by Johnny Jacks
“Funny you should ask that. It’s called the Watering Hole.”
~~~
“So, tell me, Grayson, when was the last time you got in a fist fight?”
Grayson took a sip of beer. “You have a knack for asking direct questions. I like that. It’s been a long time. I was a senior in high school and some guy tried to get a date with Margaret, my wife. When she refused, he patted her butt. We were already married, but nobody knew. I busted the guy in the chops, knocked him cold. I got into trouble a lot for fighting before I joined the Army. To be honest, I’ve gotten into trouble more times than I can count for acting without thinking, going on instinct.”
“Aren’t your instincts what made you good in combat?”
“There may be something to the combat angle, but truth is, the news reports were correct. I didn’t use good judgment when chasing Murtadha. The Delgado shooting was a fluke, but it may still cost me my job. I’ve gone on instinct too often in my life. Today was the last time. It was stupid of me to let that mental midget cause me to lose control.”
“Maybe you’ve turned a corner. Still, don’t expect your basic character to change overnight, but being self-aware is the first step.”
Grayson considered Mark’s comments and finished his beer. “Weber had it coming, but one of the last things my wife, Margaret, told me was to help an adversary of mine. It’s time I heeded her advice and quit fighting the world.”
“Sounds like a good start to a new life. Hey, barkeep, two more Heinekens.”
“Not for me, Mark. I gave up over-indulging in booze last week.”
“I don’t see any tell-tale signs of alcoholism; you can start over tomorrow,” Mark slapped Grayson on the back.
Mark and Grayson continued with small talk, comparing combat stories and sipping their way through half a dozen more beers and two burgers each. Their tongues loosened with each bottle.
“Tell me about your wife and kids….” Mark realized his error the moment it escaped his mouth and started to apologize, but Grayson stopped him.
“It’s okay. I think it’s time I discussed it with someone.”
“You sure?”
Grayson shrugged. “We became sweethearts in kindergarten. Margaret was the love of my life; our love knew no bounds. She became pregnant and had Daniel at fifteen. Of course, both of our parents went nuts. I thought her dad was going to kill me. Once they laid eyes on Daniel, their hearts melted, and they helped us through the early years. They had no idea how tight Margaret and I were.”
“It must have been tough providing for a family at that age.”
“It was. Margaret never complained, but ‘Tote that barge! Lift that bale!’ got old fast. When I finished high school, I joined the Army to provide for my young family and get an education. As time rolled on, I became more patriotic and applied for Special Forces. They accepted me. You know how it went; I was away from home more than at home. It was hard on Margaret with me deployed in combat zones most of the time.”
“It was hard on the married guys in combat, especially the younger ones.”
Grayson studied the top of the table. “We had heated arguments before my last deployment. She couldn’t understand my devotion to my A-team, why I’d feel like I would be letting the guys down if I didn’t deploy with them.”
“I know what you mean. For the rest of your life, you’d have felt like a coward.”
“Exactly. She gave me an ultimatum: her and the kids, or the team.”
After a moment, Mark looked questioningly at him. “Well?”
“Well…you know how hardheaded I am.”
“Evidently you reconciled, but did she divorce you?”
“Almost. The day of her court appointment, Margaret’s mother—smart lady—asked her why she hated me and how she would feel if I came home in a flag-draped coffin. It made her realize she would be devastated if I were KIA.
“Wrote me the sweetest letter. I sought Colonel Ramirez’s counsel and he made me realize that I’d contributed more to America’s security than over ninety-nine percent of the rest of the country’s men; that it was okay to devote the rest of my life to loving my wife and kids; and that I could continue to serve as a lawman.”
“Margaret must have been a good woman.”
“You have no idea. She was the kind of woman that brings peace to a man’s soul. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. Margaret was a smart cookie, smarter than I was. She knew how to make me feel like a man without diminishing her own status. It made me want to do everything I could to give her a happy life. We had our ups and downs, like any couple, until I came to understand that she was in charge but cleverly maneuvered me into thinking I was. We had a never-ending, fairytale love affair.”
“Where’s Daniel now? You two have suffered a lot.”
Grayson slightly shook his head. “Whole other story.” His tone sent Mark a strong message to shut down that conversation track.
They finished a couple more bottles of beer and chatted about their similar life experiences, a mutual camaraderie growing.
Grayson jumped when Mark, now more than a little drunk, asked in a loud voice, “Okay, dude. Why do you hate Mexicans?”
“Who said I hate Mexicans?” Grayson growled.
“Everybody.”
Grayson’s protective armor dropped into place “It’s something between me and the Devil.”
