Invasion USA

by William W. Johnstone

  The story led every newscast in the nation for a week. Then something happened somewhere else, and it was bumped back to the second segment, then the third, and then the news anchors didn’t talk about it anymore. It was old news, which meant it wasn’t news at all.

  The people of Little Tucson who had left came home. Broken windows downtown were replaced, and bullet holes were plastered over and painted. The dead were buried, the wounded were nursed back to health. Sometimes in the night, people cried out as nightmares haunted their slumber. The lucky ones had someone there to reach out and hold them as they drifted back into a more peaceful sleep.

  One day, Tom Brannon saw Carla May Willard on the street and smiled as she waved at him. He didn’t blame her for leaving. He was just glad she was back. Little Tucson was her home, after all.

  Fred Kelso had the snazziest wheelchair in town, and when Dusty Rhodes retired, Fred took over one of the dispatcher jobs for the sheriff’s department. He was good at it, too.

  Lauren Henderson retained the post of acting sheriff, but as soon as election time rolled around again, she was going to run for the office. There wasn’t much doubt that she would win, too.

  Buddy Gorman was in a rehab center in Phoenix. Tom went to see him at least once a month, even though Buddy was blind and only remembered who Tom was part of the time. It helped Jean, though, and anyway, Tom just felt like it was something he needed to do.

  Business was better at the auto parts store for a while. Tom was the hero of Little Tucson, after all. But SavMart still sold motor oil and air filters for less, and after a while things settled back into the same old pattern.

  Little Tucson went back to sleep, you might say. The Patriot Project was disbanded. There were still illegal immigrants, of course, but the problem wasn’t as bad as it had once been. The Border Patrol could handle it for the time being. Folks had their own lives to live again, work to do, steaks to grill, TV to watch, kids to play with. But no one ever forgot completely.

  No one ever would.

  The villa overlooking the Pacific was the most luxurious in all of Acapulco, a city of luxury. Señor Hector Garcia-Lopez sat beside his pool under an umbrella and looked at the man his majordomo had just brought out to see him. The man was tall, with a face like a hawk and skin the color of old saddle leather. He wore robes and a head cloth, and the heat of the Mexican afternoon seemed not to bother him at all. Like Señor Garcia-Lopez, the visitor’s dark beard was shot through with gray. They were like two old wolves, Garcia-Lopez thought, even though they came from opposite sides of the world.

  “I was very disturbed to hear of my nephew’s death,” the visitor said. “The man responsible for it . . . ?”

  “Is dead,” Garcia-Lopez said. “You have my sincere apologies. Montoya was a useful tool at one time. I had no idea how truly mad he had become.”

  “I do not blame you, señor. And I do not absolve the Americans of their guilt in this matter, either. But I can wait to take my vengeance until the proper time. Like all my countrymen, I am very skilled in waiting . . . and hating.” The visitor smiled thinly. “But for now, we have a business to rebuild, is it not so?”

  “Yes, of course,” Garcia-Lopez said, but as he looked across the table at the hawk-faced man, he almost felt sorry for the gringos because of the fate that awaited them sooner or later, especially the citizens of Little Tucson. They probably thought it was all over . . .

  When the proper time came, they would learn.

  It was never over.

  Lt Colonel Art Jensen is the commanding officer of the 3rd INF BN 32nd INF RGT, 7th Infantry Division. He is ex-Special Forces and Airborne. He is also the direct descendant of mountain man Smoke Jensen himself.

  Art Jensen is named chief of the DOD’s Special Function Unit—Black Ops, a unit whose mission is so secret that only the President, the secretary of defense, and the secretary of homeland security know of its existence.

  His mission is this: to track down and eliminate with extreme prejudice Middle Eastern terrorists operating in the USA—the reputed “fifth column” that threatens America on a daily basis. To this end, Art must infiltrate mosques and get inside the terrorists’ lairs, because they’re planning an attack somewhere in America that will dwarf 9/11.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  BLACK OPS: American Jihad,

  the first in an explosive new series from

  William W. Johnstone and Fred Austin

  Coming in May 2006 wherever Pinnacle Books are sold

  1

  Somewhere in Iraq

  The three prisoners, two men and a woman, were brought into the room. They blinked at the bank of bright lights, but they couldn’t rub their eyes because their hands were handcuffed. Next to the bank of lights was a video camera, mounted on a tripod.

  There were six others in the room, but all six were wearing hoods so they could not be identified by anyone who might view the videotape later. One of the hooded men stepped in front of the video camera and began reading.

  “Some time has passed since the blessed attacks against the global infidelity, against America, where our glorious martyrs sent more than 3000 infidels to a fiery hell. Since that time, Americans have conducted a vicious crusade against Islam.

  “It is now evident that the West in general, and America in particular, is doing Satan’s work on earth, trying with bombs and the deaths of millions of innocents, to destroy the Muslim faith.

  “But we are not without our own weapons, and we stand here before these cameras, with three pawns of the great Satan America.”

  The camera panned slowly across the faces of three terrified prisoners.

