FARHAD STOOD IN FRONT of an eight-foot-wide projection screen that would soon be displaying videos of the devastating loss of innocent lives in the wake of American drone attacks in the Middle East. Ghazi’s brother, Aasif, was in charge of the imagery, and he’d gathered some of the most shocking scenes posted online for his montage. There were thousands of videos to pick from, and that in itself made Farhad’s blood boil.
Jamal stood behind the camera. “Are you ready?”
Amir, Saabir, and Pirooz craned their necks to watch from their consoles. Hadi stood to one side with his arms crossed. Everyone else had formed a semicircle behind the camera.
Farhad appraised them. “To say this is a momentous occasion would be an understatement, my friends. It’s so much more than that. We left so much behind—our families, our culture, and our boyhood dreams. All so we could train to be prepared for this day, this moment, right now.” He paused. “Am I ready, you ask? I’ve never been—no, we’ve never been—more ready than we are today. Today America changes forever. Turn on the camera.”
Hadi nodded approvingly.
Aasif tapped the tablet in his hand. “We’re streaming.”
Jamal made a final adjustment to the camera angle. “We’re live in three, two…” On the third beat he pointed at Farhad.
Farhad simply stared at the camera, knowing those watching would be moving closer to their screens when they saw a man wearing a dishdasha robe and a shemagh scarf covering all but his eyes. Racial profiling at its best, he thought. The video was being streamed live on social media, with terrorist-related metatags that would drive it in short order to all the major TV networks, not to mention US government agencies. The scenes of violence streaming behind Farhad would accelerate the shares and hit counters to a frenzy. After thirty long seconds, he spoke, his voice altered by Aasif’s software.
“People of America. Your nation suffered deeply in the wake of the nine-eleven attacks. You grieved the loss of life, worked shoulder to shoulder to rebuild, and took strength from the vows of your leaders to bring the perpetrators to justice. But time moved on, and eventually your lives returned to normal.
“But imagine yourself living in Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, or any of the other places where attacks occur on a regular basis. Imagine what it is like to live under the constant threat of terror, wondering if the coffee shop you frequent is the next target, or if you will be driven from your home by masked fanatics, or whether your children will survive the day at school. What if your life of hopes and dreams was reduced to one of constant fear? What would you do then? Would you be willing to take up arms? Would you stand with your neighbors and demand your government do whatever is necessary to stop the madness? Would you sacrifice your own life to make it happen? I would, and so would the many who stand beside me. For it is only through the lifeblood of warriors and martyrs that change can be wrought.”
By now he knew his audience would be stirring with the realization something bad was about to happen.
“You think yourselves invulnerable to the growing threat of terror that exists in much of the world? That is about to change.” He paused for effect, imagining viewers edging closer, their mouths going dry. His voice took on a hard edge.
“It is time for the American public to become part of the reality that exists elsewhere in the world. Only then will you find the will to stand up and be counted. Only then will you take notice of what your oil-hungry leaders have fomented with the relentless imposition of their power and authority in the Middle East and elsewhere. Only then will you force them to keep their noses out of the affairs of others. And mark my words, you will have to force them, because their pockets are lined with the proceeds of their imperialistic practices, from the greedy corporate conglomerates to the power brokers of your own government. Only you can stop them. Not one of you, but all of you. And you had better act soon. Because until then, it is you, the American people, who will pay the price for their interference.”
He gestured toward Aasif, and he turned to watch as the streaming images were replaced with an elevated view of an upscale strip mall one might find across America. The drone sourcing the video was situated atop a lamppost in the parking lot. It panned to reveal a movie theater at one end, a Costco at the other, and a number of retail outlets in between. The parking lot was mostly full on this holiday weekend Saturday, as folks prepared for their Fourth of July gatherings the following day. The mall was located on the outskirts of Dallas, Texas, although that wasn’t evident yet to viewers. The camera zoomed on the front of the movie theater, as a large crowd exited from the latest summer blockbuster. Many others waited in lines outside the door. Farhad signaled Amir with a nod. Amir keyed in an entry.
On the screen, a series of explosions erupted on the theater’s rooftop. Masonry rocketed, smoke billowed, and the front end of the structure collapsed. The camera shook from the blast, and a wave of smoke washed over the lens—but not so fast that viewers didn’t first see bodies strewn along the sidewalk.
It has begun.
