Backwater Publishing LLC

TERRORIST

by

Clem Mason

 

(Some mild language)

 

(16+)

(wc 2450)

 

 

Ahmed Mupasi was a baggage handler for American Airlines in Washington D.C.’s Ronald Reagan National airport on that fateful day: 9-11. He had arrived in the United States ten years prior; his papers were all in order. He was liked by his fellow workers and was above suspicion. When asked what he thought of the tragedy at the World Trade Center, he expressed great anger at those who perpetrated the dastardly deed and openly cursed them. Like any politician however; he would say exactly what ‘they‘ wanted to hear. Deep down in his heart, he was rejoicing at the victory. But he did not dare reveal his true feelings for fear of bringing attention to himself. All he knew was that soon, he would be given a mission of great importance.

Trey Jefferson liked the Iranian right from the start and helped him become Americanized as quickly as possible. He sat with him at lunch everyday and joked with him constantly. He even invited him over to his house to eat and drink with his family; though Ahmed couldn’t drink liquor. It’s against his religion.

Then it happened. Ahmed received his assignment via a note passed under the door of his hotel room. He was to fashion a bomb and place it aboard American Airlines, flight 157; that was to depart in one week; terminus Toronto, Canada. The Vice President and his staff was to attend the World Peace Conference along with many other high ranking dignitaries. It would be another great victory against the infidels.

To him, it didn’t allow much time to assemble a bomb. It had been many years since his formal training in that aspect and he had doubts; but he would do as best he could. None-the-less, he acquired the necessary components from the local Radio Shack. The C-4 would be more difficult to obtain. He succeeded in fashioning a crude bomb. It was to be set to go off as the plane passed over New York City. The timer calculations were sent along with the note. The bombing of the airplane that carried the Committee on World Peace would be as devastating to the United States as the toppling of the World Trade Center itself; with fiery debris raining down on all those infidels.

As soon as Ahmed learned of his mission, he asked for time off so he would be on another flight, going the opposite direction. He would be headed to Los Angeles when his bomb would explode: precisely at 1:35 P.M. on the 4th of July, 2007. It was fool proof. Nobody would ever suspect him. Not even his black American friend; the infidel, Trey Jefferson.

Ahmed hid his bomb in a small, pink suit case and, being a baggage handler, had no problem placing the bag onto the conveyor belt for flight A.A, 157. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching him. Satisfied, he went to gate 23 to wait for his own departure. He had no more sat down when Trey came to join him.

Ahmed looked puzzled.

Trey smiled. “Ahmed, my main man.” He gave him a high five and set back, “So, headin’ for L.A., huh?”

Ahmed nodded. “I visit family there.”

Treys eyebrows raised. “So, you have family there? You never speak of them, Ahmed.” He shrugged. “Distant cousins. You know cousins!”

Trey studied him a long time. So long that Ahmed was becoming uncomfortable. Suddenly, the Negro stood and extended his hand. “Take care of your self, good buddy.”

Ahmed shook his hand without rising. “I will…good buddy.” He smiled and nodded.

 

On the airplane, Ahmed was nervous. He kept checking his watch; watching the count down. Precisely at 1:25; ten minutes before detonation, his cell phone startled him. He fumbled for it. “Hello?”

“Ahmed, my main man. How’s it goin’?”

Ahmed was irritated. “Trey? What do you want?”

“I’m just concerned about my buddy. What else?”
“Suppose you tell me,” Ahmed growled.

“Well, I’ll put it this way. I got some good news and I got some bad news. Which do you want first?”

Ahmed rolled his eyes. “I will play your stupid game. Give me the bad news first.”

“Your suit case is pink, man.”
Ahmed frowned. “So?”

Trey laughed. Hell man, no…man ever carries a pink suit case.”

Ahmed snorted. “And what’s the good news?”
“I saw you accidently put your bag on the wrong conveyor, so I switched it. It’s there on your plane right now. You’ll have something to wear when to get to L.A.”
A surge of absolute fear and panic swept over him. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. He broke out in a sweat as he looked at his watch: 1:30. Five minutes to…what is it the Americans say?: ’til lift off.’

“Hey, Ahmed. You have a blast, man. Okay? Be seein’ ya.” Trey hung up.

