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Authors: Dan Fesperman
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was over, count casualties and write our report.
So now, even as Omar babbled on about his grandiose plans and how well I fit into them, I thought I heard in the static of the overseas connection the faint echoes of past gunfire, and couldn’t help but try to decipher whether it was the sound of rubber bullets or of live ammunition.
“So when can I drag you to come here, then? We must talk about this some more, and come to terms.”
I realized that we had been holding an actual conversation.
“How about Wednesday morning? I can make it in on a late flight Tuesday, and we can meet the next day.”
“Perfect!”
He was genuinely thrilled, which cut me to the bone. As we made arrangements to meet, I detected a new message lurking in the static, and this one was altogether more disturbing. It was the presence of a hidden enemy, holding his fire from a concealed position. Now, instead of Omar and I watching the warriors of ’88 move toward an unavoidable collision, we were the ones being observed. And the outcome of this one also seemed inevitable: For a while Omar and I will walk in tandem. Then, perhaps soon, we will collide with someone or something that we have yet to identify. Whatever is approaching, I will be partly responsible for its arrival. But unless I can find some way to change the dynamics, I will be just as powerless as I was in ’88 to stop the oncoming collision. And this time both Omar and I will be in the line of fire.
4
Washington
B eing a daily player in the high-speed lottery of close calls and near misses known as the Connecticut Avenue morning commute, Aliyah Rahim knew instantly that the Ford pulling out from Morrison Street wasn’t going to make it.
It was a towering SUV with one of those names like Extravagance or Exploiter—she could never keep them straight—and it was about to meet its match in the form of an oncoming L4 Metrobus.
Aliyah instinctively placed her hands against the dashboard of their Volvo while her husband, Abbas, shouted, “Oh, my God!” from the driver’s seat. It was a Monday, they were just south of Chevy Chase Circle, and they were both running late for work.
The next sound she heard was the hiss and groan of the bus trying to stop. Brake lights flared red all around them. Then came a sharp bang like that of a small explosion, and she watched in horror as a shower of glass, metal, and plastic blew out in all directions. The driver managed to turn the Ford enough to avoid being broadsided, but his truck still took a full hit to the rear.
Abbas swerved deftly around the bus, darted into the left lane, and then accelerated as their tires crunched across the crystals of the Ford’s shattered window. Aliyah finally exhaled.
It was fairly predictable what would happen next. The effect of an accident on Washington’s commuter stampede is much like that of a lion attack on a herd of wildebeests. Any driver whose car isn’t felled in the onslaught does whatever he can to keep moving, even if it means skirting the victim’s bumper with scarcely a glance. The survivor assuages his conscience by reporting the matter on his cell phone because, let’s face it, his real responsibility is to the drivers in his wake. Strand not, lest ye be stranded.
By scooting past the wreckage, Abbas initially held to form. But Aliyah knew without asking what her husband would do next, and he did not fail her. Abbas pulled the wheel sharply to the right and eased to the curb, stopping only thirty feet beyond the crushed Ford. She watched him glance in the rearview mirror as if already assessing the condition of the driver. He dolefully shook his head and unlatched the seat belt.
“Looks like two of them up front,” he said. “God help anyone in the back. Call 911.”
Aliyah did as she was told. She usually did, reserving dissent for larger battles with greater stakes, which invariably occurred in the privacy of their home. Abbas may have been raised in America since the age
So now, even as Omar babbled on about his grandiose plans and how well I fit into them, I thought I heard in the static of the overseas connection the faint echoes of past gunfire, and couldn’t help but try to decipher whether it was the sound of rubber bullets or of live ammunition.
“So when can I drag you to come here, then? We must talk about this some more, and come to terms.”
I realized that we had been holding an actual conversation.
“How about Wednesday morning? I can make it in on a late flight Tuesday, and we can meet the next day.”
“Perfect!”
He was genuinely thrilled, which cut me to the bone. As we made arrangements to meet, I detected a new message lurking in the static, and this one was altogether more disturbing. It was the presence of a hidden enemy, holding his fire from a concealed position. Now, instead of Omar and I watching the warriors of ’88 move toward an unavoidable collision, we were the ones being observed. And the outcome of this one also seemed inevitable: For a while Omar and I will walk in tandem. Then, perhaps soon, we will collide with someone or something that we have yet to identify. Whatever is approaching, I will be partly responsible for its arrival. But unless I can find some way to change the dynamics, I will be just as powerless as I was in ’88 to stop the oncoming collision. And this time both Omar and I will be in the line of fire.
4
Washington
B eing a daily player in the high-speed lottery of close calls and near misses known as the Connecticut Avenue morning commute, Aliyah Rahim knew instantly that the Ford pulling out from Morrison Street wasn’t going to make it.
It was a towering SUV with one of those names like Extravagance or Exploiter—she could never keep them straight—and it was about to meet its match in the form of an oncoming L4 Metrobus.
Aliyah instinctively placed her hands against the dashboard of their Volvo while her husband, Abbas, shouted, “Oh, my God!” from the driver’s seat. It was a Monday, they were just south of Chevy Chase Circle, and they were both running late for work.
The next sound she heard was the hiss and groan of the bus trying to stop. Brake lights flared red all around them. Then came a sharp bang like that of a small explosion, and she watched in horror as a shower of glass, metal, and plastic blew out in all directions. The driver managed to turn the Ford enough to avoid being broadsided, but his truck still took a full hit to the rear.
Abbas swerved deftly around the bus, darted into the left lane, and then accelerated as their tires crunched across the crystals of the Ford’s shattered window. Aliyah finally exhaled.
It was fairly predictable what would happen next. The effect of an accident on Washington’s commuter stampede is much like that of a lion attack on a herd of wildebeests. Any driver whose car isn’t felled in the onslaught does whatever he can to keep moving, even if it means skirting the victim’s bumper with scarcely a glance. The survivor assuages his conscience by reporting the matter on his cell phone because, let’s face it, his real responsibility is to the drivers in his wake. Strand not, lest ye be stranded.
By scooting past the wreckage, Abbas initially held to form. But Aliyah knew without asking what her husband would do next, and he did not fail her. Abbas pulled the wheel sharply to the right and eased to the curb, stopping only thirty feet beyond the crushed Ford. She watched him glance in the rearview mirror as if already assessing the condition of the driver. He dolefully shook his head and unlatched the seat belt.
“Looks like two of them up front,” he said. “God help anyone in the back. Call 911.”
Aliyah did as she was told. She usually did, reserving dissent for larger battles with greater stakes, which invariably occurred in the privacy of their home. Abbas may have been raised in America since the age
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