January 20, 2012. Washington, D.C. 6 a.m. EST.
President-Elect Tim Woodson was super-charged with energy, even though he had not slept at all last night. The last time he remembered when he could not get to sleep due to excitement was when he was six years old on Christmas Eve. It felt like that. He could not wait to take the reins of the nation, to be the most powerful man in the world. He looked at himself in the mirror of the bathroom at the Watergate Penthouse Suite. Damn, he looked good. Freshly tanned from the Las Vegas tan spa at the Palms Hotel, Woodson combed back his slicked salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing his lucky red tie, with the little blue dots. This was the same tie he wore on Super Tuesday, when he decimated Boehner and Jeb and all the other Republicans. This was the same tie he wore on the day of the Cincinnati Massacre, when Anna Scall was giving CPR to the boy in Cincinnati. What luck that she had been campaigning in Cincinnati that day. When he rolled up his sleeves and started comforting parents at the hospital in Cincinnati later that night, he looked like the kind, father figure every woman wanted. His team was able to arrive on the scene as the heroes, angrily denouncing the terrorists, before Obama even knew what was going on. His subsequent campaign ads attacking the Obama administration’s efforts to curb terrorism were brutal. Ahhh, Ohio. He loved Ohio.
He had to admit that he could not wait for all the suck-ups and starlets to start genuflecting when he walked by, to get tickets to any concert or football game or boxing match he wanted, to travel the globe with a parade of staff members picking lint off his jacket and hanging on his every word. Even the food was going to be good. He heard that you could order whatever food you wanted any time you wanted, and the five-star chefs in the White House Kitchen would have it ready in a heartbeat.
However, above all else, he was excited to be President to bring about policy change and return the country to where it was before Obama and the lefties drove the country off the tracks. Fortunately, with the Republicans hammering the Democrats just before Election Day on the terrorism issue, they had picked up seven seats in the Senate and dozens of seats in the House. With the right amount of concessions, he could woo a few Blue Dogs over to his side and get some good legislation passed. Obama’s so-called “anti-torture” order would be the first thing to go. How could the Democrats possibly think we can stop terrorists if we have to give root beer and Nintendo to these animals trying to kill us? No, Cheney was right. Severe interrogation techniques had to be in the arsenal for the worst terrorism suspects. Then he was going to try and water down the 2010 Health Care Act before it officially kicked in. Insurance companies had poured money into his election war chest and they deserved some consideration. His friends in the insurance industry had told him that this health care thing was going to kill them. Why should 85% of the country who have worked so hard to get jobs with health care have to sacrifice everything and pay higher premiums so that a tiny few who did not obtain health care could get it for free? It made no sense to him. And he planned on showing the other world leaders that America was not going to cower with France at the United Nations. America was going to be strong again, and he planned on taking the country there.
His wife Gloria was finished dressing and stood behind her husband in the mirror. “You look so Presidential. I am so proud of you.”
“Thanks, honey,” said Woodson. “And I know America is going to love its next First Lady.”
“Aww.” She adjusted her husband’s tie in the mirror. “You are going to forget about me the first time you get back to the Oval Office.”
“Not true.”
“All I ask is that you remember our wedding anniversary. If you forget that, even the Secret Service is not going to be able to protect you.”
Woodson laughed, and walked over to the coffee table, picking up the sheets of paper containing his inauguration Speech. He looked it over again.
“This is going to be an Inauguration to remember,” said his wife, smiling. “Just don’t let that little Southern bitch steal the spotlight from you. This is your day.”
Mohammed el Faya opened the door to the small business office at 6 a.m. He had to set up his sniper perch. The twelve-story building was owned by Channel 7, a local D.C. news channel. The small 1,200 square foot office at the end of the hall on the top floor was completely gutted, with a plywood floor and wires hanging from the ceiling. The building owner’s plan was to rent the space out to a small law firm or accounting firm, and then renovate it once a lease was signed, but so far, this office was part of a glut of open commercial office space in Washington D.C. El Faya had told the commercial real estate agent that he was planning on establishing his own law practice. The real estate agent was more than eager to show the space to this lawyer. The agent bragged about the beautiful view from the southern wall, and western wall, which was all glass, from floor to ceiling. The agent has assured El Faya that their architect was very easy to work with and the building owner could provide a substantial contribution towards renovation of the space. At the end of the meeting, El Faya had asked the agent for an extra key to be able to come back with his law partner and his decorator to inspect the space. The agent probably shouldn’t have done it, but this had been a very lean year, and he was desperate for a commission, so he gave the extra key to El Faya.
