The vice-President is much more than the most powerful woman in American politics to her faithful aide. Holly is an invaluable asset to Enrique Salinas. Thus Enrique never lets it get to him when he finds himself the target of her ire. The Vice President is the lynch pin to his personal ambitions and Salinas will not let a small thing like his pride derail his plans. She has been extremely useful to his cause thus far. He therefore serves her dutifully, in and out of bed, to better position himself strategically. Once she is elected President of the United States, Salinas’ rise to real power can begin. When Villa secures a second term, the last stage of a long-wrought plan can be executed, making him a player on the geo-political board.
Enrique and his comrades plan to wrest the old Mexican territories from Washington. Unlike others in the Reconquista movement however, Salinas and his people have no plans to cede the lands back to Mexico. He and his comrades intend to carve out an independent nation state for themselves out of the contested territories. They’ve been assured their application for statehood will be well received at the United Nations. Vice-President Villa has promised Enrique and other men, men she knows will hold her to her word, that as President of the United States she will not challenge their bid for secession.
“Before my second term is over,” she assured them. “You will have a country of your own!”
Her offer of help is not unconditional and it’s certainly not selfless. Salinas knows that Holly Villa expects to go from American President to the mother of a new nation. His people do not begrudge her the ambition, for they figure she will bring her native California into the mix, giving their new country much needed access to the sea.
They are so close.
Washington’s influence over the states is waning daily as the country dies its slow death. The decline of the Federal government’s control is most pronounced in the Southwest. Great portions of it are already ripe to fall from the Union. Reconquistas have worked for decades to create the conditions conducive to cessation. For three generations now, the Reconquista movement has drummed, through teachers and textbooks, their message into schoolchildren at every age level. The movement has also been busy working its members into key offices and positions of influence, a process helped along by the mass exodus of whites during the Border War. As a result, Mexican flags fly atop the American colors throughout much of the southwestern states, enraging many an American.
It is fuel to Enrique’s ambitions.
Normally, it is. Tonight though, regardless of how many Mexican flags he spots as they make their way eastward across Interstate 8, Salinas feels like he is running on empty.
Enrique stares dumbly at the old black and white movie playing on the small television raised on a column between the seats in the back of the limo. The film is Frank Capra’s, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ The movie began playing after the broadcast of the Mass. Salinas is the only one in the car who had never seen it, but he recognized the title, referenced by the last mysterious facebook posting. The movie is starting up again after just having ended. He stares at the tolling Liberty Bell that begins the film, wondering what its repetition might mean.
The vice-President reaches down and turns the television off. Villa snorts contemptuously. “They’re throwing it in our faces,” she says. “Just like the Mass.”
“I don’t understand,” Enrique says. “What are they doing?”
“The movie was supposed to be cut from this year’s holiday playlist,” she answers. “The FCC decided that it had too much religious content. Christian groups raised a lot of noise over the ruling last August, trying to get it overturned. They were denied. And now they’re rubbing it in our faces by playing it over and over again.”
Salinas blames the American government’s incremental approach to secularization for their present fix. The time wasted in half-steps and half-measures has given these Christians the breathing room to organize. It would have been better if The States had followed Mexico’s lead and just shut the churches down. Yes, it would have been bloody, no doubt bloodier than it was in Mexico, but they would’ve had the advantage of initiative. They would’ve prevailed as surely as President Vargas did. As things stood now, they were on the defensive and in the dark to boot! All their plans were in jeopardy.
Across from him, Holly Villa flips the intercom switch. “Jimmy, we’re going to stop in Santa Fe.”
“Yes, Madame Vice-President,” the driver responds.
Enrique Salinas is relieved to hear of the detour. A stop in Santa Fe means a sit down with, The Tribe, the inner circle of La Raza Nation Separatists.
DC could wait. They were headed for a war council.
12:11:10
Aguas Pietras, Mexico
Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim is a long way from his home of Najaf, Iraq.
Ahmed left his war-torn country nearly a year ago. He is now less than twenty kilometers from America’s southern border. Al-Hakim crossed seas and jungles to build a nuclear bomb right on America’s doorstep. This he has done. The bomb is built and sitting in the back of a van in the garage of his host’s villa. All that remains to complete his mission is to transport it across the dessert border, pick up the nuclear material waiting for them just outside of Midland Texas and detonate the bomb during the Rose Bowl celebration in Los Angeles on New Year’s Day.
His year long journey began with a summons to a personal audience with the Imam, Nouri Al-Faisal in Basra, Iraq. Never in his wildest dreams would Ahmed have imagined receiving the honor of dining with so great, so holy a servant of almighty Allah. Imam Al-Faisal was the great defender of his people. He not only chased the American military out of Sunni Arabia, but he also kept their Shiite rival, the Ayatollah Muqtada Al-Sadr, from turning Iraq over to his masters in Tehran. Al-Sadr could do as he pleased in Baghdad, but except for the occasional direct flight to Iran, the fat rat of an Ayatollah rarely ventured outside his compound, let alone his city. Al-Faisal, and in his own small way, Ahmed made sure Iran’s Shiite lapdog knew little peace outside his bunker.
Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim has never known peace himself. His earliest memories were of jihad. He has always been at war, first against the Americans, now against the Shiite heretics; and, always and ultimately against the very world itself. Jihad demanded it of him and Ahmed is ever eager to serve its cause.
“Holy war,” as the Imam Al-Faisal repeatedly pointed out at Mosque services, “Is the surest path to the truest peace. True peace is only possible through submission to almighty Allah. When Dar al-Islam, the House of Islam conquers Dar al-Harb, the House of War, and all men submit to Allah, the world will know true and lasting peace. Not until then.”
The great Imam welcomed Ahmed warmly to his Basra home.
“Ahmed! Ahmed! Truly Allah smiles upon me with your visit,” Al-Faisal said on their first meeting. He grasped Ahmed with his two great hands, kissed his cheeks and embraced him as even his own father never had.
Leading Al-Hakim into his house, the Imam continued. “I am told, Ahmed that you are as clever as you are devout.”
“Those are judgments for Allah the Merciful to make, your holiness.”
Al-Faisal laughed. His purple lips and great white teeth parted the shroud of gray-streaked beard. “You’re humble and wise as well. Good. Still, it would not be immodest of you to admit that you have a real talent, a gift from Allah, for numbers, electronics and the constructing of ingenious weapons.”
“I admit that I enjoy working with my hands, Imam but…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”
“Of course not, my son,” the Imam said. “Speak freely, by all means.”
“It’s just that my heart yearns to do more than build rockets and roadside bombs,” Ahmed Al-Hakim said. “I wish to strike at the enemy directly, in battle.”
“This too I have heard said about you brother, Ahmed,” The Imam said with a generous smile.
They stopped before a table with glasses and a pitcher of iced
tea. Al-Faisal poured them each a glass and bid Ahmed drink. It was cold mint tea and perfect after the three hour bus ride through the dusty, sun-drenched dessert. The Imam refilled Ahmed’s glass after he drained it.
“Thank you, Imam.”
“My pleasure, son,” Al-Faisal said. “And my honor it is to serve one eager to fight on the frontline. I heard tell of your courage during the last pilgrimage.”
Ahmed bowed, humbled by the master’s compliment. Al-Faisal referred to an attack on a United Nations convoy last spring. He and a dozen others blended in among Shiite pilgrims and attacked trucks full of Western soldiers as they passed. They managed to kill all eighty infidels and escaped without losing a man of their own. Al-Hakim had never felt more alive than during that raid. As content as he was to serve their jihad by building rockets and improvised explosives, Ahmed would prefer to spend the strength and energy of his youth fighting as he did that afternoon.
“Your loyalty to your orders,” the Imam Al-Faisal continued. “Your obedience was just as important as your courage. You did not allow the others to fire on the pilgrims. I understand you threatened to shoot Khalid if he disobeyed and harmed a single one of them.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Why?” The Imam asked. “Were not those Shiite pilgrims your enemies too?”
“Our orders were specific, Imam,” Ahmed answered. “We were to spare the pilgrims.”
“Yes, yes,” Al-Faisal nodded approvingly. “It was necessary to spare them to firmly fix the blame on them. You no doubt guessed as much.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“And it all worked out,” the Imam said. “The attack rid us of scores of Western occupiers and fooled them into retaliating against Al-Sadr instead of us.”
“I’m happy to have been of use,” Ahmed said.
“And you are eager to be part of more such exercises?”
“Yes!”
“Good,” the Imam said. “I have a task for you that would serve our jihad mightily.”
“Anything father,” Ahmed said, turning squarely to face the holy man. “Anything that you would have me do to strike terror in the heart of Al-Sadr, you may consider it done.”
Al-Faisal laughed.
“No, my son,” he said. “Leave Muqtada to me. I would like you to strike at the great Satan.”
Ahmed Al-Hakim was stunned.
“The great Satan?”
“Yes,” Al-Faisal said. “We fight on many fronts, Ahmed. The Americans are driven out of our holy lands but they’re not yet beaten. If we can defeat them on their own soil, none will long stand against us on our soil.”
“America?”
The Imam nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Do you remember the attack in Brazil, the one that killed the Pope?”
“Why yes, of course.”
“That was us,” Faisal says, beaming with pride. “The nuclear attack in Panama which killed the American President and others was also one of ours. We are now prepared to reach even further, into the very heart of Dar al-Harb!”
Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim did not know what to say. He merely stared at the Imam, trying to find his voice and the words to put to it.
Imam Nouri Al-Faisal smiled, showing his bright white teeth again.
“It seems that your head is as full of questions as your belly is empty of food,” the Imam said and took Ahmed by the arm. “Come have dinner with me and I will attend to both.”
All through dinner and the next three days the Imam answered every question Ahmed could raise. The scope of Al-Faisal’s plan was farther reaching than anything Ahmed could have ever conceived being a part of. He was both humbled by the responsibility that was being entrusted to him and eager to bring it to fruition. The thrill he initially felt at the prospect of serving in so glorious a manner never left Ahmed. If he succeeded, surely his place in paradise would be secured.
