north side of the campus of the University of Michigan, Walid walks in from his afternoon classes and checks his e-mail. There is an encrypted message from his cousin in Egypt. The message reads in English:

Everything is OK. Time to go on vacation.

Outwardly, the young man sits with a faint smile, not showing any emotion about what he just read. But, inside, the excitement and adrenalin pump through the young student to the point of exhaustion. He takes a deep breath and goes into his closet and pulls down the dusty blue duffle bag.

He opens it with care. Inside is a cylindrical metal container with two gages and some toggle switches—a nuclear detonator stolen from an army base outside of Houston, Texas.

“Rafiq, you are sure you can handle this?” Ata asks, looking straight into the young man’s eyes.

“As sure as I am sitting here my brother, I can walk into that storage room and take out anything you want.”

And, why would you do this for us? You are an American. You have never even been to your homeland. Why would you do this?” Ata, is encouraged, but as his superiors trained him in Afganastan—never take any one with a simple explanation.

Make them explain it, over and over again. You must be sure that they are willing to die if necessary for Allah. Ata knows this only two well, for his current project he had to go through two hundred men to find the twenty that he will train for a most important mission against the western infidel.

“I hate this land. I hate the people in it. They are not genuine. They do not respect others or their problems. These Christains,” Rafiq snarls as his says the word,

“they only care about the cars they drive and how big their woman’s breasts are. And, they love their Jews. Anything for the Jews. They allow the Jew to run their country for them. I am Palestinian. All I ever wanted was to be able to go back to my grandfather’s land near Tel Aviv.

It was ours for centuries until the Jews stole it from us and the Americans helped them to keep it. They need to be taught a lesson, a big lesson. I know what you want to do with a detonator. I hope you pull it off. The day it kills off half this country, I will rejoice that I had but a small part to play in such a glorious operation.”

Ata sits calmly with a faint smile on his face, enthused with the rage he hears coming so passionately from deep inside this Muslim heart.

“It is time to pray, brother, will you join me?

“Of course, allow me to retrieve my prayer rug out of my vehicle. I will be only a minute.”

With a wave of the hand Ata indicates to Rafiq he will wait. The angry young man walks out to his car, still angry with the world. Someday, I will get revenge, Alla willing. The intensity is evident as his eyebrows push closer to the center as they furrow down the bridge of his ethnic nose. Alla, please grant me this one wish.

Corporal Rafiq as-Salam leaves his barracks and walks toward the mess just like he always does at this time of night intending to snack on bread or crackers or anything left over from dinner.

Already overweight his superiors frown on the twenty-year-old’s obsession of in-between meal snacks. But he doesn’t care, he’s going to do it anyway. They’ll all be sorry soon for making fun of me.

If Alla wills it, someday they won’t be laughing anymore. Someday they will have respect.

And, it makes no difference to Rafiq. Muslim comrades and Christain soldiers, they all make fun of him. They will not make fun of him anymore.

Rafiq works in the nuclear storehouse where all the extra nuclear hardware is stored. He has access to what is commonly called on the base as the “doomsday closet.”

This is where all the extra nuclear hardware is stored. Items here are only used if a part wears out, breaks down or in some way fails to function when running tests. American nuclear weaponry is so well constructed that these parts are hardly ever used and are only there for a dire emergency.

The little fat corporal is in charge of checking the inventory and maintaining its standard in the first three of nine cages inside the warehouse. Everyday Rafiq goes to work and memorizes his inventory.

He has four automatic detonators. He often wondered how easy it would be to slip one of the shiny metal objects with the colored coated wires under his coat and walk out. Who would know?

How could they find out? Rafiq rationalizes the perfect crime as he changes the computer to read three detonators instead of four. He closes his gate for the night and locks it. So easy, so easy, Allah be praised.

“Walid, hurry up, we must be there by 10:00 o’clock.”

“Ok, my brother, keep your shirt on, as these stupid Americans always like to say. I need to lock this door.” A worn out rusted pad lock no longer works with the ease that it once did.

“Ok, Ok, just hurry up, we don’t want to be late.” Amir knows the importance of safeguarding the contents of that garage. He is very thorough, this Walid. He never takes unnecessary chances. I like that. I can trust him.