Ahmed slumped down in his seat. “Have a blast,” he muttered to himself. He wondered how such things could come to happen to him. Suddenly, his mouth was dry and he had great fear of his emanate doom. He couldn’t take his eyes off his watch. He couldn’t breathe he was so afraid of dying. He was totally numb as he watched the numbers count down to zero. He closed his eyes and waited. Nothing happened. He set up, wondering what went wrong. The timer must be off a little. Any second now, he thought. Nothing happened. It was the most agonizing moment in Ahmed’s life.

He had a two hour lay over in Dallas, so he pondered what he should do. He decided to retrieve his bomb and try something else. He went to the ticket counter and told them of his change in plans; that he needed to get his bag. They directed him to the baggage handling area where they would help him. They pulled his pink suit case off the connecting flight and gave it to him.

In the stall, in the restroom, Ahmed opened the case. He examined the bomb very carefully and soon discovered a wire had pulled away from the C-4. “Stupid baggage handlers. If they don’t steal it, they destroy it.”

“Amen on that, brother,” came the response from the next stall.

 

A shaking finger dialed the telephone and it rang the required three times before answering.

Readers: I do not speak Arabic and I bet you don’t either. So I will translate into American a readout of the telephone conversation so you can listen in.

 

Ashmed: “Hello?”
Ahmed: “Oh great one. My brother. I have failed.”

Ashmed: “You will die a thousands deaths. Your name will never again be spoken aloud. You will not have a thousand virgins in your next life,” he shouted. Then he calmly asked, “Tell me, Ahmed, what did you do?”

Ahmed: “How did you know it was me?”
Ashmed: “Caller I.D, you moron.”
Ahmed: “Oh great one. The bomb to bring down the peace committee airplane did not detonate as planned.”
Ashmed: “How do you know that?”
Ahmed: “Because the bomb ended up on my flight instead. A friend put the bomb on my flight. However, it did not go off as intended and it sits right beside me as we speak”

Ashmed: “Some friend!”

Ahmed: “He didn’t know it was a bomb.”

Ashmed: “I’ll bet you were sweatin’ that when zero rolled up, huh?” Ashmed laughed.

Ahmed: “I will be honored to die for the cause.”
Ashmed: “Well, you still don’t get a thousand virgins.”
Ahmed: “Oh great one…”
Ashmed: “Oh, stop sucking up. Do this instead. Repair the bomb if you can and set it to go off in ten minutes. Find a large gethering of infidels and place the bomb amongst them.”

Ahmed: “And then what?”

Ashmed: “What? Are you stupid? Do you want to die for nothing? Walk away.”

Ahmed: “It will be done, oh great one.”
Ashmed: “Whatever!”

Ahmed returned to the stall in the restroom and re-set his watch and the timer on the bomb for ten minutes. He walked out and hurried along until he found a large throng, waiting for the flight to Los Angeles to on load. He set the suit case directly in the middle of them and left. He found a restaurant a safe distance away; sat down at an empty table and waited.

A tinge of excitement filled him as the time grew near. With twenty seconds to go, a skinny little man, carrying a pink suit case, appeared at the end of the counter. He stopped to look around and spotted Ahmed sitting alone. He came directly towards him, smiling.

“Hey, buddy. You walked off and forgot your suit case,” the stranger said, holding it up.

Ahmed glanced and watched the numbers roll to zero, so he dove under the table. But nothing happened. The little man set the case on the floor beside him. “I can understand why you’d leave it behind; it bein’ pink and all.”
Ahmed set up. “Again, it didn’t go off.”
“What?” the man asked.

Ahmed got up and sat in a chair. “Did you ever have one of those days when nothing goes right?”
The stranger shrugged. “All the time. Why?”

“I am having one right now.”

“Too bad buddy. I’d say it was because of the pink suit case if you asked me.”

Ahmed exploded. “What is it with the pink suit case?”
“Well,” he said. “It just goes to prove my theory.”

Ahmed frowned. “Theory?”
“Yeah! That all you A-rabs are nothing but a bunch of…queer ducks.” He walked away.

 

To Ahmed, it was quite disheartening. Twice he had tried to bring glory to his people and twice he had failed. But what is it the infidels say?: three times lucky?