The image behind him transitioned to a sequence of similar scenes from throughout the Middle East. Unfortunately, there would be no further images from their drone. They couldn’t risk it, because until after the primary attack in Los Angeles the next day, it was important their use of drones remained a secret. They’d originally hacked into the exterior cameras positioned at the top of the lot’s lampposts, but as luck would have it, the shopping center had upgraded its security software a day ago, and they’d not discovered the disconnect until it was too late to do anything about it. It was a major setback. The team had been distracted, and Farhad had no one to blame but himself. The attack could not be delayed, however, so launching one of the Dallas team’s camera drones had been the only option. By now Amir was making certain it was escaping the scene at top speed to reconnect with Pelican-5 and land at their safe house twenty miles away.
Farhad spoke into the camera, keeping his voice even, as if unaffected by the lives he’d just taken. “Let me ask you—if one doesn’t approve of the way a neighbor is saying his prayers or raising his children, does that give him the right to invade their home and dictate change? No. Likewise, America has no right to mandate what other governments do. Nevertheless, it does so repeatedly, with impunity. But not any longer.
“We don’t want your money or your influence. We simply want you to leave our countries and mind your own business. No more drones, no more advisors, no more spies, or the attacks on American soil will continue. You can forestall those attacks. Simply convince your government to land its drones, bring your soldiers home, and focus on your homeland. If not, we will see to it that America is no longer the land of the free, but the home of the terrified.”
He motioned to Pirooz, and he watched as the screen displayed a grid of four street-level views—a market, a coffee shop, an ordinary-looking home, and an elementary school. They were in a rural area outside Chicago. A family walked into the market, teens loitered outside the coffee shop, and an elderly man mowed the front lawn of his home. The school appeared empty. They’d planned for that on this first salvo. Nevertheless, the message would be clear. Your children are not safe. Farhad nodded, and all four structures exploded with such force that nobody inside could have survived. Smoke filled the air, and shrapnel rained everywhere. The teens in front of the coffee shop and the man on his lawn had been blasted outward from the explosions. Their bodies lay contorted and still.
Farhad turned back to the camera. “Think America. Think hard. This is but the first lesson. Many more will come. You cannot hide from us—not in your homes, or your schools, or your churches or temples. We’re waiting for you there, and at your malls and restaurants and parks and theaters. There’s no escape, just as there is no escape for our families from your drones and bombs.
“You wish to find us? Good luck. We are young, intelligent, and tech savvy. We live among you. We are your friends, your coworkers, your cousins. You will never find us. We monitor your posts, your tweets, your phone calls, and more. But don’t bother rushing to update your virus software to shield yourself from our eyes, because just like your own government we are already there, with access to your personal and private information. What do you think happened to the billions of files hacked over the past several years and made available on the black market? You hope your name isn’t on one of those lists, but trust me, it is.
“Regretfully, your leaders are not swayed by words and threats from outside influences. But they will listen to you, the voters of this nation, once you rise above your complacency and unite to take a stand. So it is to you we speak, and it is on your doorstep that we deliver the evidence of our resolve. And lest you believe we’re unable to reach you in your most defended locations…”
The display shifted to a live view of the top of New York City’s Paramount Building in Times Square. From the angle, it was apparent the camera was on a nearby rooftop. The building was known for its immense four-faced clock at the top, with a majestic glass dome at its peak. The screen split in two. The aerial view zoomed in to capture the front face of the clock and the dome, and a street-level view showed the throngs of people milling about in the square below. It was late afternoon in Manhattan, and the scenes were crisp and clear. A flock of pigeons flew past the clock face, while the tourists enjoyed the sights. Farhad nodded. The clock and dome exploded, sending glass and concrete in all directions. Down below everyone looked up at once. Many took flight immediately, but a few stood frozen with mouths agape and eyes wide. They were the first to die. As the shower of concrete and glass expanded, many more were brought down. Farhad forced himself not to wince, but shook his head as if acknowledging the tragedy of it.
“That horrible feeling you have right now?” he said to the camera. “Burning a hole in your gut? That is the reality our families have lived with forever because of your government. Now it’s your turn.” He pointed at the screen. “This is only the beginning. Meet our demands, or meet your doom. It’s up to you. And if you wish to pass blame, look to your own Western history. This cycle of terror began centuries ago by the aggression of your European ancestors. Your popes and kings rallied under religious banners to invade our lands during your so-called Holy Crusades.” He allowed his eyes to reflect the anger he felt in his heart. “We fought to defend our homes and our faith, and yet you never stopped coming, even today. You are the aggressors in this story. Not us. So don’t think for one minute you can bring us to the bargaining table.” He leaned into the camera lens. “Because we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
He stepped out of view so the camera could focus on the streaming scene behind him. Then he spoke the revered Dari phrase that had been ingrained in him since childhood.
“He will grant you victory over them.”