From Basra, the Imam sent Ahmed to Riyadh where he stayed for several weeks at the home of the Saudi prince who was bankrolling the operation. There he began his study of English and Spanish while daily assembling and disassembling a mock-up of the twenty-five kiloton bomb he would build in Mexico.
The prince created a new identity for Ahmed, insisting he cut his beard and hair. From Riyadh, Ahmed travelled to Cairo, where he boarded an OPEC minister’s yacht to the Canary Islands. Al-Hakim met the other four members of his team there. They spent several weeks getting to know each other, going over their plans and acclimating themselves to Western culture as best they could. It was not easy for Ahmed. The sights on the Canary Islands repulsed him. People shamelessly strolled along the beaches, day and night, without a stitch of clothes. Men and women openly flaunted their sexualities everywhere with no thought to decency, dignity or decorum. Everything was permissible. There were bars and clubs dedicated to every perversity.
None too soon for Al-Hakim, they left the Canaries, one at a time, for various points in South America. They met up again months later off its coast, on the Venezuelan Isla de Margarita. There they stayed another three months assuming new identities and plotting the remaining stages of their mission to the last detail while they continued to practice their new languages with Venezuelan allies. Eventually word reached them from Basra to proceed to the border. The people and pieces they needed were all in place.
Everything had gone smoothly until their host called off the border crossing which was scheduled to begin less than an hour from now. Ahmed was upset at the delay and furious that he was told by one of his host’s underlings. Angry as he was, Ahmed Aziz knew that he had to proceed with caution. His host, Machete was a dangerous man known to have butchered many an enemy with his namesake weapon. Imam Al-Faisal briefed Ahmed on many of the players he would deal with on his journey to the heart of Dar al-Harb. Al-Faisal warned him of the Saudi prince’s weakness for liquor, cocaine and young boys as he warned him of Machete’s temper and bloodlust. While Ahmed hadn’t seen any evidence of Machete’s penchant for violence, he had other reasons to be repulsed by the man.
Machete’s villa was part military camp and part whorehouse. It was garrisoned with over two hundred of his men. They were members of the Mara Sal-vatrucha, a ferocious street gang, more popularly known as MS-13. Aside from the heavily armed and grotesquely tattooed and pierced underlings, Machete kept some fifty women around, girls really, some he guessed as young as twelve. These drug-addled females were stabled like animals, kept to sate the sexual appetites of Machete and his men. The shameless gang leader had no qualms about indulging himself in the presence of his guests. On their first meeting three days ago, Machete offered Ahmed and his men a half dozen of the girls to do with as they pleased.
Ahmed declined the offer.
Machete laughed and openly mocked them.
“You ragheads shouldn’t knock it till you try it,” he told them. And then, to throw his scorn in their faces, he called one of the girls to him and bent her over his desk.
Ahmed walked away before he could see what followed.
“Why should we deal with such men?” Al-Hakim asked his Imam when he first learned of the prince and Machete.
“They are despicable men, yes,” Al-Faisal answered. “But even despicable men can be useful to us. The Prince has the money we need. And in America, there is little that passes the border that doesn’t go through Machete’s hands. You must be patient when dealing with men like them. Patience, my son Ahmed; it serves our jihad as well as does courage. You must show great restraint and patience until the hour to strike arrives.”
As Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim walks into Machete’s office, he reminds himself of his master’s advice: Restraint and patience. Both virtues are tested immediately. Machete is seated behind his desk, his legs spread to a young girl, knelt between them. Ahmed pointedly ignores her bobbing head and keeps his gaze fixed on Machete’s dark, deep-pitted eyes. Like his men, he is covered in tattoos. The most disturbing tattoo on him is the intricate combination of lines and shading on the left si
de of his face and shaved head. The hideous design suggests an exposed skull. More grotesque than the tattoo, the hellish light in the man’s eyes convinces Ahmed that he is dealing with a demon in the flesh.
“Ah, jihadi,” Machete says. “I had a feeling you would be coming by.”
“I would like to know your reason for cancelling the border crossing.”
“Of course, you would,” Machete says and picks up a remote control wand off his desk. He points it at a flat screen mounted on the wall behind Ahmed. “See for yourself.”
Al-Hakim, grateful to turn his back on the scene before him, fixes his attention on the television. The black and white movie is still playing on television. This is nothing new to Ahmed. He and his men noticed the same thing through their cell phones. The old Christmas film began playing repeatedly after the Mass in Washington. It is a curious thing, especially on the tail of the President’s kidnapping, but Al-Hakim can find no reason in it to alter their plans. Still, Ahmed watches the screen dutifully until the groaning and grunting dies down behind him. When he feels certain that Machete has finished his business with the girl, Aziz turns back to him.
“Please forgive me, Machete,” Ahmed says. “But I still don’t understand why we must postpone the crossing.”
“There’s a national emergency going on,” Machete answers, petting the young girl who has curled at his feet like a dog. “The President has been kidnapped and someone is screwing around with the world’s satellites. The gringos will have all kinds of drones and planes in the air. It’s not the best time to cross the border with a nuclear bomb.”
“You have tunnels.”
Machete pulls a cigar out of a box on his desk.
The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE Page 30