Dana Stabenow
Prepared For Rage
© 2008
For
Captain Craig Barkley Lloyd,
who has twice now tolerated my presence under way with unfailing patience and good humor
and for the crew of USCG (WHEC 724) Munro EPAC Patrol Spring 2007:
Now,
for the information of all hands,
for service above and beyond the call of duty,
you are hereby awarded the Most Meritorious Order of the Quill Pen
in recognition of the aid and assistance provided in the setting, characterizations, and plotting of this novel.
Thank you.
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
– Robert Frost, "Once by the Pacific"
Semper Paratus.
– -MOTTO OF THE U.S. COAST GUARD
PART I
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umbered face:
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents
The armorers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
– WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, KING HENRY IV, PART 2
PROLOGUE
PAKISTAN, 1994
She screamed, once, a single, helpless cry of agony, despair, and betrayed innocence.
Hearing it, all the strength drained out of his legs and he sagged to his knees between his captors. His forehead touched the ground before Faraj and Nasser managed to pull him upright again.
All the men of the tribe were there, massed outside the hut, their attention fixed on the doorway, little more than a hole knocked in the dried mud wall. A small oil lamp threw almost no light on the interior, hiding what was happening inside in indifferent shadows.
No one looked at him. No one even glanced in his direction. Their shoulders were hunched, their backs taut, their feet splayed on the ground as if they were about to step forward.
To get into line.
To take their turn.
Only the stern eye of the council kept them where they were. The four men inside would inflict all the justice Allah required.
For not the first time during the last seven hellish days did he regret his return. Even more bitterly did he regret his departure. He should have rejected the scholarship bestowed by a benevolent corporation that had led to his five years in the West. Had he stayed safely at home, free of the corruption of infidels and their indecent ways with women, he would not have fallen so easily into conversation with the wife of another man.
But that first naive conversation had changed everything. He wondered again where she was, what had happened to her. He wondered if there was another hut somewhere, with another tribal council and another crowd of men standing around it, straining to hear the tear of clothing, the striking of flesh on flesh, the panting, the grunts, the groans. Or had she been killed, stoned to death by her own husband?
If Allah were merciful, she would have been beheaded.
As he should have been. Suddenly, without volition, he heard himself bellow, "Where is it written?"
The hands manacling his own loosened in surprise and he took advantage, tearing himself free, not to run, no, instead, just this once, to stand up strong in front of the men of his village and accuse them face to face of the evil that they did. "In what sura is it written that my sister should be punished for my crime? Why-"
Hashim Hassan, the youngest member of the council, took a step forward and backhanded Akil across the face. Hassan was a big man, broad across the shoulders, arms heavy with muscle from loading and unloading goods from the one ancient Ford pickup truck that was the sole asset of his freight business. Akil heard his cheekbone crack. Blood welled from his mouth and splattered down his shirtfront.
He and Hashim had been born into the same village not a month apart. They had gone to school together, studied the Koran together. They had flown hawks together from childhood, competing with others from as far away as Gujar Khan. He looked up at Hashim's hard and unyielding face. Where now was the blood brother, the companion of his childhood, the friend of his adolescence?
He spit out blood and cried, "Did not the Prophet himself say to the girl who had been raped, 'Go now, God has already pardoned you'?"
Hashim hit him again. This time he spit out a tooth. "I am guilty! I admitted it! I-"
The rest of the council looked annoyed and the eldest snapped out a command. The third time Hashim hit him Akil lost consciousness, his last thought a fleeting relief that at least now he would not have to bear further witness to the shame that his own criminal carelessness had wrought upon the most beloved member of his family.