JACKKNIFE
JACKKNIFE
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
WITH J. A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS Kensington
Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
“Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.”
—General Omar Bradley
“The enemy say that Americans are good at the long shot, but cannot stand the cold iron. I call upon you instantly to give a lie to the slander. Charge!”
—General Winfield Scott
Contents
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
EPILOGUE
Tensions Increase
in Middle East
WASHINGTON, D.C., FEB. 14, 01:39 PM US/EASTERN, ASSOCIATED PRESS. In Washington today the mood is tense, as hostile rhetoric continues to fly back and forth between Tel Aviv and Tehran over the Iranian government’s continued refusal to suspend its nuclear program. Israeli officials maintain that Israel will take whatever action is necessary to defend itself in the face of intelligence indicating that Iran intends to launch a nuclear strike at Jerusalem, while the Iranian Foreign Minister accuses the Israelis of paranoia, warmongering, and threatening the stability of the entire Middle East. Iran insists that its nuclear program is for peaceful purposes and not intended for military use. French, German, and Russian officials have called for a diplomatic solution to the crisis, urging the United Nations to step in and restrain Israel from taking any aggressive actions that might lead to war.
At the White House, the President remains in frequent contact with the Israeli Prime Minister and is said to be urging restraint as well. A White House spokesperson has quoted the President as saying, “War is not the answer. It has never been the answer, and it never will be.”
PROLOGUE
A village on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border
Hamed al-Bashar felt his chest swell with pride as the bent, robed, and hooded figure of Sheikh Abu ibn Khahir shuffled along the line of freedom fighters, pausing to speak quiet words of encouragement to each of them. The sheikh had come to this remote hill village all the way from the south of France, where he lived. That alone was enough to tell Hamed how important the mission was that he and his companions were about to undertake.
The sheikh was the leader of Hizb ut-Tahrir, a shadowy but growing sect within the Islamic fundamentalist movement. The group had ties with other Islamic organizations throughout the world, but most people considered it a minor player in the ongoing war to cleanse the infidels from the face of the earth and restore Islam to its rightful place of dominance over all creation.
No one would see it that way after Hamed and his comrades concluded their mission, whatever it might be. Then everyone would know the power of Hizb ut-Tahrir and its devotion to the glories of Allah.
Sheikh ibn Khahir paused in front of Hamed and murmured, “You are willing to die for your faith?”
“Sheikh, I am eager to die for my faith,” Hamed answered.
“And what gifts will you bring to the infidels?”
“A sword, and fire, and death.”
A faint smile touched the sheikh’s seamed, leathery face as he nodded in approval at the answer.
Hamed was speaking somewhat metaphorically, of course, and he knew it. A sword would do little good against the hated Americans. There were too many of them. The promise of a sword was only symbolic.
But fire and death…ah, those were real, as the Americans would someday know all too well. Someday soon, Hamed hoped.
“Where are you from?”
The sheikh’s question caught Hamed by surprise. “Paris,” he said. His parents had immigrated to France from Algeria before Hamed was born, and although he had been raised there, he had never felt French. His true nation was Islam, no other.
“I thought I recognized the accent,” the sheikh said. “I live in France.”
Hamed didn’t know what to say. The sheikh’s expression was hard to read. Hamed felt the old feelings of inferiority welling up inside him. It had always bothered him that he was not from Saudi Arabia, or Syria, or even Egypt. He was an Arab, not a filthy Frenchman! Even though the Muslim population of France was exploding, as it was throughout all of Europe, Hamed wished that he could have actually grown up somewhere in the Middle East.
But soon that would no longer matter. The twenty men who had been training with him here in this village for the past two months were from several different countries: England, France, Morocco, Egypt, Saudi Arabia…there was even an American among them, one who had been born and raised surrounded by filthy infidels.
None of that was important. When their mission was complete, they would all be the same—martyrs to the sacred cause of Islam. And they would be together in heaven, surrounded by beautiful virgins, enjoying all the rewards they would earn by dying. Nothing else mattered.
“What is your name?” the sheikh asked.
“Hamed al-Bashar.”
The sheikh half-turned and pointed a bony finger at one of the villagers, a stocky, middle-aged man who was a minor official, one of the party that had greeted Sheikh ibn Khahir and escorted him here to this mud-walled compound on the edge of the settlement where the training had taken place.
