Blackout (29 page)

Monday, September 14, 3:15 p.m. EDT

Stone Mountain, Georgia

Muhammed Zerin Khan walked to the edge of the observation deck and looked out over the city.
Just gotta make a short run, clear a couple fences, and over I'd go. It would be so easy—so quick.

He hadn't come up onto Stone Mountain since before he had gone away to college, and the view he saw now took him back to his childhood. Some people said that if you looked close, you could see all the way to Tennessee from up here, but he could never tell. When he was a kid, he would try to spot the state line, thinking it had to be out there somewhere like it was on the maps. When he got older, he forgot about things like that and just focused on the city—his city.

Out to the west, he could see the apartment block he grew up in—shabby-looking even from this great a distance. A fourteen-minute run from there (thirteen minutes twelve seconds, on his best day) was his alma mater, Crim High School, where he had managed to find himself on the good side of the 32 percent graduation rate—the side that didn't involve prison or a bullet. It was at Crim that his life could have gone either way. But with the encouragement of his football coach and the tough love of his mother, he had made the right choices.

And now I've thrown it all away! How did I let Dad talk me into this? How was I so stupid?

When his father had called him last Thursday and told him it was time, Zerin had agonized over the decision. He knew what he could be giving up if he went. But his dad was so insistent, so earnest, so determined that Zerin not go on the road trip to New York.

Way off to the west he spotted the Georgia Dome, a giant white blob in a field of gray. When he had come up here as a teenager, his eyes had always settled on the Dome. He had dreamed of pulling up to the players' lot and parking right next to the stadium. He'd envisioned getting his bag from the back of his Escalade and walking past the security and into the locker room, then, with his uniform on, jogging out onto the field to the sound of tens of thousands of fans chanting his name.

That—that is what I've lost. My dad said, “Jump,” and I immediately asked, “How high?” And I ended up jumping clear out of my career—out of my dream.

Still, I guess I should thank him. Without his summons, I'd be trapped in New York instead of here, on my mountaintop. I also wouldn't know who I really am deep inside—what my character really is, for better or worse.

Zerin hiked around to the southeast side of the mountain. Far out beyond his sight line was the Georgia State Prison. He had no idea whether his dad was okay or not, and he wasn't sure how much he really cared. The stories of the rioting there and at other penitentiaries around the country had been hard to find amid the near-constant coverage of New York City. And when the media weren't talking about New York, they focused on the suicide bombings in all those cities. The plight of a bunch of rowdy convicts was a distant third on the news viewers' list of things they cared about.

The snippets he did hear, though, were bad. Scores of guards had been killed along with hundreds of prisoners. It was an all-out revenge fest with everyone finally acting on their long-held grudges. Over thirty prisons were in flames; one in Colorado and one in Texas had burned to the ground, each condemning over a hundred prisoners to a fiery death sentence.

There was no doubt that America was under attack. He continued to be amazed that
his
father was actually a part of it.

His plane had landed Friday evening, and early the next morning he had made the four-hour drive to Reidsville, arriving just after the weekend visiting hours had begun.

Hamza Yusuf Khan had looked nervous but relieved when he saw his son on the other side of the glass. Dispensing with the usual niceties and small talk, Hamza had gotten straight to the point. In the most cryptic terms possible, he had warned Zerin that the thing he had been talking about was coming the next day. He told his son that they might never see each other again, but if something did happen to him, he had no doubt that he would go straight into the presence of Allah.

Zerin tried to pull details out of his father, but that day, rather than pushing the limits of what he could divulge, Hamza seemed to want to say as little as possible.

That is, until it was mini-sermon time. Hamza recounted to his son his conversion to Islam, and then his disillusionment and fall. He spoke of how one day, a fellow inmate had shown him what true Islam was—an Islam of commitment and strength, honor and vengeance.

“That is what beats in my heart and runs through my veins,” Hamza had said. “It is my life's blood—the essence of my being and the very purpose of my life. And because you are my son, it runs in your blood too. I wish I had more time to talk to you about this, but my time is short. So you must accept what I say to be true. You must step off the fence of half belief and come fully into Allah's service. And you must do what I ask of you—for the love of Allah and for the memory of your father, not the failure that I once was but the warrior I have become.”

At that point they had pressed each other's palms through the glass.

“What do you want me to do?” Zerin had asked, ready to follow his father into the depths of hell if need be.