The view from this office provided a perfect view of the target. El Faya was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, a black turtleneck and black knit cap. He took off his tan jacket and laid it on the floor. Out of his black Nike canvas bag he took out the same type of Arctic Warfare sniper rifle he had used unsuccessfully against Saddam Husein in Iraq thirty years ago. He was certain that his time he would not miss his target. He set up the tripod and mounted the rifle. Then he unscrewed the scope from the rifle, and, standing in front of the wall of glass, put the scope to his eye like a pirate captain surveying the ocean, and surveyed the scene while he held a hot mug of coffee in the other hand. His sight line was perfect. There was no way he could miss. And this time he would not be battling a kidney stone.
El Faya sat against the wall, drinking his coffee and reflecting on the last thirty years. It was strange how he had arrived at this point in his life and in history. He had never had any grudge against America, never had a reason to kill one of America’s favorite sons. But that was before his incarceration. He would never forgive those bastards for how he was treated. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, he was on their side. Yet these Americans had just decided he was the enemy merely because he was an Iraqi. They deserved every bit of suffering he would give them.
After his unsuccessful attempt on Saddam’s life, El Faya had fled Dubail, humiliated that his failure had brought about all the suffering in his village. He had wandered around Iraq for a good year after that, never staying in any one place for very long. Eventually, he settled in Fallujah, where he got a job with the local police department. Over the next year, he heard about the executions of his friends and family in Dubail and it took every bit of composure he had to control his rage against Saddam. But he could not let anyone know who he was or the city he hailed from. Any suspicion that he was involved in the assassination attempt would result in his execution. The murders of his friends by Saddam and the burning of their orchards infuriated El Faya. If El Faya wanted to kill Saddam before, he wanted to kill him ten times more now. He never shared his thoughts with anyone, however, and mainly kept to himself.
After a few months, as a Fallujah police officer, he was assigned to investigate the theft of a local grocer. He tracked the thief down to a small house and found the thief, a young eighteen year-old, huddling in a corner, grasping a paper grocery bag filled with the stolen money. He arrested the boy, and put him in jail, but before the prosecutor arrived, he was paid a visit from a Major in Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard. The boy was his son. The Guardsman wanted Officer El Faya to release the boy. Sensing his advantage, El Faya promised to release the boy in exchange for an appointment in Saddam’s Republican Guard. The Guardsman agreed, and soon El Faya found himself working for Saddam in Baghdad.
El Faya had been elated. It would only be a matter of time before he had access to Hussein, and when he encountered him, El Faya would kill him. Then he could gain justice for his little brother and the other members of his village. Unfortunately, his plan took significantly longer than he thought. He was initially assigned to a remote village in the northern part of Iraq where his responsibility included repressing the local Kurds. He thought he would never be re-assigned to the palace in Baghdad until finally, in the early 1990s, he was recalled to Baghdad. But instead of being assigned to the palace, he was enrolled in the effort to attack Kuwait. This was a miserable assignment, and one which could very easily get him killed. However, he knew he had to keep his eyes on the prize, so he did his best. As a sniper in the Republican Guard, he was quite successful in the Kuwaiti operation. Although Iraqi forces eventually had to surrender and retreat, he himself had performed admirably, and had killed a great many Americans. He felt a little bad about that, but if he refused to fight the Americans, he knew Saddam would kill him for sure. When he returned from Kuwait, his commanding officer filed a report confirming El Faya’s valor in the operation. El Faya was promoted to Lieutenant, and assigned to guard a group of buildings on the southeast corner of Baghdad.
