Memorial Day

Seven

Ali Saed al-Houri was sleeping peacefully for a change. He was only in his mid-fifties, but he had endured an incredibly hard life. With his stooped posture, his limp, and his graying beard he was often mistaken for someone much older. He was Egyptian by birth but no longer claimed that part of his ancestry. Al-Houri was a Muslim, and Allah had no borders. Nationality was for pagans, and al-Houri was a true man of God.

One of the original members of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, al-Houri had been imprisoned twice by his government and brutally tortured by the Mukhabarat, or the Egyptian secret police. This was the source of his limp and of his nightmares. Al-Houri had been implicated in the assassination of Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, and in the subsequent crackdown he was rounded up along with hundreds of other members of the Muslim Brotherhood and tortured mercilessly.

They all broke eventually. Some of them told the truth, others said anything to stop the pain, and there were a lucky few who died due to mistakes made by overzealous and inexperienced torturers. Several of his fellow captives went insane and there were a weak few who left the cause, but there were many more, like al-Houri, who grew closer to Allah.

Sitting alone in his filthy cell, with no bed, blanket, or pillow, he sweated his way through the days, too tired to brush away the flies that pestered his battered body, and shivered his way through the chilly nights. During this excruciating state of physical and mental anguish, al-Houri had grown to understand his God on a truly mystical plane. Allah had spoken to him and told him what must be done.

Islam was under assault, yet again. And this time it was not by conventional armies. The West was waging a coward's war using technology and commerce to eat away at the very fabric of the Islamic faith. They were poisoning the minds of Muslim children and leading them astray. The Arab people were in the midst of another holy war, and they didn't even know it. It was al-Houri's mission to spread the word, to pick up the sword in defense of his people, his religion, and his way of life and to protect them all against the infidel.

The torture, the hardship, the expulsion from his place of birth, the last two years on the run, were all worth it. Al-Houri and his people were about to strike a mighty blow for Islam. This was the thought that comforted him as he slept. Allah had given them a great gift. Very soon America would pay for its colonialism and corruption of the children of Allah.

Al-Houri was not normally a sound sleeper, but he found the remoteness and fresh air of this mountain village refreshing. He'd traveled here frequently over the past half year, and this quiet town had turned into his base of operations for what was to be the greatest attack ever launched against America. Al-Houri had split his time between the village and the dirty and overpopulated city of Quetta, the capital of Pakistan's southwestern Balochistan Province. Whenever he came to the village he would dream of the noises the city made. There was a faint rumbling in the distance. In his dream al-Houri couldn't quite place it. Was it a train? The noise continued to grow until it was punctuated by several louder cracks.

Al-Houri's eyes snapped open, and he struggled to focus. He began to sit up, his body still stiff from sleep. The wind was howling outside, buffeting the house, whipping dirt and pebbles into the air, peppering the small bedroom window. Was a storm upon them? There was another noise, eerily familiar, but not loud enough to be that of his worst fear.

Then came a noise he knew all too well, the distinctive sound of an AK-47 machine gun firing on full automatic. The burst was followed by several quieter pops. As another few precious seconds ticked away al-Houri shook the sleep from his brain and realized what was happening. He looked to the bedroom door, urging it to burst open. Closing his eyes, he whispered the name of his bodyguard Ahmed. The Afghani had been a loyal servant for seven years. His orders were specific. Al-Houri knew too much. They could not allow him to be captured alive.

There was a muted explosion followed by a thunderous bang from the other room. Light flashed under the crack at the bottom of the door and more guns joined the battle. Al-Houri cursed himself for having been lulled into a false sense of security in this isolated village. How could this have happened? There were many believers in the Pakistani military and government. They would have risked their lives to alert him to such treachery. He continued to stare at the door, praying his bodyguard would burst forth at any moment. Where was Ahmed?

Finally, the door to the bedroom opened with a crash. As if Allah had answered his prayers, it was Ahmed and not some American mercenary. Ahmed had his weathered Kalashnikov in his hands and was lifting the muzzle, a pained expression on his face, his eyes filled with dread over carrying out his sworn duty.

Al-Houri smiled in relief at the man who had become a son to him. He closed his eyes and welcomed his death and destiny knowing that the Americans themselves were about to be dealt a mortal blow.