Outside, he hailed a taxi. The driver looked at the pink suit case when Ahmed got in and he shrugged it off. “Where to, buddy.”

“Please take me to the bus station,” Ahmed said. “And hurry.”
The cabbie frowned at his rear view mirror. “Why is everybody in such a big gall-dern hurry these days,” he complained.

“Well, I have important matters to take care of. I have a mission,” Ahmed said.

“We have a mission too. It’s in San Antonio, Pal,” the cabbie said.

Ahmed looked at the cabbies eyes in the mirror. “A mission in San Antonio?”

“Yeah! You ain’t from around here, are you? The infamous Alamo, man.”
Ahmed thought about it. Sure. He would place his bomb in the…Alamo. What better plan could there be than to blow up a famous American shrine?

 

Ahmed was beside himself with excitement as he bought the bus ticket to San Antonio. His mission was clear now. However, the bus wouldn’t arrive until 8:30 P.M. So he checked into a motel 8 to spend the night and he would plant the bomb on the morrow.

Safe in his room, he opened the case to inspect the bomb and found nothing wrong. He cursed under his breath. He didn’t sleep well at all and he woke up in a bad mood. He set his watch and the timer to detonate at high noon. Being low on money, he fashioned a sign with large block letters that read: L.A. He’d have to hitch hike after he placed the bomb. Besides, who wouldn’t be glad to pick up an Iranian along the road in this day and age? He grabbed the bomb and went out to hail a taxi with his last few bucks and a pink suit case in tow.

The Alamo was impressive and Ahmed actually read the information about how the few brave Texans stood against the five to six thousand Mexicans and lost. He felt a kinship with them. It seemed the odds were against him and he couldn’t win either. He looked around and placed the bomb behind a potted palm in the lobby and left.

He was standing out by the curb, holding up his sign when a car with a young man stopped in front of him and he leaned over to speak. “Hey! Goin’ to L.A., are ya?”
Ahmed smiled at his good luck. “Yes I am…partner.” He got in.

The man was silent for a long time. When they got out into the desert, he smiled at Ahmed and extended his hand. “I’m Jack. I can take you as far as El Paso and then you’re on your own from there.”

Ahmed shook his hand. “I am…Jose.”

Jack frowned. “You don’t look Mexican to me.

Ahmed nodded. “Si. Distant cousin.”

Jacks eyebrows raised and he shrugged. “Coulda’ fooled me. So tell me…Jose, what line of work are you in?”

Ahmed cleared his throat. “You might say I am in demolition.”

Jack was impressed. “Yeah? I’ll bet that’s exciting.”

Ahmed thought about his recent run of bad luck. “It could be. What do you do?”
Jack grinned broadly. “Me? I’m an opportunist.”

Ahmed frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I take advantage of situations when they come up.” Glancing over, Jack could tell his hitch hiker still didn’t understand. “I seize opportunity.” He reached into the back seat and brought up a pink suit case. “Take this for instance.”
Ahmed screamed in anguish. “Where did you get that?”

“Back there at the Alamo, man. It was hid behind a palm tree. I figure it’s a drug drop or something and it could be worth thousands of dollars.” Jack smiled. “What say we split the profits, you and me?”

Ahmed looked at his watch and he had just 30 seconds left. “How can this be? Allah, now I know you hate me. That is not a drug drop, you infidel. That is a bomb.”

Jack frowned. “How do you know it’s a bomb?”
“Because I am the one who put it there.”

“Damn! You Mexicans didn’t get enough kickin’ our ass the first time, did you. No! You gotta come back and try to kick our ass again.” Jack slammed on the brakes; steering to the side of the road. “Get out and take you bomb with you, Jose.”

Ahmed opened the door and got out, setting the suit case on the ground. As soon as it was clear, Jack sped away with squealing tires.

Ahmed looked at his watch just as it reached zero.

Just then, Jack looked in his rear view mirror and saw a huge orange ball of flame billow into the sky. In a moment, he heard the report of a very loud explosion. He smiled to himself. “Damn Mexicans.”

 

The end.

 

If you liked this story and you feel the poor, old author deserves compensation in his retirement for this creation, then feel free to send $1.00 to Clem Mason, c/o Backwater Publishing. 66021-0213.

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Questions and comments are welcome. Thank you for your honesty and integrity.