“Ok, everything ok? “ Amir asks as Walid confidently opens the car door and slides into the front seat. He sits with his legs together, feet flat on the floor and rests his palms facing upward in his lap. The mark of a true Muslim. He makes no pretensions and establishes no conceits. This is just the way The Prophet would have liked it.

The two men drive off in the direction of I-45 which will take them into Galveston and the Mosque where they must keep a very important appointment.

In less than an hour’s time they move into a position to receive a most valuable cargo, a fully completed and ready-to-go nuclear detonator. With that the young men will complete a very important part of the puzzle to kill the infidel.

The two men drive off in silence, both lost in their own thoughts of glory and belonging to such a great undertaking as spreading the influence of Dar es-Islam.

Rafiq pulls out of the base, in the Jeep flashing his evening pass and requisition for the Jeep he is driving past the guard at the gate. The young soldier guard, suspecting nothing, waves at the young revolutionary. Rafiq scoffs at the American’s stupidity in letting him go so easily.

He drives west toward the north side of Galveston where the Hand of Allah Mosque is busily filling up with faithful for the evening prayer. Rafiq button’s up his GI issue overcoat as the open air Jeep offers little protection from the biting cold of November Southern Texas night. He arrives at the Mosque a little late but he knows that his contacts are in there.

The young man walks into the great hall removes his shoes and appropriately takes his place next two Amir and Walid which he locates in the corner.

“Lets go out to the car.”

“What for? I have it right here.” Rafiq begins to remove a small shiny cylindrical object from his shirt pocket.

“Not here! Fool! What’s the matter with you? Are you nuts or something? Amir, whispers condemningly as he eye’s Rafiq up and down.

Ooh. I hope he is not like the others. I hope he’s on the side of Allah.

Walid motions for Rafiq to put the item back into his jacket so it cannot be seen. Luckily no one noticed what was going on. The three men finish their prayers and remove themselves in the appropriate respectful manner, returned the shoes to their feet and marched single file out into the parking lot.

Amir, still upset by Rafiq’s careless move, “ What the fuck were you doing in there, trying to get us all life sentences?”

Rafiq just stares at Amir wondering if he should give this wonderful gift to such an ingrate. Maybe he would be better off with my bayonet in his belly?

But, Rafiq just stands and takes the abuse like he always does. He just stands there and dreams about revenge but never takes it, at least not until now.

“Allright, never mind, hand it over. Put it in here.” Walid opens up a blue duffle bag and slides into the backseat with Rafiq following.

Amir stands guard outside, lites a cigarette, and thinks to himself that this kid is too much of a liability. I might have to do something about it but not now, later.

The three men separate, Rafiq returns to his barracks at the base and has a very restful night’s sleep in spite of Amir’s insulting comments. Amir drives directly to the train station where Walid has his return ticket to Michigan.

“Are you sure you can get that thing all the way back to Michigan without any trouble from the authorities,” after all this trouble and taking a chance on that loudmouth Rafiq, Amir does not want to lose this prize now.

Walid stoically looks at Amir, “You worry far too much my brother. It’ll be fine. Anyway the orders are to bring it into the northeast where the American population is the most dense. That is where we will most likely put it to use. No guarantees, but my cousin in Egypt had instructed me to have it in that area. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

The two say their goodbyes and Amir drives back to the Arab section of Houston. The quiet, contemplative, devout Walid boards the train to Michigan and rides all night without incident exactly as he had predicted to Amir.

Back in Detroit, he carries the duffle bag into his house and carefully spends the next hour hiding it behind some clutter in his closet…And there it sat, for the next three years until an operation large enough was needed to follow up the day the wind blew all over the world, September 11, 2001.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time has come to make use of you my cold friend. The young believer packs a small bag, and heads out the door to the bus station directly. The dusty blue dufflebag raises no questions and requires no explanations.

Outside, a cool breeze is blowing down from the north. Without it, there would be no notice of the residue winter chill in the air on this otherwise fine March day.

“Where to?” the uninterested ticket agent asks.

Walid responds in a soft pleasant voice, “Toronto, please.’’.

He takes his ticket, walks toward the terminal and sits down with the blue duffle bag in his lap. He holds it with both hands and patiently waits for the 3:40 bus to begin boarding. A piece of paper dances gently in the air, propelled by the light wind that has now picked up in the late afternoon.

