Branigan: The Needs of the Few

By Jim Surmanek

Branigan's New York City upbringing by middle class, immigrant parents starkly contrasts with Arsalan Fattal's Lebanese childhood. The son of an Israeli mother and Irish father, Branigan was raised to honor and protect American freedom and security; raised in Lebanon by his radicalized Muslim uncle who became his adoptive father, Arsalan's mission threatened everything Branigan revered.

Enter A'dab Alam a-Din. Her life was horrifically altered when she lost her twin brother during an Israeli attack on her Lebanese village. Her adoptive Jewish parents helped mold her life as she grew up in The City. A chance encounter with Branigan at the World Trade Center during the 1993 bombing greatly influenced their paths in life.

Branigan was too humble to consider himself a hero, but his dedication to fight terrorism, help people, and certainly save lives, made him one. He didn't have a job. He had a mission. That dedication was the impetus for him to delve deeply and tirelessly into a terrorist plot for which he had no factual evidence, all the while haunted by the memory of the beautiful, dark-haired woman with eyes that penetrated his soul.

Branigan must make a critical choice once he is face-to-face with the terrorist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885050340

Book preview

Branigan

The Needs of the Few

Jim Surmanek

Copyright © 2022 Jim Surmanek

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2022

ISBN 979-8-88505-036-4 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-034-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For Patsy

Contents

Acknowledgment

Chapter 1: Bliss and Memories

Chapter 2: Boulders and Encounters

Chapter 3: Edam’s Path

Chapter 4: Integrity and Love

Chapter 5: Octopus Graduation

Chapter 6: Family & Friends

Chapter 7: The Twins and Betrayal

Chapter 8: Separation and Salvation

Chapter 9: A’dab’s Path

Chapter 10: An Explosive Meeting

Chapter 11: Love, Loss, and Fear

Chapter 12: Arsalan’s Path

Chapter 13: Love, Learning, and Compromise

Chapter 14: The Itch

Chapter 15: Déjà Vu

Chapter 16: Living and Reliving

Chapter 17: The Mission

Chapter 18: Cups Runneth Over

Chapter 19: Hello, Beth. Hello, Algha.

Chapter 20: Follow the Money

Chapter 21: Puzzle Pieces

Chapter 22: Education

Chapter 23: Almost Perfect

Chapter 24: Love at Third Sight

Chapter 25: A Revealing Shot in the Dark

Chapter 26: Babies in the Nursery

Chapter 27: Surveillance

Chapter 28: Fishing With Alcore and Clemson

Chapter 29: Audits and Blowups

Chapter 30: Connections and Convictions

Chapter 31: If You Don’t Know Where You’re Going…

Chapter 32: A Tour Worth Taking

Chapter 33: Motor Board

Chapter 34: Assembly and Wild Geese

Chapter 35: To Bomb or Not to Bomb

Chapter 36: Back to Square One

Chapter 37: Five Minus Four

Chapter 38: Thumbs-Up for This Little Piggy

Chapter 39: Three Eggs, One Sink

Chapter 40: Death and Life

Chapter 41: The Needs of the Few

Chapter 42: New Paths

Chapter 43: Bliss and New Memories

Epilogue

The Gift

Acknowledgment

On the top of the list, I owe thanks to my daughter, Keri Horon. As a gifted writer, her stories, poems, and blogs inspired me to write a book. Keri was also enormously helpful in applying her sharp eye as an editor to my first draft and applying her sharp mind in giving me suggestions on how to improve Branigan. I also owe my daughter, Kimberly Smith, owner of Heartland Graphics, a big thank you for designing the cover. A thank you to my nephew, Jim Pallini, for wading through my work and giving me comments that opened my mind to improve settings and characterizations. Last, and certainly not least, is Patsy Brennan, my partner and love of my life. Without her encouragement and tolerance while I spent hours at the typewriter, this book would not have been written.

Chapter 1

Bliss and Memories

She gazed at The Lady, loving where destiny brought her. The full moon shown delicately through the sheer white curtains that hung on Branigan’s windows. He looked at her nude body, her black hair draped down her back.

