“What kind of religion could inspire people to do this? The President says Islam is a religion of peace. How is that possible if Muslims killed people on airplanes, then killed thousands more by flying those jets into those buildings?”
For months, many people around him openly mocked and cursed Muslims and Islam. He heard many prison inmates converted to Islam without knowing why. He read about other religions but never took time to read the Quran or understand Islam.
After the 9/11 attacks, he heard many things about Islam but found it hard to believe some of the hateful things. Something nagged at him about the dichotomy, the incongruity between the dialogue and the visual. The President said one thing, but Sam’s eyes saw another.
“What kind of religion could make people do this?” It bugged him.
Protracted exposure to abuse, beatings, or other brutality can alter the human psyche. He added protracted combat and brainwashing to the list of personality-altering causal factors. Some survivors transcended the violence and tried to get on with their lives. Some became loners, while others descended into the pits of human hell.
The Marines from Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal experienced the range of depravity their Japanese opponents could throw at them, from combat to brutality. Sam Miller was abused and demeaned in his home as a child and youngster by the men his mother brought home. Her boyfriends beat him when they were high on alcohol or weed. When they tried pharmaceutical cocktails, some of them raped the young Sam Miller.
Recently discharged from the Marine Corps, Sam’s life was in a tailspin. He survived physical and sexual abuse from his mother’s drunken, dope-head boyfriends until he began to grow and fill out. Seeing what drugs, liquor, and tobacco did to people made him ask himself, Why do people do these things and use bad things?
When he passed the six-foot mark, he turned to schoolwork and fitness as a way to keep men away from him. Eventually, they stopped coming to see his mother. She resented and rejected her son as the sex, booze, and drugs dried up.
When he spurted to six-feet-five-inches tall, Miller became more inquisitive and introspective. He shunned group sports, although basketball coaches begged him to join the team. He began to worry about going to college and finding work. Jobs were rare for any youngster in the poor part of Hamtramck, Michigan.
During a high-school assembly where each military service was represented, the common theme that resonated with Miller from the men on stage was, if you wanted a college education, look to the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps. He immediately transferred out of one class into the Junior ROTC. Soon, he distinguished himself as an accomplished marksman with a .22-caliber rifle. His six-foot-seven-inch frame and muscularity helped him maintain an outstanding, consistent shooting position.
He became more interested in the physics and mechanics in a projectile’s flight than an arcing basketball. He found more of a challenge in the quiet solitude and accomplishment of taking aim, controlling his breathing and pulse, and sending a bullet to the target. Naturally detail-oriented, Miller’s groupings became tighter and tighter. He never missed, often sending a round through the same hole on the target. Then came ROTC shooting matches, which allowed him to practice with match-grade weapons and precision ammunition.
The combination of superior and rock-solid body control and finely tuned weapons catapulted Miller to excel in the sport, crushing the competition from large high schools or in state-wide matches. As he collected rifle trophies and medals, there was talk of Olympic tryouts. The JROTC Master Chief Petty Officer in Charge asked him, “Have you ever thought about becoming a SEAL team sniper?”
For a seventeen-year-old, the thought of using a heavier weapon and more-powerful ammunition to shoot at bad people who hurt others fired his imagination. Finding a sport that capitalized on his natural ability and leave-me-alone personality, he realized any desire to go to college was trumped by thoughts of becoming a secretive commando and lone sniper.
A quick enlistment in the Navy and orders to Basic Underwater Demolition to become a Navy SEAL ended on the beach in Coronado. For the muscular six-foot-eight-inch Miller, a lengthy, difficult swim in the cold Pacific brought on a severe case of hypothermia and cardiac arrest. His dream of becoming a SEAL was washed away.
A Marine Corps recruiter took a chance on the tall, muscular kid with 100 shooting trophies and medals, and sent him back to San Diego for Marine Corps boot camp and a chance to be a Marine Scout Sniper. An unseen gust of wind during the West Coast Regional Shooting Championships prevented Miller from establishing a new all-time long-range record of consecutive bull’s eyes at 1,000 yards while garnering three gold medals, including youngest overall champion in history.
He was momentarily filled with glory, as the Marine Corps sniper community prepared to embrace the record-setting hero, when the aftermath of an FBI investigation forced the Corps to release and discharge Miller, humiliating him forever as the “Marine Corps sniper that couldn’t.”
Mentally and physically crushed, Miller was almost unable to function. He stumbled into a sporting goods store and began selling weapons to people who would engage the salesman with some version of, “What kind of religion could inspire people to fly jets into buildings? I feel I need to better protect myself and my family, and I’m looking for a gun.”
Day after day, Miller sold handguns, shotguns, and rifles to men for hunting while some lambasted a religion.
He left his home in Michigan, where one of the largest concentrations of Muslims lived and worked, and went to school. He didn’t have a single bad or noteworthy experience with the Muslims in his neighborhood or in school. When he walked past a small mosque, and men poured through its doors, he noted it and kept walking.
Another time when he approached the mosque, he heard a man singing the call to prayers, but it barely registered a thought, other than That’s kind of cool.