He studies the paper and imagines it as an exquisite dancer performing only for him. It brushes across his shoes and half way up the lower part of his leg, exiting his repressed sexual urges. Walid controls the explosion that ignites inside him, for a young man in his mid twenties, unmarried and a virgin, the wind has gotten his attention.

Some hours later Walid knocks on the door and Hussein Khalifa answers. They embrace.

“Salam Alekam.”

“Alekam Salam.” Walid enters and exchanges greetings with the Khalifa family and respectfully accepts an invitation for coffee.

“Come.” The older and more rugged looking Hussein guides Walid into the garage area, where the two men can be alone.

A light overhead casts shadows on a table in the middle of the garage floor. Old coffee cups and a half-eaten Danish sit on the table, which is now the focus of two rather large houseflies. Hussein closes the door.

“Well, Walid, I guess we have found a devil to do Allah’s work, eh?”

“Yes, I am so excited I can hardly stand it. I can’t wait until I can speak with my brother in Egypt.”

“Yes, well, but that will have to wait until this business is done, eh?”

“Of course.”

Hussein waits patiently, eyeing Walid’s bag. He holds his hands up and says, “well?”

“Oh, forgive me, Hussein, I am not myself under these circumstances.” He willingly turns over the package to the older man, who opens the box and displays the look of someone who just put the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle in its place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marcus Stewart gets out of his car on the Sunset Strip almost two blocks away from the Rainbow Bar and Grill. Two blocks away, Stewart scoffs to himself.

Fuckin’ Hollywood commies have fucked this town up exceedingly. He walks down the street in his three piece pinstripe suit looking less out of place than one would think on that particular boulevard.

“Spare change, mister?” the man steps in front of Stewart’s path, not trying to prevent him from going on but only trying to add the right amount intimidation years of street training have taught him to get people to go into their pockets

“Get out of my way freak.” Stewart walks right through without slowing his pace at all.

“Jesus loves you man.”

Stewart keeps moving. He enters into the bar and is forced by the darkness to remove his dark glasses. The dim room is contrasted against the noon day LA sun which shines bright and warm outside the front door.

Stewart, pauses for a moment while his eyes become accustomed to the showered darkness, which fills the inner sanctum of this refuge. Several men and two women sitting around the bar drinking maitais and Manhattans to get them started on their inebriated filled afternoons.

Can I help you sir? The young girl with blue hair looking like something out of Tarentino’s Pulp Fiction catches Stewart’s attention as he turns to greet her.

“I am looking for Buford McNalley. I was told that he works here. Is that true?”

“Yes, that is true,” the underage girl says in a half mocking spirit. “Wait here, I’ll get him.” She leans over and affectionately touches Stewart’s arm.

What’s up with that? Does this chick want me or what? Stewart sidles over to the bar where a twenty something couple is sitting and drinking and a guy at the end was doing something on a calculator. It was too dark for Stewart to see what it was. Maybe he is counting receipts.

A young man with a shaved head and an assortment of rings coming out of the extremities of his face greets Stewart sporting an English accent, “What can I do ya’ for mate?”

“Just water,” Stewart waves off any sense of adult beverages as they would strike against his clean-cut persona.

The bartender double takes him to make sure he is not jerking his chain and throws a napkin on the bar setting a small slightly tinted green bottle of Perrier Water in front of him.

“Three fifty, mate.”

Stewart looks and is incensed at that outrageous price, but pays it with a smile as he certainly does not want to make a scene in the place. Any other time I would brake this bottle over this cretin’s head and make that three fifty worth while.

“Stewart?”

Stewart whirl’s around and there stands that scar faced hulk just the way he remembered him. "Hey, Bump, how are you?

"How are you?, Shit, com’ ere and let’s have a look at ya.’ Jesus, Stewart, still wearin’ those three-piece suits, I see. Hey, how long has it been, three, four years? What the Hell you doin’ here, anyway?"

Stewart going through the obligatory greetings goes along with all of McNalley’s stupid questions. “Oh, four, at least. Stewart lowers his voice a touch,

“Yea, it was back at that San Francisco operation.” McNalley rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger, reminiscing. He stares at Stewart while both think about that time…They conspired and murdered a left wing newspaper columnist that Stewart claimed was just about to write a damaging article about him and his white supremacist organization.

The symbiotic relationship between the two becomes almost telepathic thinking about the operation. Neither says anything about it out loud as they don’t want to be implicated in a murder standing around all these fucking Hollywood Freaks.