Come back to bed, he whispered.

Soon, love.

From the three-story walk-up loft apartment facing west, she could see the statue’s stoic presence, void of a smile or any emotion. Her stern expression was thought by some to be I’m watching you if you come this way kind of look. Branigan thought the city needed more than her stare to watch out for the unwelcomed.

He felt he was one of those that stopped the unwelcomed. It was like most other Sunday nights in downtown New York City. Factories were closed for the night. Apartment dwellers were in their apartments, some sleeping, some watching TV. Rooftop and window air conditioners hummed. Dumpster lids clanked as the homeless foraged for food, fearless of any rats that also wanted the leftovers. In the still of this night, the air was filled by a foggy mist. Periodically, foghorns could be heard as ships traversed the Hudson and East River. Invariably, car horns could also be heard. New Yorkers were fond on blowing their horns. Of the many descriptions that the city had, the most apparent one could be heard by its residents: The City That Never Sleeps.

His loft was one large room, plus a bathroom and clothes closet. There were five distinct sections in the large room, all visible from any point. He wasn’t a Zen Buddhist, but without knowing it, he practiced their penchant for minimalism in decorating his loft. If pragmatism was a religion, he would be at the altar. In his mind, fewer furnishings made it easier to clean. On one nightstand was the latest edition of The City magazine. Branigan would later tuck the magazine away in a box and store it in his closet along with other mementos. Lying on the magazine was Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, a favorite of his. His demeanor was that of a manly man, but he was a romantic at heart. He also fancied himself a novice poet, and Gibran’s writings inspired him to write more. Also on the nightstand was a lit candle whose flickering light played on the long stem wine glass that still contained two sips worth of Chardonnay. Next to that, his drink, Dewar’s Scotch.

Second only to telling people a joke was his pleasure in telling himself a joke, playing with words and creating nonsensical scenarios. His thoughts ran the gamut from philosophical brilliance to idiotic silliness. With a serious expression, he would ask his coworkers and friends what he thought were imponderables, such as Why can’t you hear a hummingbird hum? He considered himself his best audience. Humor, expressed to others or directed inwardly, would make him smile and provide a distraction from any thoughts that might be bothering him.

Later in life, he realized humor was a denial mechanism, but it nevertheless gave him solace, a sense of nirvana. It was also an ingredient that molded his character and his emotions. It prevented some of those emotions, those hurtful feelings, to surface. As he aged, he learned that nirvana was only a temporary bridle to the real feelings that churned in his belly. He learned to open up and express his real feelings without fearing the possibility of negative consequences.

The love of his life returned to bed and laid next to him, silent and relaxed. The ceiling fan spun slowly as did her thoughts about her life. The fan’s breeze gave her a chill. She pulled up the soft satin sheet on herself and on Branigan.

What were you looking at? he asked.

The statue. I remember when I came here and saw it for the first time. I remember how frightened I was. I remember what Dad told me then. I was too young to really understand, but what he told me is absolutely true.

Branigan knew lots about The Lady, as President Reagan once referred to her. Starting in high school, he had a thirst for learning as much as he could about the city that he loved and about America. Branigan loved America and was proud to be one its citizens. She felt the same way.

Her pupils danced as she recalled moments in her life from when she was a little girl and moments of her teen and adult years that shaped her beliefs. They shot across her mind as fast as bullets shot from a machine gun. She turned her head and faced Branigan. Her warm breath signaled him. He opened his eyes and matched her gaze. She gave him that tender smile he so loved and said, I was just thinking about our destiny and how God was so brilliant to have us meet and fall in love.

You think it was God? Branigan believed destiny was just a convenient word to give people an out when they couldn’t find any other reason for what happened in their life. He fancied himself a temporary agnostic. Depending on his mood and how much Dewar’s on the rocks he drank, he thought God was either a fabrication molded by corrupt religious leaders wanting to rule the masses and build their own wealth or something inexplicable, something in a fourth dimension, that created worlds and people. The objective lobe in his brain preferred the former explanation. His creative lobe steered him to the latter.