Grayson learned watching his father struggle to take care of his family that every man has a personal shield and grips it tightly to maintain his dignity. Emotional shields were barriers that concealed closely held secrets. Ugly secrets men have difficulty confessing to a priest and fear that God may not forgive, even if his priest grants absolution. Grayson could feel Mark assessing him through his inebriation and knew Mark would never mention the topic again.
Comrades-in-arms whisper things never spoken to others, but they never divulge everything.
Islamic State of America - 3
Texas State Prison
Year -4
When noon prayers were over, Akeem’s deputy, Qadir, called him to a corner of the prison yard. “Are you sure about this man, the chosen one? He is a strong leader within the domain of his gang, and he is ruthless, but other Mexicans we’ve reverted to Islam haven’t been able to lead a camel to water.”
“Trust me, Qadir. He is the one. He is ready to be cultivated. Unlike the others, who are squat and dark, notice he is tall with lighter skin, his brother too, certain to have the blood of the Spanish Moors. They are direct descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him. Under my guidance and control, Carlos will lead other Mexican brothers to victory over the infidels.”
Qadir revered Mohammed, but he wasn’t convinced that Carlos Murtadha was worthy. Knowing Akeem’s passions were as unpredictable as the Mexican’s were, he expressed his thoughts carefully. “His emotions run hot then quickly cold, and he is illiterate. I respect your opinion, Akeem, but even if he is a descendant of Mohammad—peace be upon him—I worry we can’t revert an ignorant man accustomed to being in control of all that is around him. Will he follow orders?”
Akeem stroked his long beard and breathed deeply, suppressing his irritation. “I managed a look at his file when I was cleaning the management offices. He is not school educated, but he has the IQ of a genius. He is an intelligent empty shell that I will fill with the passion of a pure Muslim, the passion deserved in a descendant of Mohammed—peace be upon him. We will teach him to read and write Arabic in the time we have left in this infidels’ hellhole. Imam Omar was correct: if I recruit Carlos, Insha’Allah, others of his Mexican gang will follow him and become his deputies to lead their own cells. You are right in one respect. It is time I begin testing him. I’ll not welcome him warmly as I did the others.”
Qadir frowned. “Will that not cause him to reject your efforts to revert him?”
“On the contrary. His mentality now is that of a lowly gang leader. Only by manipulating him into a high st
ate of emotion will I be able to bring him into awareness of a higher order, make him realize his Islamic roots, and understand his position as a great leader of Allah’s soldiers.”
Looking sourly at Qadir, he asked, “Will you help me in this effort or stand aside and remain pessimistic?”
Qadir shrank under Akeem’s glare and became contrite. “I will help and pray that we are successful. Insha’Allah, god willing.”
While Carlos’ Mexican gang watched, stone-faced, Akeem subtly signaled to Carlos to move forward in the prison yard. Murtadha turned to his men and welcomed their gang sign of solidarity, and then he and Miguel eased their way towards Akeem.
Akeem’s Muslim gang dominated the prison quietly and often with deadly results. Anyone foolish enough to tangle with the Muslims found himself splayed on the cold concrete of the restroom floor, his blood drained from his slit throat, his tongue beside his head.
Akeem had patiently observed Carlos’ interest in his activities for several months, watching his curiosity build. Imam Omar was right; Allah called Carlos to him. The man relentlessly wielded power over his Mexican gang, but Akeem’s objective was to teach him that it was important for men to follow not from fear alone but with a deep respect for Islam and the teachings of Mohammed.
Akeem knew Carlos’ interest had reached the tipping point when he made a hand sign the previous night that he wanted to talk. Akeem nodded impassively and turned his back to conceal his joy.
Carlos saw Akeem receive numerous other inmates amiably and expected the same respect. Still, he moved toward the man with caution. His half-shuttered eyes subtly surveying the Muslims added to Akeem’s interest in the Mexican. He wasn’t surprised that he brought his brother. On high alert, Miguel walked beside his brother with the calm of a good deputy.
When Carlos and Miguel were within ten feet, Akeem began the test.
With a dead stare, he commanded in a gruff tone, “Stop there, infidels! What is it you want?”
The two brothers halted, unsure of the unexpected rebuff. Akeem’s Muslim brothers hovered in the background and, as instructed, glared with menace from their alert stance. For a split second, Carlos lost his mental balance. Years of dangerous encounters from his childhood on the streets trained him to maintain his composure under pressure. His outward appearance must not reveal fear but project confidence, an intrepid readiness to take all comers regardless of the odds.
He met Akeem’s challenge with a demand of his own.
“I see you praying alone in your cell and also with your musulmán amigos. Why do you pray so many times every day?”