“Hey, can we talk somewhere kind of privately?"

McNalley’s enthusiasm does not take the hint and answers in the same booming voice he had started his greeting with. “Sure, sure come right this way man.”

Buford leads Stewart to the back of the bar and through a couple of double doors, which take the two down a rather dingy hallway. Pushing the panic bar on a bent steel door and the sunlight floods the long hall. The two step out side as the door slowly closes. Buford sticks a half red brick in the door to keep it from closing all the way.

Startled by the vicious bark of dog chained up in the corner, Stewart walks out into the consuming bright light of the afternoon sun. A brisk wind whistles down the alley as the dog is hushed by McNalley’s threats, “Shut up you fucking mut,” sneering, he turns to Stewart, “My insurance.”

The ex-Marine hops up on some stacked pallets and lights a cigarette. “Want one?

“No thanks. I never touch them.”

“Oh yea, that’s right, smoking is disgusting to ya, I almost forgot that.” McNalley looks at Stewart remembering how weird he is about certain things. His curiosity about Stewart and his odd ways had almost faded from memory. Now it was roaring back as the two defenders of freedom and democracy discuss in quiet tones the nature of Stewarts visit.

“Well, you don’t mind if I do, do ya?”

Stewart shakes his head no, “Listen, Bump, I have something that you might be interested in. Something that is right up your alley. Stewart leans forward on the pallets, standing next to McNalley, looking straight out toward the end of alley, simply says in a calm quiet voice. “We have the opportunity to go nuclear. “

“No Shit?” McNalley takes a long drag off his smoke and contemplates the possibilities of Stewart’s statement through the stream of smoke that he hangs in front of him as he exhales on this sunny day.

Recently we hooked up with that sand nigger Bin Ladin and he informed us that he had recently come into possession of a detonator and if, for a price, we would be interested in becoming his delivery system.

McNalley jumps off his pile of pallets and begins to pace back and forth like a caged lion.

I see you still pace when you think about something serious. Stewart had his own sense of McNalley’s idiosyncracies which he did not appreciate. “Sit down, McNalley, you are making me nervous.”

McNhalley stops, looks at Stewart out of the side of his face, “You want me to carry this thing for you, don’t you? Whoa, shit, this is definitely pacing time, Stewart. This is not just taking out some left wing kike, this is big stuff your talking about. I’m going to pace a little if you don’t mind."

“Oh, more than that Bump, I want you to bring it to its destination and set it off. You are the only one I think who could really pull this off. “

Slowly Bump begins to realize the important position he has in this operation. This could be the biggest thing I ever do. I could become famous. While in the service McNalley had failed entry into special forces twice because he could not pass the mental exam.

One examining psychiatrist saw something aberrant in his behavior and insisted against recruitment. This guy is a ticking time bomb. He is definetly not Green Beret material.

Bitter, he ended up on security detail at a nuclear silo in Kansas. He looks at Stewart, contemplating hard about what he is about to do and slowly his concentrated look becomes a broad smile, affirming his inclusion.

Stewart smiles back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hussein pulls into Cardston, Alberta, Canada, to make the exchange. For three days Hussein stays in a small room at the Mosque on the south side of town. His cousin, Mohammad, sent by his Hamas brothers to set up fundraising activities in Western Canada, is the imam here.

“Salam Alekam,”

“Alekam Salam, my brother.”

“It has been a long time, cousin.”

“I believe the last time was at Bir Zeit in ’94.

Both men smile warmly thinking about those old days when they thought they had the Zionist enemy on the run before their hated foe Sharon built the wall and destroyed their leadership.

Flashback

“Hussein, there are Zionist soldiers coming around that next building.”

“Don’t do anything, let them come, our cameras will pick up their actions and the world will see what pigs they are.”

"But Hussein, what if they start shooting? There could be some blood shed.”

Hussein looks around at his young cousin and out of the corner of his squinting eyes he explains clearly that, “bloodshed is what we want my brother. Let their murderous measures be caught on tape. The martyrs they create today, will bring their downfall tomorrow.”

In English, the message comes over a loudspeaker that cannot be seen but is heard loud and clear. “ This is the Israeli Defense Force. You are in violation of the law with this demonstration. You are hearby ordered,”

Hussein picks up his walkie talkie and makes contact with someone up in the turret of the Mosque, ”to disperse from this place. Do so now.“ Hussein, cannot see the soldiers yet but he can hear them, he puts his hand over his ear to hear better the voice coming over the receiver.