“Do you see that man?”
“I see him,” Hamed said.
“He is a traitor. The American CIA pays him to betray us.”
The villager’s eyes widened in surprise and horror. He began to shake his head, whether in denial of the accusation or shock at being found out, Hamed could not have said.
And it didn’t matter, because the sheikh had said it and it must be so. One of the sheikh’s bony hands came out from under the robes holding a jambiya knife.
“Deal with the traitor, Hamed al-Bashar.” As the sheikh spoke, he held out the knife.
Hamed didn’t hesitate. He took the knife and walked toward the accused villager, who began to back away in terror. The man’s nerve broke and he turned to run.
He had no chance against the younger, faster, stronger Hamed, who caught him from behind after only a few steps and looped an arm around h
is neck. Hamed jerked back on the man’s head, exposing his throat. The knife flashed in the sunlight as it bit into the tight-drawn flesh. Hamed drew the blade across the man’s throat in one deep, strong slash. A crimson fountain of blood spurted into the air and splashed across the sand. The man’s body spasmed in Hamed’s tight grip.
The sheikh barked a further command, and the knife grated on bone as the blade struck again, going deeper this time. The man’s arms and legs flailed, but no one stepped forward to assist Hamed in the task he had been given by the sheikh. Hamed knew how to do this—in theory—but he had never had to put that knowledge into practice before.
Severing the spine posed some difficulties, but the rest of it was easy. Within a few moments the headless body toppled onto the sand and continued to pump blood from the grisly hole where the traitor’s head had been attached. Hamed held that head up by the hair as the sheikh nodded approvingly. The men of the village cried out and fired their rifles into the air. Hamed’s heart pounded in fierce joy at knowing that he had carried out Allah’s will and eliminated a tool of the infidels.
How much more joyful would it be when he performed his holy mission and entered paradise knowing that he had helped to kill not just a single traitor, but rather thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of those minions of Satan, those hated Americans, delivering unto them their richly deserved punishment for supporting the Israelis, those filthy Jewish interlopers.
O happy day that would be, Hamed thought as he looked at the contorted face of the blood-dripping head he dangled from his hand.
Middle Eastern Crisis Worsens
WASHINGTON, D.C., NOV. 15, 02:51 PM US/EASTERN, ASSOCIATED PRESS. After months of intense, behind-the-scenes negotiations, the agreement-in-principle between Israel and Iran regarding the development of nuclear weapons by Iran has collapsed. This agreement, which was brokered by representatives of the United States, would have opened Iranian nuclear facilities to United Nations inspectors in an effort to bolster Iranian claims that they are not manufacturing weapons of mass destruction. The recent rise to power by more fundamentalist politicians in Iran evidently fueled the collapse of the talks, although a spokesman for the Iranian government insists that there was never any such agreement to start with.
In Washington, the President issued a statement saying that this is only a temporary setback in the ongoing diplomatic process, and that she remains confident a peaceful solution to this crisis that threatens the stability of the Middle East will be found.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
The President said, “Those goddamn camel-jockeys never had any intention of holding up their part of the bargain.”
“Don’t let the press hear you using an ethnic slur like that,” her husband said with a grin. “After all, you represent the party of tolerance and diversity.”
She fixed him with the familiar steely-eyed glare he had seen so many times during their thirty-plus years of marriage. At first, he’d been scared shitless whenever she looked at him like that, because it was in those moments that he had been able to look into her and see her for what she really was.
Over the years, though, he had come to realize that maintaining the façade of a happy marriage was too important to her plans for her to ever direct the full force of her rage at him. All he had to do to remain safe was to exercise just the least bit of restraint and discretion. She had skated by on the edge of enough scandals, both personal and political, that she couldn’t afford to let any sort of “accident” befall him, as had happened to others who had gotten in her way.
Besides, he truly did love her, despite knowing that to her, he was mostly just a useful prop. So when they were alone like this, in the upstairs quarters of the White House, he made it a habit to speak as plainly with her as he could. He wanted to help.
“You’re right,” he went on. “They were lyin’ to you from the get-go, just stringin’ you along with empty promises so you’d keep the Israelis off their back for a while longer.”