After 9/11, Sam Miller continually asked himself, What kind of religion could make people do that?
After the crushing humiliation of being discharged from the Marine Corps, he decided it was time to find out. He walked across the parking lot from the sporting goods store to the monstrous bookseller to buy a copy of the Quran. With his height, he easily located the religion section and found the English version of the Quran behind a locked case. The cover design intrigued him. The Arabic calligraphy invited questions. He wondered if his notions of Islam as a patriarchal and seemingly violent religion would be confirmed.
A short clerk with thick glasses and unkempt hair unlocked the case and handed the book up to Miller. He tentatively opened the green leather-and-gold embossed cover and page edges. Standing there hunched over, he slowly turned page after page. When he came to the first chapter, with its seven—line message about seeking guidance from a merciful creator, he looked up and wondered how anyone could disagree with that.
He bought the Quran and finished reading it a few weeks later, then he started over. Day after day, he sold guns to people who freely expressed their antipathy to Islam. Halfway through his second reading, he realized he faced a decision.
After confronting a man who came to purchase a pistol and said, “Muslims hate peace. They kill each other for sport,” Miller decided to convert. He nearly lost his job, but he studied Islam more intensely. Within a few months, the Michigan-born salesman made his Islamic declaration of faith, or hehadah, at the Islamic Society of Carlsbad.
“I guess it seemed kind of crazy to do at the time,” he told the man nearly his own height, “turning to a religion that’s so reviled, but I find the Islamic concept of God a beautiful thing. It fits with what I believe.”
“You don't have concerns that Muslins flew those jets into those buildings?” said the other tall man.
“I don’t. I’ve come to see America is demonizing Muslims as terrorists and oppressors of women, but now I can’t think of anything that’s further from the truth. Those who did that horrible act weren’t real Muslims. They disrespected Islam. I’ve
always had a good moral compass, and now I have a God I can look up to.”
“Thank you for your time. Good luck to you and your beliefs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Yoder. I appreciate your time and consideration. I’m sorry you came all this way to talk to me. I know I’ve found God, and I can continue to shoot and enter competitions. I’m at peace with myself, and that’s all I ever wanted.”
CHAPTER SIX
0800 May 7, 2003
Classroom 214, Naval War College
Admiral DiFilippo and Captain McGee entered the classroom. The instructors saw the admiral opening the door and barked, “Attention on deck!”
Chairs banged against the walls, as twelve military and three foreign officers rapidly came to attention. The single civilian saw the admiral and was already at attention before the two-star fully entered the class.
Both men pivoted in the center of the room and stopped, award binders in their hands. A photographer filled the doorway and adjusted his flash attachment.
Someone’s getting a medal, Hunter thought.
The admiral and McGee paced to the center of the classroom and faced the class.
“Mr. Hunter, front and center.”
Hunter jumped at the sound of his name. Is this what all the noise is about? Thank God I’m in a coat and tie.
He turned smartly to pass behind his fellow students, pivoted with precision, and presented himself one pace before the admiral. He’d done that a time or two in what felt like a lifetime earlier.
“There’s no official ceremony to promote DOD civilians,” Admiral DiFilippo began, “but any time a distinguished civilian is selected for promotion, it’s a time for celebration and ceremony. Attention to orders!”
McGee opened a navy-blue awards folder and read, “By the direction of the Secretary of Defense, Mr. Hunter is hereby promoted to GS-15.”
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” the admiral said.
“I, Duncan Hunter, having been appointed a GS-15 in the United States Air Force, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation of purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the office upon when I am about to enter. So help me God.”
A flash went off, capturing the two men with their raised hands.
“Congratulations.” The admiral shook Hunter’s hand, then Captain McGee and the class applauded loudly.
“At ease,” the admiral said. “I think this seminar group knows Duncan’s contributions at Jim Thorpe, leading his team in beating Air Force and winning the Naval War College’s very first gold medal in racquetball. Mr. Hunter unfortunately missed the awards ceremony.” The admiral looked seriously at Hunter and asked, “What was more important than getting your medal?”
Before Hunter could find the right words, McGee said, “Sir, I believe he had to get on the road to Suitland.”
“Oh. That’s right. Well, Mr. Hunter didn’t properly receive his gold medal.”
McGee held up an engraved Jim Thorpe medal in its small presentation case. The admiral took it from the box, opened the ribbon, and slowly draped it over Hunter’s head.
“For superior sportsmanship and for kicking the Air Force’s, er, leading Navy over the Air Force Team in racquetball, congratulations.” Shaking Hunter’s hand again, he patted his shoulder, as the others applauded loudly. A shutter clicked, and a flash discharged loudly, as the admiral and Hunter smiled at the camera. A moment later, Hunter scowled at McGee.
“Attention to orders!” McGee handed the admiral the dark-blue ribbon and bronze medal and read, “ To all who shall see these presents, greetings. The Secretary of Defense takes great pleasure in awarding Duncan Hunter the Department of Defense Distinguished Civilian Service Award for meritorious service and superior performance while serving as student, Naval War College. His contributions in the research and development of special-purpose aircraft concept of operations have significantly enhanced mission effectiveness for the Joint Special Operations Command and the Department.