With a soft, nonconfrontational voice she said, Yes, love. God molded our destiny.

Branigan replied with the same gentle tone, Don’t you know that we just happened to meet because we were in the same place at the same time? No one put us there. No godlike entity took over our bodies and made us be in that particular spot at the specific time.

Tish-tosh, she said.

Is that English or Yiddish? Spanish? Arabic? What does it mean, she who speaks four languages?

And I thought you were well-read. Tish-tosh is English. It means, well, it has various meanings. In this case, it means I don’t agree with you.

He didn’t want to continue a serious discussion right after they made love. He thought talking about God or destiny or his work was a distraction from the warmth and comfort he felt after an orgasm. He enjoyed foreplay, especially if words of love were whispered, and he loved the passion he felt when he made love. He now wanted his yoga moment, the feeling of body and mind connecting—floating relaxation.

If I could read your mind, sweetheart, I’d say you don’t want to have this discussion right now, right? Her question interrupted his feeling.

The candle succumbed to the fan’s breeze. To reignite his yoga moment, he reached over to his nightstand and relit the candle and said, Yeah, another time if you don’t mind.

He caressed her skin, his hand moving gently down from the side of her neck under her long silky black hair. His hand stopped moving. A minute passed.

Are you still awake? she asked.

Sorry. Yeah. Just thinking about some old stuff.

So, destiny or happenstance?

Let’s compromise on the issue. I’m willing to call it happitiny, ya know, a combination of happenstance and destiny.

I prefer destinance. It has a sexier sound.

Destinance it is. And speaking of destinance, we have one coming up tomorrow.

They both laid silent, their bodies totally relaxed. Their minds were at ease. Their hearts were in tune with each other. He stared at the ceiling fan blades whirring as if to purposely put himself into a hypnotic state. He got back to thinking about the old stuff—the stuff he called boulders and the stuff that happened about twenty years ago when he was seventeen, back in 1993.

Chapter 2

Boulders and Encounters

In his senior year at Flushing High School, Branigan was known as The Machine on the football field. At six feet two, 180 pounds, and brawn mixed with speed, it was the right nickname. Add blue eyes and long sandy-blond hair that surrounded the chiseled features of his face, the girls had a different nickname for him: The Stud. You could hear teenage girls talking in the cafeteria and hallways about their supposed encounters with Branigan. "I got studded last night" was the statement most heard. Branigan never admitted to any of the encounters. He wanted to be known by the girls as discreet. Nor did he deny the statements. His football teammates tagged along with him almost wherever he went. They walked down corridors from class to class with him as well as joining him at the high school kids’ local hangout, Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor. Whenever people saw Branigan, they saw his entourage.

On one hand, he didn’t like having guys around him almost all the time. On the other hand, it fueled his teenage ego. His entourage thought of him as a chick magnet. He was raised by two wonderful parents. His father was a cop, born in the US; his mother was a housewife, an immigrant. They loved America and what it stood for. They could not think of a better place to live, a better place to raise a child than in a country that offered freedom and democracy. They believed in helping people who needed help and instilled that virtue in their son. They were patriotic. Branigan was taught what patriotism was, and it became part of his character. His dad and mom never liked baby talk. They didn’t believe in skirting answers to their son’s questions, thinking he was too young to understand. Their behavior with their son as they reared him resulted in Branigan maturing quickly and beyond his years.

He spent Sunday afternoon watching the Super Bowl with his football teammates. It was 1993. When the Buffalo Bills were defeated by the Dallas Cowboys, his friends cheered for the Cowboys. The Bills really sucked, said Charlie. That’s the third Super Bowl in a row that they lost!

Branigan said, "Well, I don’t know about suck, but can you imagine how they feel? His friends murmured unintelligible comments. Hey, how the hell would you feel if we lost three games in a row? Pretty shitty is my guess."

Yeah, said Charlie. But we ain’t goin’ lose, are we, guys?