But when his father told him, Zerin was stunned. He quickly pulled his hand away and stood up.

“Is that . . . is that what this has all been about?” he had asked.

His father convinced him to sit back down. Then he spent the next ten minutes trying to convince Zerin to obey him. He yelled; he apologized; he pleaded; he promised spiritual rewards. As Zerin sat listening to him, he was torn between guilt and disgust, loyalty and contempt.

Finally, without committing one way or another—without even saying good-bye—he got up and left the room. Now, two days later, he still didn't know what he was going to do. No matter what he chose, there would be betrayal—whether against his father or against his own character or against his very life.

He looked at his watch and saw that he had only fifteen minutes until his scheduled meeting time.

When he had first tried Riley's number on Sunday afternoon, his call had gone to voice mail.
You lucky little idiot,
he had thought,
he's in New York! I guess that takes care of that!

Zerin had gone ahead and left an urgent message, figuring that had fulfilled his obligation.
I tried, but I just couldn't reach him! Allah is not unreasonable; he will understand.

But early this morning, when his phone rang and he saw Riley's number on the caller ID, he felt like the main character in a story he had read as a teen about a woman getting a phone call from her husband who had died in car crash earlier that evening. Zerin's heart started racing, and he felt nauseous. Unsuccessfully trying to steady his shaking hand, he picked up the phone and pressed Talk.

Riley seemed to sense immediately that something was wrong. He initially balked at Zerin's request for him to fly down to Atlanta to meet with him, even after Zerin had convinced him that he had very important information about a possible second attack. Riley pleaded with him to tell him what he knew over the phone, but Zerin held his ground. It was in person or not at all—you never know who's listening. He had even convinced Riley to leave his giant bodyguard behind, threatening to clam up if he saw any sign of him.

But can I do it? Can I really go through with it?

As he walked back toward the gondola that would take him to the bottom of Stone Mountain, the Colt Defender .45 ACP that he usually kept hidden away in his mom's apartment rubbed gently against the small of his back.

By the time the cable car had cleared the road and cut through the trees, Zerin had steeled himself for what he knew he had to do.

Monday, September 14, 3:50 p.m. EDT

Stone Mountain, Georgia

“I don't want to hear you crashing through the brush or see you popping up behind some bush,” Riley said to Skeeter as he put the Lincoln Navigator in park.

“This is stupid,” Skeeter said.

“You know what? I'm not even going to argue with you. You're right! This is stupid! But what other choice do I have?”

“I told you! You go out on the path; I circle through the woods. At least you're covered.”

“Come on, man, you know that's too big a risk,” Riley said, pulling low the 94th Airlift Wing cap that he had borrowed from one of the guys at Dobbins Reserve Air Base. He hoped that the hat and the dark glasses would be enough of a disguise so that his presence wouldn't cause a stir.
Guess it better be; it's all you've got!

Riley continued. “First, you don't know these woods well enough to ‘circle through' them. And second, look at you—you're built for ‘Scare the Bejabbers Out of Them,' not for ‘How Not to Be Seen.'”

“I still say it's stupid!”

“We covered that already,” Riley said, exasperated and way past done with the conversation. “Listen, Skeet, I appreciate you more than you'll ever know. But this one I've got to do on my own. Sometimes I gotta trust God, too, not just you.”

Riley opened his door to get out, and Skeeter opened his, too.

“Skeet!”

“I know! I'm just gonna be sitting right here on the hood of the truck. But if I hear anything—
anything
—I'm out there whether you want me there or not.”

Riley smiled. “Thanks, buddy.”

Skeeter didn't say anything. He just slid himself up on the Navigator's hood, causing the metal to buckle loudly.

Great! Guess I'll just tell the folks at Dobbins that a rock fell on the truck,
Riley thought as he jogged off.
A very large, very smooth, non-paint-chipping rock that . . . On the other hand, what do I care what they think?

He looked at his watch and saw that he had seven minutes to get to the rendezvous. Zerin's instructions were to follow the Cherokee Trail under the three Confederate figures carved into the face of the mountain. Then, as soon as he passed the Studdard Picnic Area, he was to turn left toward Stone Mountain Lake. Zerin would be looking for him there.

This B movie, cloak-and-dagger stuff is so incredibly frustrating. What could have taken five minutes by phone is instead costing me nearly a full day. This is stupid! This is stupid! This is stupid! This is stupid,
he repeated in his mind, keeping time to his steps.

