THIRTY THOUSAND FEET OVER TENNESSEE
It began like the first video.
The images of prior nuclear explosions slowly resolved on the screen, but then came footage from the last days of the Vietnam War, as Saigon fell and the American embassy was evacuated. Somewhere in the background, the tune of “Adagio for Strings,” the theme of Oliver Stone’s movie Platoon, came alive.
Its volume increased as images of injured civilians from the war in Iraq and Afghanistan filled the screen. Burn victims. Amputees. Mothers crying over the mangled bodies of loved ones amidst rubble. Then the images transitioned from Iraq and Afghanistan to New York City, to the recent video feeds depicting the dead, the endless stream of wounded. The screen then split in half. It showed New York City victims on the right and the civilian victims of America’s foreign wars on the left as the music hovered somewhere above the ghastly images.
Monica sat in the rear of the FBI jet flying her to Houston, her eyes on the flat screen mounted on the wall leading to the cockpit as her blood pressure rose.
Slowly, the images faded and Ibrahim al-Crameini materialized. He was dressed in a white tunic. He faced the camera, dark eyes staring back at her with deadly intensity.
“For decades, the United States has fought its wars on foreign soil, inflicting pain and suffering far from home. Today the Islamic State has brought the fight to America, punishing the unbelievers for decades of imperialistic oppression. Your country is now feeling the same sting that the people of so many nations have felt for so long…”
Blah, blah, blah.
Monica muted the video, not caring to hear the utter nonsense spewed by this fanatic. This wasn’t about religion. This wasn’t about imperialism or whatever label that clown wished to use on America’s government. This was terrorism, pure and simple. This was all about a group of assholes exerting their power, killing innocent civilians for the sake of inflicting terror and fear.
She looked out the window while taking a deep breath, her mind processing everything leading up to this point, including the eerie lack of commercial or private traffic at Reagan. Her jet had taxied straight from the general aviation terminal to the runway, taking off immediately. A pair of F-22s escorted her out of Washington’s airspace.
Just like on 9/11.
In the silence of her cabin, as the jet cruised undisturbed above the Tennessee mountains on a clear and beautiful day, Monica did something she had not done in a very, very long time.
She prayed for those who’d died and she prayed for those who had survived.
Then she prayed for the brains and the guts to catch the responsible motherfuckers.