Unfortunately, even though he was in Baghdad, he still lacked access to Saddam. Saddam stayed mainly in the palace, and he had no reasonable excuse for entering the palace. There was one day in 1997 when Saddam had made a surprise inspection of his buildings. Saddam had actually saluted him and stood no more than three feet from him. But on the day Saddam arrived, El Faya did not have his weapon. Before he could even react, Saddam had left. He had blown his second opportunity.
His life settled into monotony for the next six years. One night in March 2003, however, he was called into a meeting in one of the palace conference rooms. The Head of the Republican Guard was in attendance and was warning them that the Americans were going to attack Baghdad. El Faya could not believe it. On one hand, he thought the invasion might give him an opportunity to kill Saddam. On the other hand, he would be pressed into military service against the Americans again, and he was lucky to escape alive the first time. He was not afraid to die, but he did not want to die before getting his final vengeance. In addition, as much as he hated Saddam, there was a certain amount of national pride in his own country, and he resented these Americans for attacking his country without provocation. The military men looked on the large flat screen on the wall. George Bush was announcing to the world that his forces had already begun the attack of Iraq.
As the sniper, El Faya was assigned to the fourth floor of the White Tower of Baghdad, near the southern edge of the city. His job would be to try and kill as many Americans as he could when the Americans rolled into the city.
El Faya knew this was a ridiculously dangerous assignment. He was not about to embark on a suicide mission for Saddam. The Americans certainly would figure out he was shooting at them from the tower. One Hellfire missile into the White Tower and he would be dead within minutes. So as the Americans stormed their tanks northward on the road to Baghdad, El Faya left the tower, snuck outside the city, hid his sniper rifle bag under a pile of rocks out in the desert, and then walked down the road toward the approaching American tanks with his hands held high. Not a proud moment for El Faya, but it kept him alive. The American soldiers saw him on the road and screamed at him to get on his belly in the dirt. The soldiers searched him, bound his hands and feet, blindfolded him, and threw him in the back of a transport truck. A few days later, after being processed as a prisoner by the Americans, he found himself in a prison called Abu Ghraib.
7:00 a.m.
Secret Service Officer Jim Butler escorted President-Elect Woodson and his wife into the Lincoln Towncar and then instructed the driver which route to take to Pennsylvania Avenue. “We’re going to take GAMBLER down Route Charlie-5,” said Butler.
“Will-do,” said the driver.
“Mr. President-Elect, when we get to the destination, do not get out of the car until I get out and we clear you to exit, OK?”
“I’ve been through the drill before, Jim. Thanks.”
Woodson’s wife rested her head on her husband’s arm and rubbed his bicep. “I am so excited, Tim. I know you’re going to do great.”
“When we get to the White House, Mr. President-Elect, we are going to bring you to the Roosevelt Room, where President Obama will be waiting to meet to pass you final transition information, such as the N-Codes.”
Tim Woodson nodded somberly. The nuclear codes entrusted to the President of the United States would be an awesome responsibility.
7:00 a.m.
Anna Scall was the happiest person in the world today. She could not wait to be Vice President. And if anything happened to Tim Woodson, God forbid, she would be there to be the Leader of the Free World, the First Woman President of the United States. She fantasized about sitting behind the desk of the Oval Office. Today, she was wearing her skinny red jacket and skirt, with her hair pulled back in a bun. She was staying at the Marriott at the Metro Center. The White House was only six blocks away. Anna Scall loved to be out with the people. Ever since Cincinnati, she had been adored by crowds wherever she went. Today would be no different. She would walk the six blocks to the White House down E Street NW. She did not care what her Secret Service detail or Matt said. This was her day, and she was going to be a rock star.
7:50 a.m.
Supreme Court Chief Justice Dan Perkins greeted several Senators and other parishioners in the vestibule after 7:00 a.m. mass. Senator Ben Schaefer from Nebraska, a Republican, shook hands with the Chief Justice. Schaefer knew that Justice Perkins was the most liberal member of the Supreme Court, and shared a philosophy very different from his own.
“So are you excited about swearing in a Republican today?” jabbed Schaefer.
“Now, come on, Ben, you know we judges have to be fair. We cannot take sides between Republicans and Democrats. We have to treat everyone the same.”
