A Nightmare Aloft

We were flying from Denver International Airport to San Francisco to visit my new great grandson. Because I am old and have difficulty walking, my son had arranged for a wheelchair at each airport. I had with me a book that I had begun reading the night before, Road to Folly by Barbara Tuchman. It set me to wondering what folly our government was pursuing these days and what road to folly or follies the next government would travel.

When we arrived at the airport, everything went smoothly. A wheelchair and attendant soon appeared. We went through security with no problems — I had left my pocket knife on the night table beside my bed to avoid any problem. They keys in my pocket, my wristwatch, hearing aid remote and android cellphone, wristwatch and wallet with credit cards and book had passed through the x-ray machine with no problem as had my cane.

We boarded on schedule and I sat in the aisle seat to which I had been assigned. My son put my carry-on luggage in the overhead rack and I settled down, opening my book to the bookmarked page. The dark skinned or very tanned man in the aisle seat across from mine also held a book in his hand. But he didn’t seem interested in reading it.

The plane took off on time. The regular thrum of the engines soon had me drifting off to sleep. I put my book in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me, closed my eyes and began to nap.

Suddenly, I heard a great to do in the aisle, with shouting voices. A marshal stood with drawn gun pointed at the man in the seat across from mine. “Hand me the book,” he demanded.

The paperback book’s cover had the title War and Peace. I wondered why the marshal was demanding at gunpoint that the book to be given to him. But I said to myself, there must be something dangerous about the book that was not found when it went through the security scan.

The passenger resisted. He protested, “This is just a classic by a Russian author. Why are you threatening me with a gun and demanding the book?”

The marshal offered no response. Instead, he demanded to see the passenger’s passport. It hadn’t occurred to me that the dark-skinned man was a foreigner. Now I realized that he was. He reached into his briefcase and took out a green covered passport with what I could see were words that said KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA, and some Arabic script. He handed it to the marshal, who examined it from cover to cover. “Are you Abdul Muhammed Al Balawi?” he demanded.

“That’s the name on my passport,” the passenger responded quietly.

“That’s now what I asked,” the marshal growled, “I asked if you are the person whos name is on the passport.”

“My picture indicates that I am,” he assured the marshal.

“Doesn’t convince me. It’s a simple matter for a skilled forger to substitute a photograph. Let’s see some other form of identification,” the marshal demanded.

The passenger handed the marshal two credit cards and an international drivers’ license.

The marshal inspected them at length. He remained unsatisfied.

“Hand me the book,” he demanded.

Al Balawi refused. He threatened, “The pages of this book are impregnated with an explosive. If I rub two pages together I will earn my martyrdom. This aircraft will not land in San Francisco.”

My heart began to thump. Although I am old, I had not envisioned dying at the hands of a terrorist. Instead, I had often thought I would spend my last moments surrounded by loving, sorrowful family.

My son shook my shoulder to wake me. “Dad, we’ll be landing soon. You should use the restroom before the pilot turns on the fasten seat belt sign.”

I awoke with a start. The nightmare was over.