The trouble
with brains

Having a brain can be a troublesome thing. Especially if you use your brain for activities such as thinking. Or worse yet, wondering.

So, even as Fatima bin Laden silently rejoiced and gave thanks to Allah the most merciful that, in just her fourth day in America, she was gaining access to her uncle's No. 1 target, the Navy brig on Ford Island, she was wondering why the Americans she met were all so nice, lived in such comfort, and invented wonders like this moving bridge that just opened to let a large ship pass. All her life she'd been told that America gained its riches by exploiting and persecuting Muslims, but Lt. Basel Zakly Faris, USMC, told her of openly attending Muslim prayer services in here Honolulu, back home in Detroit, and wherever he was sent by the Marines. No Muslims were being exploited or persecuted solely for their faith, he said.

Osama bin Laden's niece arrived on Ford Island in style, riding in the back of a yellow Camaro convertible with the top down. If she'd been waving, she could have passed for a homecoming queen. The driver, Lt. Joe Matsuo, USMC, had clearance to cross the bridge. It was at the brig that Fatima and her friend Jennifer Hira had to show ID and submit to a wave-the-metal-detector-wand-and-pat-down search by a butchy Navy MP.

"Purpose of visit?" she inquired sternly.

"VIP tour, Ensign Smashowicz," Joe said. "I called Capt. Hernandez."

Baz was already at work and purposely stayed out of the picture until other MPs cleared the two visitors.

"What kind of prisoners do you have in here?" Jen said.

"The usual gamut," Joe replied. "Sailor gets drunk and gets into a fight. You got spousal abuse, stealing from a shipmate, insubordination, dereliction of duty, and your basic Islamic terrorist."

"Omigod!" Jen gasped. "Here?"

"No secret -- it's been in the papers. Guy named Muhammed Resurreccion." Joe shook his head disdainfully. "The freakin' ACLU wants him released."

"Oh, sorry, I'm not a big news person," Jen said. "It's, like, always bad."

"This was bad. Tried to blow up the Arizona Memorial on behalf of Abu Sayaf. We hear the operation was funded by old Osama himself."

So it was, Fatima thought, so it was. That's why I'm here. If only she were wearing about 10 pounds of plastique explosive at the moment. Or if ...

"Hello, Fatima." She heard a familiar voice over her shoulder, turned, saw "or if" entering the room wearing green cammy fatigues and a smile.

"Hello, Baz," she said, making just the briefest eye contact.

"Since Joe's off-duty, I'll have to accompany you on your VIP tour of the island. Them's the rules."

"Perfect," she said.

As was the plan taking shape in her brain.