“Well, I guess I will have to wait and see what you boys in black are going to do with all the legislation we are going to pass over the next four years.” Perkins laughed. The Senator shook the hand of the Chief Justice and then walked out of the Church. Just then, Father Rourke came back into the vestibule, wearing his white flowing alb, tied at the waist with a gold cincture, and a red scarf-like stole.
“It was good to see you in mass this morning, Dan,” said the priest. “We are going to need lots of level-headedness the next four years.”
“Yes, I look forward to a challenging host of new issues, Father. Please pray for me.” Perkins looked at the priest, who clearly wanted to say something else.
“Father, you are not going to give me a lecture about abortion again, are you? I know how you feel and I told you I cannot speak about that.”
“No, it’s not that. I have prayed as hard as I can for you on that issue. But Dan, might I have a word with you on this whole issue of gay marriage? You have a case coming up this term on the whole gay marriage issue. Dan, it is specifically forbidden right in the Bible. Leviticus 18:22—‘Thou shall not lie with mankind as with womankind—it is an abomination.’”
“Father, that passage comes directly after a discussion about idolatrous behavior in pagan temples, and the ritual sacrifice of children to the Pagan god Molech. Read in context, in is referring to homosexual activity in pagan temples, not homosexuality generally. But while we are on the subject of Leviticus, Leviticus also says you cannot have sex with a menstruating woman, you can’t ever eat fat, you cannot round the corners of your beard, you cannot approach God if you have a flat nose, you cannot touch a dead pig, and you cannot, on pain of death, cuss out your mother or father.”
“But Dan, the prohibition on homosexuality is not just in Leviticus. There is the Sodom and Gomorrah story, of course, and in Romans 1:26-27, Paul tells us: ‘For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompense of their error which was meet.’ Dan, the Bible is very clear on this.”
“But Father, you cannot take one thing Paul says and then ignore everything else he said. In Paul’s letter to Timothy, he said women cannot braid their hair or wear pearls. Half the women in your congregation today were wearing pearls. And in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he says you cannot have long hair. Paul also said you can get into heaven without performing any good deeds. Meanwhile, Paul was perfectly fine with slavery. In the Bible, slavery, polygamy, concubines, and prostitutes are all fair game. In Deuteronomy, stubborn children are to be stoned, rape victims must marry the rapist, and those with only one testicle cannot gain entry into the Assembly of the Lord. I guess what I am saying, Father, is that you cannot take all these Biblical passages literally and use them as a statutory code.”
“But, Dan, don’t you see that if homosexuals are allowed to marry, it will undermine the very sanctity of existing marriage between a man and a woman, which is a Sacrament in the Catholic Church.”
“Father, we have people marrying because they are drunk in Las Vegas, marrying to get a green card, marrying a mail order bride, marrying an octogenarian to get his money, and marrying people they do not love out of shame for their sexuality. If all those people can marry, I do not see why two loving individuals cannot marry.”
“But Dan, this is official Church doctrine, and you are a Catholic.”
“Father, I am a Catholic, but I am also a judge. And when I put on the black robe, I have to do what is right under the law, irrespective of my own personal beliefs. But as I say, I really cannot debate any specific cases with you which might be pending before the Court. But I do find our discussions of Church doctrine interesting. You always make me think, Father. Now I really have to get moving, because I have to swear in the new President today.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that, at least. What time do you have to be at the White House?”
“Around ten, so we can do a dry-run. Secret Service will be picking me up. But it’s such a beautiful day out, I think I might take a run first.”
“I wish I had your stamina, Dan,” said the priest. “These old bones gave out long ago.”
“Well, maybe we can get together in a week or two for a beer at O’Malley’s, and we can exercise our drinking arm!”
“Ha! That sounds splendid! Now you have a nice day, Dan. God bless you!”
“Thank you, Father.”
What the priest did not know was that Chief Justice Dan Perkins’ brother Seamus Perkins was gay, very much in love, and living in a State which did not allow gay marriage. There was no way in the world he was going to vote against gay marriage when the Daltry v. Schwartzenegger gay marriage case came up for a vote this year. Perkins got in his Lincoln Town car, and the Secret Service drove him to his house, where he quickly changed into running clothes. Today’s run was going to be invigorating and fun. Swearing in another Republican as President, however, was going to be dreadful. The country was going to need a lot of prayers.