The group erupted with cheers for their team. Branigan joined in. With the game over, the pizza devoured, and bowls of popcorn and chips empty, his friends left his house. He sat back thinking about life, about his next steps when he turned eighteen, graduating from high school and starting his 21 Plan. He would get a job, save money for three years, and when he turned twenty-one, he would get his own place and apply to the NYPD Police Academy. He loved his parents, but he had ants in pants to become independent.

*****

A slippery roof put Branigan on a new path in his life. As an accomplished athlete, his father had no reservation about asking his son to climb on the roof of their two-story home in Flushing. Be careful! Asphalt shingles are not the same as a football field, said his father.

Branigan climbed slowly up the extension ladder. Got it, Dad. No worries.

His father was not worried, merely cautious. Cupping his hands at the sides of his mouth, his father yelled out, When you get to the chimney, hang on with one hand and turn the TV antenna with the other hand!

Branigan understood that his father’s directions were only to protect him from falling, not that he thought his son was incapable of accomplishing the simple task. With one hand holding the chimney, he smiled and waved his other hand. I’m holdin’ on, Dad.

Branigan twisted the antenna clockwise and paused. He then twisted it back to its original position and then some. His mother yelled out from inside the house, That’s it. The picture is on!

Branigan started his descent from the top of the sloped roof. As he got closer to the ladder at the roof’s edge, he realized his father was right, that asphalt is not like grass. He slipped and slid. His slide stopped when he was able to put his foot into the rain gutter.

Are you okay? yelled his father.

A-okay, Dad. He turned his body toward the ladder and placed his foot on a rung. Again, he slipped, but this time he wasn’t a-okay. The back of his foot smashed into the next rung down. He felt the pain climb up his leg, through his torso, and into his brain. He took a deep breath and called down to his dad. I’m okay, just a little slip.

He descended rung by rung using only his hands and one foot. When he reached the safety of the ground, he asked, How’s the TV working?

A visit to the ER revealed that Branigan damaged his Achilles tendon. Although he could walk with minimal pain, the doctor told him he couldn’t play football for the next 2–3 months. His high school football career was effectively cancelled. On the way home from the hospital, Branigan said, Well, Dad, I’m lucky that my tendon is named after Achilles. Can you imagine if the Trojan hero’s name was Irving? I’d have to tell my friends I damaged my Irving, and that just doesn’t sound right.

Coincidentally, his accident happened at the same time that Flushing High switched to split sessions to accommodate the influx of students in their classrooms. Branigan’s new school hours were 7:30–noon. His afternoons became free of school and certainly free of football.

The Branigans’ neighbor, Norman, dropped by to say hello. How’s the TV antenna repairman doing?

Branigan replied, "Fine, thanks. My friends now call me Hobble."

All of them laughed, and all of them admired the teenage Branigan for accepting his accident and making the best of it.

Norman said, "I have a friend who runs the mailroom at The City magazine. They’re looking for a mailroom clerk. Interested?"

Sure, but I can’t start the job for a week or two.

I’m sure that’s not a problem. I’ll make a call and let you know.

The next day, Branigan was told he got the job. You can start in two weeks. It’s a 1–5 job. Okay?

Okay and then some. Thank you, thank you. Branigan knew the hours he had to work, but never asked what the job paid. Whatever his salary, he knew the job would help accomplish his 21 Plan. He thought, Funny how a foot injury put me on the right footing.

During the weekdays, Branigan took the 12:15 p.m. no. 7 subway line from Flushing to the Grand Central stop. There were nineteen stops on the local service at that time—a thirty-five-minute commute. With a five-minute walk to his job, he’d always get there on time. His dad taught him that being on time is not only courteous, it also showed responsibility. The thirty-five minutes allowed Branigan ample time to complete his homework as well as read a bit of a thriller novel or his next favorite genre, poetry. At the end of the day, the 5:30-p.m. train back was express service—only eight stops, but the body-next-to-body crowds prevented opening a book.