  “One is Italian, one is Jordanian, and the woman is Iraqi. All are collaborating with the enemy in their fight against our people and our faith. It is for that reason that they have been condemned to die.”

  The hooded terrorist folded the paper and nodded toward the woman. Another hooded terrorist stepped up behind the woman and, quickly, drew his knife across her throat.

  The woman cried out, though her cry was quickly silenced. The terrorist grabbed her by the hair as he continued to saw away at her neck. Two other terrorists held her up until, finally, the head was completely severed.

  “Allah Akbar!” the terrorist shouted, holding the woman’s severed head aloft, blood pouring from the stump of her neck.

  In quick order, the heads of the other two prisoners were also severed.

  Finally, the three disembodied heads were put on a table while the camera focused on them, remaining for an extended period of time on each one. The eyes of the Jordanian and Italian were closed, but the woman’s eyes were opened in horror.

  The lights went dark and the camera was turned off. Not until then were all the hoods removed.

  “You took a great chance in coming here, Al Sayyid,” one of the men said, using a title of great respect when he spoke to the terrorist who had read the fatwa.

  “I will do what must be done to rid our region of the American infidels,” the reader said.

  Redha, Qambari Arabia

  He sat in the van and watched as the school bus stopped to let her off. She was a pretty girl, a blonde as so many Americans were. She laughed, and shouted something back to the bus as it drove away. Her name was Amber Pease, and she was the daughter of the commandant of the Marine Guards at the U.S. Embassy.

  She was fourteen years old, and in her short skirt and uncovered head, her tight shirt and bare arms, she looked like a whore. Didn’t the Americans understand the sensitivity of the Qambaris? They knew that women in Qambari Arabia were required to wear burkas but they made no effort to comply. Well, he would see to it that this little harlot paid for her heresy.

  It was every parent’s nightmare, learning that his child was missing. All the children on the bus reported seeing Amber get off the bus, and two said they had seen a man lead her into a white van. Both children had thought the incident was unusual enough to report it to thei
r parents.

  “It was an old Ford van, and it had a big rusty spot above the left tail light, and the license number was 37172,” Randy, the twelve-year old son of one of the embassy staff said.

  “How do you know?” The military policeman asked.

  “I wrote the number down in my notebook,” Randy said. “Mom and Dad said you should never get into a car with someone you don’t know, and I didn’t think Amber knew the man.”

  Even as the Embassy was providing the Qambari police with information on the van, as well as a description of the man who had taken her, the police found Amber.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Captain Hardesty, the military police captain in charge of the investigation told Colonel Pease. “But, we are going to need an official identification. You are going to have to look at the body.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Colonel Pease nodded, indicating that he was ready. The MP took him into a room at the rear of the police morgue, then pulled back the cover. Pease looked at her, nodded, then turned away with tears streaming down his face.

  “How was she found?” he asked.

  “You don’t really want to know, sir,” Hardesty replied.

  “How was she found?” Colonel Pease asked again.

  “She was,” Captain Hardesty started, paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “She was found nude and spread-eagled, with her underwear stuffed in her mouth.”

  Colonel Pease was quiet.

  “We’ll get the son of a bitch, sir,” Hardesty said. “We have two eye witnesses; we have a make on the van and a license number. We’ve given the Qambari Police good, solid leads. We’re going to get the bastard who did this.”

  “Thanks,” Colonel Pease replied.

  With the Americans in Fallujah, Iraq

  “Hot damn! We’ve got ourselves a real juicy target here,” Sergeant Baker said as he peered through the thermal sight of a Long Range Acquisition System (LRAS), mounted on a Humvee.

  “What have you got, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen asked.

  “I’ve got five Hajs, with weapons, in a building.” Sergeant Baker answered. He chuckled. “Look at the poor dumb bastards. Ole’ Habib thinks I can’t see him. Well he can run, but the son of a bitch can’t hide.”

  It was 0230, pitch black, and the mujahideen insurgents, called Hajs, or Habib by the Americans, were wearing black to fade into the dark interior of the building. They were shadows within shadows, unable even to see each other from no more than a few inches away. But with his thermal imaging optics, Sergeant Baker could see them as clearly as if they were standing in the middle of the street in broad daylight.

  “Give me the numbers, Sergeant,” Colonel Jensen said.

  “Yes, sir, numbers coming up,” Sergeant Baker replied, punching them in.

  Art looked at the numbers, then keyed the mike.

  “Boomer Three, this is Tango Six. I have a fire mission.”

  The radio call sign, Tango Six, identified Art as the Commanding Officer of the 3rd Infantry Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment, 7th Infantry Division.

  “Go ahead, Tango Six,” Boomer Three responded.

  “Coordinates 09089226, direction two zero two degrees. Range niner fi-yive zero meters.”

  “Ordnance is on the way, Tango Six.”

  Art looked in the direction from which the fire mission would come, and he saw a few sparks as the mortar rounds climbed into the sky. A second later, a dozen loud booms rattled the neighborhood as a great ball of flame erupted at the target building. The flame was followed by a huge, billowing cloud of smoke and dust.

  “Tango Six, can we have a BDA?” the disembodied radio voice asked.