8:00 a.m.
Mohammed El Faya still had a little more time to kill before the kill shot. The irony of all this was that at one time, he was on America’s side. His whole life was about killing Saddam Hussein for what he did to Mohammed’s brother. When the Americans took care of Hussein, he did not have much to live for. He had tried to tell the American pigs that he was on their side, not Saddam’s side, but they wouldn’t listen. He rubbed his ankle and remembered where the sadistic American guard had slammed the butt of his rifle against el Faya’s ankle breaking it in two places. He had walked ever since with a limp.
The first night in Abu Graib in 2003 was terrible. He had been in his small cell only a few hours when the three Americans came in, and took him into a holding room, throwing him into a metal folding chair. One was in plain clothes, jeans and a tan jacket, and wearing sunglasses. The other two were in green Army fatigues. The one with the sunglasses seemed to be in charge. He set a tape recorder down on the metal table.
“Do you speak English or do we need a translator?” asked the sunglasses man.
“I speak English.”
“Good. What is your name, son?”
“Mohammed El Faya.”
“Where were you born?”
“Dujail.”
“How old are you?”
“41.”
It took about another ten minutes to get all his biographical information, and to explain how he came to work for Saddam in the Republican Guard. In order to curry favor, El Faya quickly confessed his plot to kill Saddam Hussein. The Americans were skeptical. How was it that he was the only one to escape from Dujail? El Faya explained his shame at missing his target.
“So let me see if I have this straight. You have been a member of the Republican Guard for almost twenty years, you fought and killed American soldiers in the Gulf War, and you had almost twenty years to kill Saddam Hussein, yet somehow, you managed to never even get a shot off on him. Expert marksman like you, I find that hard to believe.”
“I was never stationed anywhere where I could get access. It would look too suspicious. So I waited for the opportunity. I never got the chance.”
“Mohammed, do you think we’re stupid?”
“No, not at all.”
Sunglasses-man took out a ziploc bag and a paper plate from his briefcase, Out of the Ziploc bag, he dumped what appeared to be human feces onto the plate.
“See that, Mohammed? That’s what I think of your story. It’s shit. You are shit. That’s what I think. Now either you start telling us where the weapons of mass destruction are, or what terrorist plots your friends are hatching, or you are going to be eating that shit.”
El Faya looked down. This American was purposely trying to offend his Muslim faith. “I am not aware of any weapons of mass destruction or any plots. I am just a guard at a post, that’s it.”
Just then, one of the Army men went behind El Faya and slammed his face into the plate, soiling his face and breaking his nose.
“I don’t think you heard my friend here, Mister.” The three men laughed.
Sunglasses man talked again. “I am going to give you another chance. Start talking.”
El Faya was horrified and his nose hurt terribly. He racked his brain for anything to say. He could not come up with anything.
The interrogator took out a small book and put it on the table. “We recovered this from your pants pocket when we put you in your cell. This is your copy of the Qu’ran, correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It always disturbs me up how you terrorists think. You walk around all day with this Qu’ran in your pocket, which tells you to be a good person, and then you fly airplanes into buildings, killing thousands of people.”
“Our people did not attack you on 9/11. Those were Saudi Arabians.”
“Really? And how is it that you know that, mother-fucker?”
“Because it was printed in just about every newspaper on the planet.”
“Oh,” said sunglasses-man. “I see. We have a smartass. Well you know what I think of your little Muslim book, smart ass? I think it’s shit.” With that, he rubbed the holy book all over the excrement and then put it back in the captive’s pocket. “There, now the little shit-eater can have his shit book back.”
El Faya was angry and spit at the sunglasses man, calling him a filthy pig.