“Mr. Hunter’s conduct reflects exceptional devotion to duty and distinguished service to the United States of America. His actions are in keeping with the highest traditions of the Naval War College and the Department of Defense.”
More photographs were taken.
The admiral stepped forward to pin the medal on Hunter’s chest, then he stepped back and said, “Congratulations.” He shook Hunter’s hand again and leaned forward to ask softly, “Come by my office, say 1400?”
Captain McGee and the others applauded. “Yes, Sir,” Hunter replied.
A motor drive clicked several pictures with multiple flashes. “Everyone,” the admiral said more loudly, “come and congratulate Duncan.”
Hunter shot McGee another look, who responded with shrugged shoulders and incredulity. Something about the entire hullabaloo wasn’t right.
The admiral and McGee left quietly together. The instructor asked Hunter if he’d mind letting the rest of the class know what he did with special-purpose aircraft.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m pretty sure that information isn’t ready to be discussed outside a SCIF.”
“Well, OK. In that case, let’s get back to class. What were we discussing? Oh, yes, interagency operations….”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1400 May 7, 2003
President’s Office Naval War College
“You may go in, Mr. Hunter,” the secretary announced.
“Duncan, come in, please.” The admiral stood and walked around a busy small conference table, intercepted a confused Duncan Hunter, and shook his hand.
Two men and a woman stood and introduced themselves. The tall, thin man was Dr. Stan Lu from the Office of the Secretary of Defense. The balding man was Jim Ebanks, from the Defense Intelligence Agency. The plain woman called herself Dr. Laura Schmidt and was from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.
Admiral DiFilippo waited until all were seated. “Duncan, it seems your research into quiet airplanes caught a few people off guard. As I understand it, it was somewhat timely.”
“Yes,” Dr. Lu said. “It’s very unusual for any of the war colleges to have the records of classified development work. We’ve been asked to try to find out why the Navy has the classified archives, and hopefully, how and why you came to do your research.”
Hunter thought it was our research and wondered where McGee was. Since he didn’t hear a question in the speaker’s preamble, he remained quiet. His expression and body language screamed concern and wariness.
“Duncan, you aren’t in any trouble,” Ebanks said, frowning slightly. “If anything, you should get a medal for your unilateral contribution to the discipline of aerial acoustics.”
“I didn’t do anything but dust off some old research and ask why we, DOD, aren’t using quiet aircraft technologies. I knew about YO-3As from the men who flew them in Vietnam. I knew the Schweizers replaced the old prototypes and were very successful in the counterdrug and counterinsurgency roles, and thought they’d be useful along the border when I worked for the Border Patrol. I came here, wondering if the original research was in the archives. Most of it was, so I asked if I could do some related classified research to possibly help Navy SEALs, I’m sorry, DEVGRU in the field. That’s really all there is to it.”
Dr. Schmidt looked at him over her bifocals. “We were a little taken aback by your recommendation of putting quiet manned aircraft into the inventory instead of unmanned vehicles. The trend is toward unmanned platforms, but your conclusions highlighted that you felt it was a misapplication of scarce resources.”
“I tried to find a nice replacement word for stupid,” Hunter said. I probably should not have said that.
Dr. Lu, a dark, unexpressive Asian, deadpanned, “Why do you think that?”
“Some of it’s really
simple,” Hunter said. “What does it take to put a Predator into a new operating area, say Peru? The answer is about 50 to 100 people, where most are needed just to maintain the aircraft and operate the vans for a group of remote pilots and sensor operators to fly it. The intelligence community can put more capability into the same location with four people, and two are in the airplane—a quiet airplane.
“Then there’s the complete vulnerability of your systems. You can work on firewalls and other encryption protection, but what will kill your unmanned systems will be a simple computer virus. It might be five or six years before we hear of any confirmed incidents of classified information being lost or transmitted to an outside source. Then we’ll find a virus embedded into the software somehow or somewhere, or a stealthy UAV goes stupid over Iran, where it’ll undoubtedly crash into an orphanage or be splashed on CNN.
“Network security specialists will keep wiping viruses from the systems, but they’ll find they’ve been hacked. At some point, DOD will have to face the fact it’s under attack. For unmanned systems, that means if they can shut down a single UAV or a fleet of them, they can also hijack them and make them turn on you like a rabid pit bull.
“For a fleet of unmanned aircraft, you’re introducing a single point of failure. With a manned aircraft, you aren’t. I can still fly it. Unmanned aircraft….” He paused and changed his line of thought. “Imagine the look on a controller’s face when he tries to tell an armed Predator to turn left, and it stops talking to him and heads back from whence it came. Instead of human hijackers flying planes into buildings, we’ll have some Iranian or Chinese virus hijack not one craft but everything in the fleet. When all your money has been spent on ramping up your unmanned capability, the only thing you’ll have left operational will be manned aircraft. By then, you’re screwed.”
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