Looking up he can see the top of the tower and the thin appendages coming out of the two slots facing down at the Israeli troops, quietly and peacefully.” The government of Israel does not wish to harm you, but as your protecters we are compelled to break up this meeting.”

Two shots ring out, the crowd scatters running in all directions.

“They are shooting at us!”

“They are killing us!” a young man shouts in French as he runs by the camera crew from the French television station.

On the other street, two Israeli soldiers fall, and the rest of the company take cover. In the confusion a wall of protesters come running around the corner, barreling down the street.

The army is told to fire at will. Many Palestinians fall to the ground, dead and wounded. After the shooting stopped an erie silence fell over the area, only the wind could be heard howling, kicking up dust, and pushing the hair off the forehead of one of the dead Palestinian students.

On the opposite street, Hussein stands with a faint smile on his face, indicating a successful operation. His cousin Mohammad hugs him lovingly.

“Great job, my brother, it happened exactly as you said it would.”

The two men walk arm and arm in the opposite direction of the army so as to live another day and conduct another operation against the hated Zionist enemy.

End Flashback

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On a road outside of town overlooking the valley back into the United States, Buford watches an old Mazda 626 pull up next to his pickup. That’s it.

The two men get out of their cars, “Had a nice trip, Abdul?”

“Hussein, my name is Hussein.”

“Hu-SANE, sure, whatever.” Buford spits a huge squirt of brown liquid from his mouth that splatters on the ground. “Did you bring it?”

Hussein doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, what’s the matter; don’t you hear so good, Abdul? Get the camel wax out of your ears and listen, DID—YOU—BRING—IT?

Hussein, indignant, doesn’t want to answer this American devil. He walks over to his trunk and opens it. Buford sees the case and studies its contents, a bunch of tubes, coils and switches.

Buford had never seen one but it looked like the diagram that Stewart had given him to study. At that moment the howl of the wind came over the mountain, initiating that awesome sound of rustling trees that fills the silence of the canyon, demonstrating the majesty of the high country.

He hands Hussein an envelope. “These are the numbers for the account. If the money isn’t in there by 1700 tomorrow afternoon, the deal’s off.” Bufford picks up the case, which is a little heavier than he expected but not so he couldn’t handle it.

The ex-soldier gets into his pickup and starts the engine. He motions for Hussein to come over to him. Hussein doesn’t budge; he’s not about to move anywhere for this American scum.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow by 5 o’clock. OK, Abdul?” Buford drives in the direction of the American border, smiling and singing to the country song on the radio. Hussein remains there for a moment listening to the wind. The sound it makes is music enough for his ears.

Bump parks the truck behind the Chevron station according to Marcus Stewart’s instructions.at the corner on Main Street. Cliff Barnes had noted that this was as near to the center of the most populated part of the city that one could have.

Barnes was very meticulous how he researched the Chevron station. He first calculated the exact center of the city and then began driving out from the center looking for the ideal place to draw as little attention as possible.

Within a four block radius Barnes discovered two spots which were suitable. One, on a residential street with no street lamps at night. Cliff thought this provided an excellent cover for a nighttime drop.

The other was behind the Chevron station in a small dead end alley. He decided that the latter would be the most appropriate. The bomb neatly hidden away under some tools, secured by a hard shell tonneou cover in the back end of the pick-up is not likely to draw too much attention.

On a clean warm June morning Bump takes his time getting dressed in the morning. He shaves, showers, puts on clean clothes. He’s not sure why he is going through such rituals, it just somehow feels like the right thing to do.

He leaves his hotel and takes the 4th st. bus to Spring street. Two blocks away was safe enough for the experienced soldier that has found a new career. He walks the two blocks to the gas station and heads for the truck.

He drives to the appropriate garage which was rented by Marcus on Barnes' suggestion and begins the task of preparing the bomb. Like the executioners sword he carefully sharpens the blade by connecting the wires one by one, step by step.

Bump’s experience with military protocol in fusing and igniting this type of weapon came in very handy. A twig snaps outside the garage. Bump stops…listens without moving his head up or down, to gain a bead on where the sound is exactly coming.

A shadow moves across the window reflected through by the sunlight. Bump slowly removes his .45 from the back of his belt and quietly leans over to face whatever is about to come through that door.