“I’m a pig?” said the sunglasses man. “Interesting.” With that, sunglasses man slammed the prisoner down onto the floor and with the butt of a rifle, pile drove it into El Faya’s ankle, causing him to wince in pain. Then he took out a plastic paper bag out of his briefcase and violently put it over the captive’s head, strangling him. “Please! NO!! I cannot breathe!” The other two Army men helped the interrogator manhandle the man with the bag on his head down the hall to a room marked “Wetroom.” “Come with us, you little shit!” As El Faya entered the room, he saw a horse’s trough filled with water. The three men placed him roughly on a backboard and then duct-taped him to the board at his chest, his mid-section and his ankles. The three men then lifted the prisoner up, placing the top of the board on the rim of the water trough. Sunglasses man took off the bag.
“You have exactly three seconds to start talking, and to tell us where the weapons are and what terrorist plots against Americans are being planned.”
“Fuck you!”
“Dunk him!” the sunglasses-man ordered. The two Army soldiers slid the water board into the trough. El Faya was thrashing wildly, afraid he was going to drown. After what seemed like an eternity, he was raised out of the trough.
“Please!” said El Faya, sputtering water and coughing. “Tell me what you want me to say and I will say it.”
“It’s not what we want you to say. We want the truth. Where are Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction?”
El Faya hesitated. He had no idea what they were talking about. The three men dunked him again. El Faya looked through the waving water at the evil faces of his captors above him. He was in all-out panic mode, sure that this was going to be his last minute on Earth. Suddenly, he was removed from the water. He coughed again on his removal.
“Tikrit! Tikrit! They are in Tikrit! I swear it! I saw them, lots of these weapons you seek, in a large factory building in Tikrit. There, I have helped you, please release me!”
The three men took El Faya down, untaped him, and returned him to his cell. One of the Army men shoved him against the metal bunk, smashing his head. “Have a nice sleep, shit!” The three men talked out in the hall. The sunglasses man, a CIA operative, said there was nothing in Tikrit. They had already searched every building there. The three concluded the man knew nothing.
That did not stop the torture, however. Over the next three months, angry black dogs were let into El Faya’s cell to scare him to death. They turned on the lights and blared loud sirens every hour or so to prevent him from sleeping. On one particular night, some sadistic guards made each of the prisoners on his floor strip bare, and then led the men into the hall, instructing them, at gunpoint, to jump on each other in a pile up of flesh, while the guards laughed. He was interrogated ten more times, with the same result. Each time he made up a fantastic story, and convinced his interrogators he knew nothing. In 2006, some of the prisoners, including El Faya, were released in the middle of the night into Jordan. As the American soldier roughly threw him out of the truck into the cold night air onto the desert sand, El Faya decided that his vengeance for Saddam had suddenly faded and he would now fight a new enemy—the evil imperialists from the United States of America.
8:30 a.m. Washington, D.C.
Tim Woodson and his wife got in the limousine for their ride from the Watergate Hotel to the White House. As the car traveled slowly down the streets of Washington on Virginia Avenue, Woodson looked out at the droves of well-wishers and fans in winter coats and parkas lining the route from the Watergate to the White House. They all looked so happy to have him there. When the limousine was almost to E Street, Woodson lowered his window. The Secret Service agents in the car went ballistic. “Sir, do not do that!” and they raised the window again. Woodson was annoyed. Who was the President here, after all? What he needed to do was to get out among the people.
“Driver, I would like you to stop up here. I would like to step out for a few minutes and say hello to my constituents.”
Mike Green, one of the Secret Service agents in the car, said, “Sir, I want to strongly recommend that you not do that. Every crazy and their brother is out today. If you get out of the car, sir, we cannot guarantee your safety in this crowd.”
“Mike, I appreciate your dedication. But one of the things you guys are going to have to learn about me is that when I give an order, I expect it to be followed. Now stop the car and open the door!”
Reluctantly, the driver stopped the car, and Mike Green exited the vehicle first, talking into his sleeve and coordinating the move with all the other agents. He did not like this at all.
Across town, Anna Scall was giving her Secret Service detail even bigger fits, because she wanted to walk all the way from her hotel to the White House. Eight agents in black trench coats formed a phalanx around her, as she made her way down E Street toward the White House in her smart red coat and skirt, waving like a beauty queen to the adoring fans.
Meanwhile, in Georgetown, Chief Justice Dan Perkins was running along Canal Stre