It was hard for Riley to believe that just over twelve hours ago, he was trapped in the aftermath of an EMP attack.
No wonder I'm so tired,
he thought, feeling the ache in his legs and up his back. Following his promise to himself to pray for the people in the stadium every time he thought about New York, he again entrusted them to God's loving care.

Riley and Skeeter's homecoming to the RoU had been a special moment. As soon as they walked through the door, the team mobbed them. There were claps on the back from the guys and hugs from the girls. It was the first time that Riley had really felt like one of the team—a member of the family.

Not until everyone had gone back to their workstations had Riley remembered the phone in his pocket. He turned it on and—not to his surprise—found thirty-seven text messages and nineteen voice mails waiting.

Knowing that one would be from his mom and one from Grandpa Covington, he went out into the still-dark courtyard and made a call home. Grandpa was staying with Mom, so they both got on the phone. She had cried through the whole conversation, and both Grandpa and Riley had struggled to keep their emotions in check and stay strong; neither had met with much success.

After hanging up, Riley sat on a picnic table with his feet on the bench and began listening to his messages. Zerin's was number seven or eight.
You're the last thing I need right now,
he had thought. But as he listened, he was drawn in. There was something about the man's voice—fear, desperation—that forced Riley to dial his former adversary's number.

It wasn't long before Riley was glad he did. At first he had serious doubts about the genuineness of Zerin's claim of special information, but then he told Riley about his father's incarceration and how he knew that it was his dad's Wahhabi brethren that were behind the riots—a fact that had not yet been told to the press.

So here he was, a day later, jogging past the sparse crowd, heading for the unknown. As Riley passed under the enormous depictions of Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and Jefferson Davis that were carved into the mountain's face, he hoped that the ultimate outcome of his mission would be more favorable than theirs.

Twenty feet after he rounded the picnic area, he heard his name.

“Riley!”

Riley turned to see Zerin tucked back in the woods. He jogged over to him and stuck out his hand. “Hey, Zerin, good to see you.”

Zerin ignored the hand and said, “Follow me.” He didn't move right away but looked over Riley's shoulder for half a minute.

Please don't be there, Skeet!

Abruptly, Zerin turned and trudged off. Riley followed.

After about three minutes of winding through trees and fording two streams, Zerin stopped. Without saying anything, he reached behind his back and pulled a white envelope out of his pocket.

“What's this?” Riley asked.

“Read it after you leave.”

“Sure,” Riley said, more than a little curious. Tucking the packet into his own rear pocket, he asked, “So can you tell me what this is about?”

Zerin took a deep breath. Riley could see that he was pale and perspiring. There were tears in his eyes as he began speaking.

“First off, you need to know how hard this is for me.”

Riley put on his compassionate look—the one he reserved for women who broke their nails and men who four-putted. “I understand. I—”

Suddenly Zerin's hand drove hard into Riley's chest, pushing him back a step.

Take it; don't strike back; let him vent.

“No, you don't! You don't understand, Riley! My whole life I've been taught to respect my father. ‘Yes, Son, your father is a low-life drug dealer, but still you have to respect him!' ‘Yes, Son, your father traded your childhood for an addiction to rock, but still you have to respect him!'

“So I did all I could to keep my true feelings for him stuffed down. I drew him cards when I was a little kid. I tried to sound happy to hear his voice when we got the monthly calls. But all the while I secretly hated him; I was ashamed of him.”

Zerin leaned back against a tree, propping a foot against the trunk and letting his left hand pick at the bark. “But then, all of a sudden, things started changing with him. He got religion. He was a Muslim again. I saw him cleaning up his act. I saw him making a difference in prison. It's like one day he's this low-life drug pusher and the next he's an imam.

“That respect for him that had eluded me for so long started creeping up on me. I heard him talking about Islam, and it made a lot of sense to me. Before I knew it, I became a believer in Allah
and
in my father.”

Riley tried not to let his impatience surface, but if Zerin had any important information, then this little autobiography was just delaying its getting to the right people. “Listen, Zerin, I don't mean to—”

“Shut up,” Zerin yelled, standing straight up again. “Just hear me out . . . please. A number of months back, he starts talking about this big thing that's going to happen—something that will teach America—the Great Satan, he calls it—a lesson. At first I think, ‘Wait, aren't you an American too?' But then I realize he's not. He's not an American; he's a Muslim—first and foremost. He's found a higher calling—something that transcends nationalities and borders. And suddenly I discover I want that too. I want that same kind of passion—that same kind of purpose! I tell him so, and he smiles and tells me to be ready to be used by Allah.