The commute time, however, was not wasted. He would think about many subjects—human behavior and philosophy were his favorites. The subway cars jostled the passengers as they made their sweeping right turn at Queensboro Plaza. Branigan felt the swerving and held the grab-pole tighter. Having just learned about metaphors in his English class that morning, the jostling and swerving kicked his mind into the thought that he was a mountainside stream. He envisioned himself lazily spilling down the hillside. He saw a boulder in his mind’s eye. When he, the stream, hit a boulder, his course changed. Another boulder, another course change. He encountered a fallen tree limb and splashed over it. The tree limbs were everyday occurrences, all of them minor in the scheme of things. The boulder was his roof accident. He was to find that there were other boulders on his stream.

At first, his new regimen of school-subway-work-subway was not as rewarding as his previous school-football-girls routine. That changed when he received his first biweekly salary. He stared at his paycheck, realizing that not all his salary went into his pocket. Federal and state income taxes and Social Security contributions ate a goodly portion of his income. Nevertheless, he was a happy camper.

The next day, he went to his local bank.

I’d like to open a savings account, he said to the bank clerk.

Saving for something special?

Yes, independence day, he responded.

*****

Before his last class one Thursday morning, the students were told that a water main broke and school would be closed the next day. At The City, in the afternoon, he told Jerry, the mailroom supervisor, that he could come to work early if needed.

Sure. Be here at nine, said Jerry.

On Friday, Branigan arrived at The City at eight forty-five. He passed by Rita, the receptionist, and said, Good morning, Rita. You’re looking exceptionally great today.

Rita was the sexiest girl—woman—that he ever met. She was always dressed to the nines and was always comely. Most of her dresses and blouses revealed her lovely cleavage that attracted most men’s eyes, including the seventeen-year-old Branigan. The three years difference in their ages was disregarded by him, but not by Rita.

She said, Well thank you, young man. I like your shirt.

Yeah, thanks. Gotta get to sorting and delivering. See ya later.

All the high school girls with whom he had a sexual encounter pursued him. He now found himself the pursuer. He was a novice at it but liked the challenge. He never gave up wooing Rita and trying various tactics to convince her that they should have a personal relationship. None changed her mind. He was disappointed but not disheartened. Being a realist, he thought, Hey, I didn’t win every football game, but I had fun playing.

Branigan encountered another boulder on that Friday, February 26. The weather was a chilling 26 degrees. Forget about the mail for now, said Jerry. He gave Branigan a package to be delivered downtown. He handed him $3.00 and said, It’s friggin’ cold out there, so take the subway.

The cold wind will pierce my bones but not sway me from the task, replied Branigan. The bike is speedier than the subway.

Jerry responded with an affectionate smile and said, Get the hell out of here. He turned to his mailroom assistant and said, The kid thinks he’s a poet, but I gotta tell ya, he is a pretty bright kid.

His bike raced down the streets, circuiting cars whose drivers looked unhappy as they honked their horns. He avoided pedestrians that disregarded the walk/don’t walk signs as if it was a game for only the bravest New Yorkers to play. The sound of a very loud explosion put the brakes on his ride. His fertile imagination led him to think that the Russians sent an ICBM to the US as a hello. He then laughed at the thought and decided it was actually an alien attack but wondered why there was only one explosion. Jerry told him that the package that had to be delivered to the city hall was not only urgent, it was also extremely important, so he continued pedaling hard down Broadway. When he saw billows of smoke spewing from the top of the skyscrapers a few blocks away, his heart took command of his head. Ever since his childhood, he had an instinct, a need, to help people who needed help. That want was fostered by his parents’ teachings. Every time he helped someone, he had a warm feeling about himself. If the person he helped said thank you, it was icing on his emotional cake. He also had a subliminal thought which surfaced now and then. It was almost him whispering to himself, Yeah, Mom and Dad, it’s good to help people.

The package stayed in his backpack as he pedaled harder and faster toward the smoke. He didn’t know what he could do when he got there, but that didn’t matter. He pedaled ever faster, so fast that his thighs ached. He had to get there. As his bike continued to fly down Broadway and passed Park Place, he saw more and more people running away from the smoke. His athletic skills came in handy as he weaved in and out of runners and cars that blocked the streets. A car driving the wrong way down a one-way street was headed for him. He could turn left or right to avoid it but would probably hit a runner. He didn’t believe in divine intervention, but it seemed to have happened. A manhole cover in the middle of the street moved off the access hole, maybe by underground workers, maybe by the explosion. The open manhole welcomed the car’s front tire and brought it to a stop.