  “Battle damage assessment?” Art repeated. He chuckled. “Nothing to assess, Boomer, you brought some heat. The building is gone. Thank you.”

  “We have enjoyed doing business with you, Tango Six.”

  “Tango Six out.”

  Art thought about the five insurgents who had just died. They died because they could not comprehend a technology that could find them from a mile away, then unleash a deadly barrage from mortars that could fire for effect without ranging. In the current operation, scores of insurgents had died, simply because they took one curious peek over the ledge to see what was going on outside. That one, brief second of exposure was all that was needed to kill them, and anyone who was with them.

  The sun rose the next day on a city that was nearly deserted. The melodic call to prayer, enhanced by a loudspeaker, intoned in the morning quiet.

  Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar

  Ashhadu all llah ill Allah

  Ash hadu all illha ill Allah.

  Ash hadu anna Muhammadan Rasululaah

  Ash had anna Muhammadan Rasulullaah.

  Hayya lasseah, Hayya Lassaleah

  Hayya lalfaleah, Hayya lalfaleah

  Allanu Akbar, Allahu Akbar

  La llaha ill Allah.

  Art stood behind a wall looking over the city with a pair of binoculars. Behind him, Captain Chambers was staring at images on a TV monitor. The images were being projected from an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or UAV, circling over the city.

  “Anything coming up on the monitor, Mike?” Art asked.

  “No, sir,” Chambers answered. “Everyone seems to have his head down this morning.”

  A Humvee drove up behind them and stopped. Two men got out. One was carrying a video camera, and both were wearing sleeve flashes that identified them as TV reporters.

  “Is Colonel Jensen here?” one of the men asked.

  Art nodded. “I’m Colonel Jensen.”

  “I’m John Williams with World Cable News,” the one who asked the question said.

  “Yes, I recognize you,” Art said.

  “Oh, you’ve seen me then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of the coverage WCN has given the war?”

  “Not much,” Art said, candidly.

  “Oh?” Williams replied. “And may I ask why not?” The expression on the reporter’s face, and the defensive timbre of his voice showed his irritation.

  “Your headquarters is where? Atlanta? The last time I checked, Atlanta was in the United States, yet your network seems determined to find anything negative you can about our effort over here.”

  “We are a world news organization, Colonel,” Williams said. “You do understand the concept of ‘world’ don’t you? We are beyond the chauvinistic hubris that is so prevalent among our sister networks.”

  “Yes, you and Al Jazeera,” Art said. “What do you need, Williams? What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come down from headquarters to be embedded with your battalion.”

  “Do I have a say in this?” Art asked.

  “Not really, Colonel,” Williams replied, smugly. “Unless you want to butt heads with a general.”

  Art sighed. “All right. Just stay the hell out of the way.”

  “Oh, and Colonel, if you would, please put the word out to your men that I am here to work, not to sign autographs,” Williams said.

  “I don’t think you will have any trouble with that, Mr. Williams,” Art said in a cold, flat tone of voice. “I doubt that you have that many fans among the troops here.”

  Art turned back toward the street and lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He swept his gaze, slowly, from side to side, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

  He saw nothing.

  “Colonel, the UAV has made a second pass, still no sightings,” Captain Chambers said from his position at the monitor.

  Art lowered his field glasses. “All right,” he said. “Tell A Company to saddle up. It’s time to put out some bait.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chambers replied. He spoke into his radio. “Goodnature Six, this is Tango Six. Get ready to move out. All other units hold your position.”

  A series of “Rogers” came back.

  “Where will the CP be, Colonel?” Chambers asked.

  “In my Humvee,” Art replied.
“I’m going to lead the convoy.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Art shook his head. “No, you take the three spot, Captain Mason will be behind me. Oh, and, take them with you,” he said, nodding toward Williams and his cameraman.

  “Uh . . . it isn’t all that necessary that we actually go out on patrol with you, Colonel,” Williams said nervously. “We can get everything we need from here.”

  Sergeant Baker was chewing tobacco, and he spit on the ground, barely missing Williams’ boot.

  “So, what you are saying is, you are a pussy. Is that it?” Baker said to Williams.

  “I’m not . . . ” Williams started, then he sighed. “I would be glad to accompany you, Colonel.”

  “You and your cameraman can ride with Captain Chambers and Sergeant Baker,” Art said.

  “That’s my Humvee,” Baker said. “Over there.” He pointed.

  The sound of a dozen or more engines starting disturbed the quiet morning air. Art walked over to his own Humvee, got into the right seat and settled down. His machine gunner stood in the back, freed the gun to slide around on the ring, cleared the headspace and activated the bolt.

  “Let’s go, Jimmy,” Art said.

  Nodding in compliance, Art’s driver, Specialist Jimmy Winson started forward.

  2

  The Kingdom of Qambari Arabia

  The Mercedes sports car raced through the streets of the capital city of Radul, sending pedestrians scattering and frightening a horse that was pulling a cart laden with vegetables. The cart overturned and the farmer watched in horror as his produce was scattered through the street, much of it ruined as it was run over by traffic.