Come through there motherfucker and I’m going to blow your skull right of your fuckin’ neck.

The handle turns but then stops and the intruder slips away. That’s not good enough for Bump. If you came that close dirt fuck you should have come all the way. Bump slowly moves toward the door. He’s going to kill this basturd anyway. Hell, I ain’t killed nobody in a long fuckin’ time anyhow. I need this.

Bump moves toward the door. Slightly opening the crack just so he can look out he sees a bum standing over by the house taking a leak. A long scraggly beard, clothes that are almost black but at one time they must have been kacky colored… or something close to it.

He is wearing a heavy jacket and it must be 80 degrees outside. I don’t like this I don’t like it at all. Bump decides he has got to go but he cannot do it with a revolver, it will draw too much attention. He returns his revolver to his pants and takes out a small wire rolled up in his pocket. Perfect for occasions like this.

Bump watches the bum walk around to the shady side of the house and sit down with his back leaning up against the house as he prepares a sleeping area with some old rags he pulls from a shopping cart that sits right near him.

Bump watches methodically planning his every move from the instant begins to open the garage door to the point where his victim will lose the struggle and go lymph. The bum leans on some old newspapers, takes a swig of water from a worn arrowhead plastic bottle, stretches and yawns a bit and then lays down for his morning nap.

Within minutes the old guy is fast asleep. Ready or not here I come. Bump cautiously opens the door and stalks across the lawn and heads around the other side of the house to approach his victim from the other to give him total surprise.

Bump turns the corner and views the lump dark figure lying motionless on the side of the house in the shade. Bump pulls his wire tight between his two hands and moves toward his victim in glorious triumph. In one motion he throws the wire over the mans neck and criss-crosses his hands snapping it cutting tight around the man’s neck.

As the bum’s eyes open they are stricken with the excruciating pressure of the trauma emanating from below his mouth. By the time he realizes what is happening Bump has the man totally under his control. The man’s struggle is futile.

Slowly Bump feels the life drain out of his victim. The pain and pleasure of the moment raises Bump’s senses to orgasmic heights. As the bum slumps into death Bump is exhausted from the excitement. He stands over his prey, like an animal contemplating his meal.

The body layed about five feet from a crawl space. Bump dragged it in there. No need to bury it with what I have in store for this city. Bump lights a cigarette and sits directly on the other side of the foundation wall where he left the body. Taking a break for a few moments he contemplates his position in life. It’s so sweet.

Welp, break time’s ovar!

The exhilaration raises Bump’s spirits. Its been a good morning so far but now I’ve got to get back to work. OK here’ goes, I hope this works.

Bump clasps his hands together and walks back into the garage and consumes his task no different than it had been moments before dealing with the bum that got in his way.

For six hours he carefully set up the ignition switch in the cab of the truck. He found the detonating device and the timer that initialized the countdown sequence. He drew the wires from inside the timer to the toggle switch inside the cab of the truck and just let it hang loose on the floor.

Bump cracks his knuckles and leans over to grab the switch and with a nice easy motion of his thumb the counter started ticking backwards from 180 minutes. Done. Knowing that the bomb was now engaged Bump left the vehicle and began to walk south as he was ordered. The wind suddenly begins to howl down the street almost pushing Bump McNalley further along, as if to hurry him up on escaping what he had just done.

Bump walks two blocks south as he was instructed until he reaches the 1990 chevrolet S-10 Blazer.

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In Portland, Oregon, as in Bamph, Canada, morning commuters couldn’t help but notice an unusual flash of light somewhere in the great distance, from the direction of Seattle. Everyone within a 700-mile radius feels twelve seconds later, a deep, powerful rumble inside the earth. What the Hell was that? A mushroom cloud could be seen on the horizon. Could it be? Is it possible? NOOOOOOOO!

All electricity went dead in the Pacific west as far south as Los Angeles and as far east as Salt Lake City. Many people reported a strange smell in the air, almost metallic. Planes bound for Seattle were diverted.

The city was no more. Leveled. Dead. Fires burned for weeks. The human toll was staggering. The world had changed—again. The only sound was that of the wind, whistling through the chards of broken glass and twisted metal.

Millions of dead people, a city gone, a terrorist victory, a free nation’s defeat. The wind continues to howl. All that was left was the howl of the wind.