“Then, about six weeks ago, he tells me to be prepared to come down to him at the drop of a hat. I tell him I will, not truly expecting that he'd call. But last Thursday, he did.

“So I dropped everything and came down. I didn't even tell Coach that I wasn't going to make the road trip. Dad said come, so I came. You see, I knew he had something big for me to do—some major part for me to play in this big plan.

“Well, when I visit him on Saturday, he tells me what he wants from me. You want to know what it is? Money! That's the glorious imam's marvelous plan—his great vision for his son! That's how he says Allah is going to use me! I'm a PFL player; I must be loaded. Who am I to hold those resources back from the ones who are doing God's work?”

“I'm sorry, man.” Riley had been on the receiving side of enough insincere, manipulative requests from people he'd least expected them from to know how much they could hurt.

“Stop it! Don't patronize me! You patronize me, and I swear I'll walk, and you'll never hear from me again! Do you understand?”

Riley nodded. Zerin seemed to be getting more frenzied—more out of control—as the conversation continued. Riley decided to just ride it out and say as little as possible.

“I stormed out of that visiting room with him calling out behind me—yelling so loud I could hear it through the glass. ‘It's time to be a man, Son!' ‘Don't disappoint me, Son!' ‘Don't disappoint God, Son!'

“Well, you want to know who's disappointed? Me! I thought my dad had changed, but he hasn't. He's still just out for the coin.”

Zerin paused. Riley could see the emotion on his face and knew that whatever he had to say next would not be easy.

“And then comes Sunday, and I see what his big plans were, and I spend the whole day crying and throwing up! How could . . . Does he really think that's what God wants? Because I don't think so! That's not the Allah that I've read about! I think that whoever planned this whole thing is just using Allah and the Koran to get power or to—I don't know—to indulge in some twisted bloodlust.”

Zerin started laughing—dry, bitter laughter. “You want to know something? I think that's why my dad's doing it. I think the old man just wants an excuse to put a shank in some guards before he gets too old to give any payback.

“So here I am. I called you because I know that you know people. If I went to the cops myself, they'd hold me—they'd pry; they'd ask questions I don't want to answer. That ain't for me. I've got what I want to say, and I don't want to say any more than that. I've got other plans past this, and interrogations and protective custody don't fit into them.

“So that's why I called you—Superhero Riley Covington. Captain America, right? Isn't that what they call you? I had to call someone, and I figured you . . . you would be able to get the information to the right authorities without asking too many questions. Maybe by talking to you I could even save a few lives. That's a good thing, right? Everyone knows saving lives is a good thing!”

Zerin walked up to Riley and whispered to him, “But you want to know just how screwed up I am? I actually feel guilty about not doing what my dad asks, and I'm afraid that if I tell you what he told me, I'll feel even worse. If I betray him that way, I honestly don't know if I can live with myself. The loss of honor will be too much.”

Riley put his hand on Zerin's shoulder and was surprised when he didn't pull away. “Listen, I'm not patronizing you when I tell you that I feel for you. That's not patronizing; that's just plain old compassion. You are in an unbelievably tough place. But you have to know that if what you've got to say saves lives, that's not betrayal; that's doing the right thing—that's doing the honorable thing!”

Tears welled up in Zerin's eyes. Then, suddenly, he backed away. He steadied his voice and said, “I don't know. . . . Whatever, it doesn't matter. I've made up my mind, and I'm going to deal with the consequences.

“On Saturday, my father, using the coded language he always uses to talk about this stuff, tells me that things are going to be tough for him at home because the Wahhabis are going to stand up. So I figure that this whole big thing that he's been hyping for the past months is a riot. No big deal. But then he goes on to say that their business is just one play in a bigger game. The biggest plays are going to take place up north. I ask him what he means, and he says that the lady's going to lose her wallet and she's going to lose her head.

“I'm still not getting it, so he repeats it. Only this time when he says
wallet
, he traces the letters
NYC
on the glass partition. And when he says
head
, he traces
DC
. The next day, New York City goes off-line. I don't know why Washington hasn't taken a hit yet, but I have no doubt it's coming.”