A DARK-haired TV journalist plucked at his thin mustache, then leaped to his feet and jabbed a finger while posing a tough question.

“Mr President, aren’t you ashamed that the loss of innocent lives from the US invasion of Iraq dwarfs our fatalities on September 11, 2001?”

Behind a podium, the press-conference performer looked confused. He grimaced, hesitating, as if his brain-cogs slipped when seeking a reply. His left hand rose to scratch at his scalp, but instead tugged an ear lobe.

“Pwwwt!” Horse-like, a burst of air escaped from the President’s lips. Finally, words followed.

“Peace in a t-troubled world hinges on our heroic s-soliders in the Middle East,” he said. “Helping Ire-rack-ees to forge fr-freedom t-takes time and sacrifice. The bl-bloodshed there isn’t my fault.”


WRAPPED in a shawl and slumped in an armchair, Ma Crawford, a descendent of Mississippi slaves, watched the US President on her TV in a Maine nursing home. She noticed how he stammered and winced, fumbling for words.

“Heroic soldiers,” Ma mused, visualizing her grandson Trevor, who went to Baghdad a year ago. “My bright-eyed boy’s a hero.”

Praying for Trevor’s safe return, she muted her TV and drifted to sleep.


IN Baghdad, angry shouts filled a barren interrogation room.

“Where’s the bomb-maker?” demanded Trevor, raising his fist to a naked man roped into a wooden chair. Alongside, a blonde sergeant named Gillespie restrained a snarling dog.

A blow from Trevor’s knuckles rocked the prisoner’s jaw. The man’s head recoiled, his neck twisting, the battered face furrowed by fresh abrasions.

“Talk about the bomb-maker,” Trevor insisted.

The victim’s head lolled side-to-side. “What bomb-maker?” he gasped. “I’m a baker, a family man. I know nothing of bombs.”

“Your brother, the terrorist, builds bombs,” Trevor said.

“No, my brother drives trucks,” the prisoner whispered.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“We deal decisively with terrorist-sympathizers,” Trevor hissed.

“You American soldiers infect my people with terror,” muttered the naked man. “Your President’s the supreme terrorist.”

The dog snarled louder.

“Don’t insult the President,” Trevor warned. “He’s a Godly man.”

Through a mouthful of broken teeth, the torture victim smiled. “Godly? Then why did God give him a baboon’s brain?”

“Enough,” Gillespie ordered. “Finish him, Trevor.”

A gun appeared in Trevor’s hand, its barrel prodding the prisoner’s forehead. Trevor pulled the trigger. Blood, bone and brain splashed a nearby wall.


A BLAST in Ma Crawford’s subconscious jolted her awake. Startled, she scanned her modest room. Nothing had fallen. Everything rested in its place. No one banged on her door.

“My mind plays tricks,” she muttered. “Bad for my heart, that is.” She pressed a liver-spotted hand to her thumping chest.

A glance at the TV showed the President still talking. Spying the remote control on her lap, Ma picked it up, pointed and revived the sound.


IN Washington, the President ended his press conference.

“Our h-h-heroic soliders show enormous respect for Iraq’s citizens, religions and history,” he said. “They deserve gratitude. W-we’ll prevail, defend our freedoms and bring f-freedom to others.”

Preacher-like, he raised his hands, palms outward, to fend off more questions. “May God bless our country and all its defenders!” he said.

Careful not to stumble, the President turned and retreated through a massive doorway.


TREVOR holstered his gun. “Maybe the next prisoner can tell us more,” he said.


WEARILY, Ma Crawford resumed snoozing in her easy chair. She dreamed of heroic soldiers.

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