A woman running with a child in her arms screamed, Help! Help! An elderly man tripped on the curb and fell to the pavement. People ran around the fallen man, some jumped over him, none helped him. Branigan wanted to stop and help the runners and those that fell, but instinct forced him to pedal on. He needed to help those that were perhaps trapped and couldn’t escape from whatever made them run. When he got to the World Trade Center Towers, he jumped off his bike before it completely stopped. He stood motionless for the moment. Agape, he saw what he had seen only in movies: destruction, chaos, and fear. He wanted to help but didn’t know what to do under those overwhelming conditions.

Hundreds of people came running out of the skyscraper, their eyes watering from smoke, coughing and trying to catch their breath, a look of fear on their faces. Old people, young people, children, some able to run, some not. One young girl, about his age, ran toward him, not because he was The Stud, but because she was running away from the terror. He grabbed her just before she was about to trip over his bike. I got you. You’re safe now. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands gripping his jacket and pulling it open as if she wanted to hide inside it. Her eyes were reddened by the smoke, and tears ran down her cheeks. Branigan had a visceral reaction while she hugged him. When he looked down at that frightened girl, she stretched back so she could look up and see the face of that tall man. Help me! Help me! she cried.

You’re okay. I’m here. You’re safe. He could not take his eyes off her eyes. He saw large black pupils, wet from tears, floating on a bed of bloodshot liquid. Her long jet-black silken hair framed her beautiful face.

The hugging brought comfort to her and a strange, almost awkward feeling to Branigan. They stayed motionless in their hug for only a few seconds, but it felt longer. He could not hear the screams of people running from the tower. He could not see the sky darkening from the plume of smoke. He and this beautiful girl with eyes that penetrated his heart were the only two people there. The sound of Dabi! Dabi! broke his trance. A man and woman ran toward her.

She cried out Mom! Dad! Branigan opened his arms, freeing her from his hug. She ran off to be with her parents, and as she ran, she turned to look at him. He reached out to her, gesturing to her to come back. She continued to run away from him and to her parents. He thought he would never see her again, but the vision of her eyes was burned into his memory. He stood there looking at the path she took to run away, and within seconds, the smoke and falling ash absorbed her. She became a vanishing ghost.

He again started to hear the screams of people running from the building and felt compelled to help. Disregarding the possibility that he might be hit by flying debris or breathe in toxic smoke, he helped whoever he could. He lifted people to their feet if they fell; he prevented a baby carriage from tipping over; he held the arm of an elderly woman who seemed lost in the confusion and guided her to a safer area. After two hours of helping whomever he could, and seeing that first responders were taking control of the situation, he set off to deliver the package.

It was the next day that Branigan’s fears of a Russian nuclear attack or alien invasion were allayed. As reported endlessly on all the news stations, a group of terrorists, calling themselves the Liberation Army, Fifth Battalion, bombed the World Trade Center using a relatively simple yet highly effective bomb that they put into a truck and parked in the underground garage. The driver lit the fuse, fled the scene, and twelve minutes later, the massive explosion rocked Tower 1, cut off electrical power lines, and knocked out the emergency lighting system. Six people were killed. More than one thousand people were injured. One person walked away with reinforced conviction. Branigan knew at that moment that he absolutely wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps. He wanted to be a cop.

Chapter 3

Edam’s Path

Edam Fattal always felt out of place. His parents, Amal and Leti, and his schoolteachers thought he was a shy kid who didn’t have a lot of confidence in himself. Leti’s brother, Imam Malikah El Hajj, believed Edam was a bright child who only needed proper guidance to succeed in life. He did not see Edam as shy but merely as a quiet child. During his occasional visits to their home, El Hajj would give words or support to Edam, heavily laced