She nodded. “Yes, but I believed them at first. I mean, why wouldn’t I? They had no reason to fear U.N. inspections. Pulling the wool over the eyes of the United Nations is no great trick. Even a cheap thug like Saddam Hussein was able to do it for years. They never did figure out what he was up to.”
“Don’t let anybody hear you say that either,” her husband advised, and he wasn’t smiling now. “Everybody knows that Bush lied and Saddam never had any weapons of mass destruction. You don’t want to go lettin’ people think that the conventional wisdom might not be true.”
She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “All they had to do was hide the real stuff and put on a dog-and-pony show for the inspectors. Then we would have had a good excuse for going along with whatever the U.N. said, and without our backing the Israelis would have had to accept it, too.”
“Maybe you don’t know the Israelis quite as well as you think you do.”
“What do you mean by that?” she snapped.
“I mean that when those folks feel like they’ve been backed into a corner, they’re liable to do almost anything.”
The President shook her head. “They won’t attack Iran. My God, they’re already surrounded by enemies who want them dead as it is.”
“Then they don’t have a hell of a lot to lose, now do they?” her husband said softly.
That shook her for a second; he could tell by the way she looked. She truly believed that every setback was only temporary, that in the end everything would work out the way she wanted it to because she was smarter than everybody else. Smarter, and more decent and moral, and anyone who disagreed with her was evil or stupid or both, and therefore destined to lose. Maybe she was right—he hoped she was—but he feared that the rest of the world might not cooperate.
She resumed the pacing that had sent her back and forth across the luxuriously appointed bedroom a dozen times so far during their conversation. “Why now?” she asked. “Everything was looking good. All the Iranians had to do was play along for a while. The whole situation would have cooled down, so that next year would be nice and peaceful leading up to the election. Why throw a wrench in the works right now?”
“Maybe they were just stalling for time. Maybe they don’t need to anymore.”
She stopped and swung around toward him. “You mean you think they’re ready to…to do something?”
“I don’t know,” her husband replied honestly. “But I got a feelin’ there’s a shitstorm comin’…and we won’t be able to deny our way outta this one.”
CHAPTER 2
Hamed al-Bashar finished entering the data into the file and saved it, then clicked on the next item in the list and opened a new window to enter more information. The office around him was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. He was the only one who had come in today. Everyone else was home watching football on television.
Not Hamed, though. For one thing, he hated American football, just as he hated everything else about America. But football held a special place in his hatred, and had ever since he had seen news footage on French television of Arab mobs celebrating the deaths of thousands of infidels on 9/11.
One image he had witnessed on that glorious day remained seared in his brain. An Arab man was laughing and dancing for joy in the street in Baghdad or Damascus or some other city; Hamed didn’t remember exactly where, and it didn’t matter. Perched on the man’s shoulders was his son, a boy of seven or eight years old.
And that boy wore a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt.
The satanic influence of the Americans had wormed its insidious way so far into the Arab world that a child could wear a symbol of the infidels’ national sport and not think anything of it. It was at that very moment that Hamed had known that peace was not possible, that Islam could never coexist with such evil. The only way to truly save the world was to cleanse it of all Western influences.
Europe was no threat to that glorious goal. The French? That thought made Hamed laugh. He had been around the
French enough to know that they would never successfully resist anything for very long, not without someone else coming to their rescue. The Germans were not much better, and the Spaniards and Italians weren’t worth even thinking about.
The British, though, might pose a bit of a problem, but they were already showing numerous signs of giving up. And nowhere in subequatorial Africa or South America was there enough cohesion to represent a threat to the march of Islam. As for China and Russia…well, oil and oil money could always buy them off. Anyway, they would be happy to be rid of America, too.
So America—and its godless infidel football—had to go.
There was another reason Hamed was working on a Sunday afternoon. He was a go-getter. That was what his supervisor called him. His instructions were simple—blend in and wait for the summons that would call him to perform the work of Allah.
When that summons would come, and the exact details of the mission he would be given, were unknown to Hamed, but he, like the other members of his group, was patient. Whether it took months or even years, he would be here, in Kansas City, Missouri, working in the transportation division of one of America’s largest corporations, helping to coordinate the movement of goods throughout the nation by truck.
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