“You are a Christian, an infidel; you cannot understand.” Akeem turned aside, dismissing him.
“I ain’t no Christian!” Carlos hissed with a low voice to avoid the attention of the guards.
“Don’t lie to me, infidel.” Akeem’s sarcasm was calculated. “Your Christian father taught you to follow in his footsteps,” he lied. “Yalla imshi! Go away!”
Carlos’ eyes blazed. “I ain’t got no father, asshole, and he sure as hell didn’t take me to no Christian church!” Miguel nodded in agreement.
Akeem remained somber, ignoring the insult. “Then you are worse than a Christian. You have no god.”
Carlos’ eyes flashed, but his deep, resonant voice maintained control. “You waste MY time with your games, Arab!”
Akeem snapped immediately. “Why should I waste MY time with a godless infidel?” As he expected, the towering Mexican showed signs of readiness to pounce that he fought to control, and his brash attitude bore the seriousness of purpose. Akeem’s rough talk had not intimidated him.
Carlos’ face became hardened; his matter-of-fact tone changed. “I see you enjoy playing cat and mouse with me, Arab. I ain’t got no time to play your silly games.” He turned to walk away; Miguel moved in concert.
Akeem, impressed with the man’s insight, changed to a conciliatory tone as he changed tactics. “Hold on! Perhaps I do want to talk.”
Chapter 12
Indecision Time
Year 1
A brisk late-September breeze stirred the leaves in the chief’s yard. Grayson hesitated at the door. What was he doing at a doomsday meeting? He felt like the leaves, first blown in one direction and then another, sometimes spinning in a circle before scattering in disarray. He should ditch this idea, get a contractor job with some CIA security outfit—Black Water sounded good—and escape overseas, back into a world filled with danger and adventure, his soldier’s roots. That would place as much distance as possible between his torment and himself.
Turning to leave, he heard Joe’s counsel echoing in his head to resist acting on impulse and explore prepping and its relationship to his love for America. What if Daniel needed him and he was halfway around the world? Indecision had never been part of his character; vacillating annoyed the hell out of him. He shook his head to rid himself of his irritating ambivalence and rang the doorbell.
The chief gave Grayson a hearty slap on the back. “Come in and grab a seat.”
The ten members, including the chief and Grace, were there. He noticed Mark and Yolanda sitting side-by-side holding hands, but didn’t say anything.
Everyone stood to greet him. “If I hadn’t heard it from the horse’s mouth—the horse being the chief—I never would’ve suspected any of you of being preppers. He looked at Samuel, Yeung, and Yolanda “No wonder you guys took up for me on the firing range that day.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you. That would be great, Miss Grace.”
Mark and Joe looked to Yolanda, who delivered an obviously planned speech. “To be honest, Grayson, your impulsive nature almost cost you membership in our MAG. It’s not good to have someone with a short fuse under pressure in an outfit like this.”
“You’re lucky Mark stood up for you,” Samuel added.
Grayson nodded at Mark. So that’s what our beer fest was about. It was an interview. “I appreciate it. I’m in a much better place today.”
Ramirez reassured him. “Relax. You’re in. We’re blessed to have you and just so you know, the vote was unanimous.”
I’m not sure I want to be in, but it did feel good to walk into a room and not see eyes drop to avoid me. These people are friends, not just coworkers.
Grayson cleared his throat. “I looked at that Absolute Anarchy book you gave me, Mark. I understand the prepper movement a little better, but it’s still hard to fathom there are millions of you.”
Ramirez frowned but remained quiet.
“I agree with the argument that American society may collapse, and it could happen before Daniel has grandchildren. I just don’t see the need to rev up for it now. With Republicans controlling both houses of Congress and the White House, things look good to me, even if the establishment Republicans are causing Congress to drag its feet on President Crump’s agenda.”
Grayson looked at the discomfort around the room and rushed to finish. “Look at me preaching to the choir. I appreciate you asking me to join, but I don’t know if I’m a good fit…” Grayson smiled weakly, “temper or not.”
“Grayson, do you understand that President Crump’s efforts to reduce the size of the executive branch and turn power back over to the states have been thwarted at every turn?” Mark asked.
“Sure. But he’s only been in office for little over a year, and his lack of political experience limits the insight he needs to know how dangerously large and powerful the executive branch is and how much the bureaucracy works outside of the Constitution.”
Pablo chuckled. “I see that Mark has you well briefed. A major part of the problem is that none of the news outlets, not even Fox News, thoroughly covers the issues that will bring about a societal collapse. You hear reports every now and then on how an EMP could destroy the power grid and render vehicles useless, but that’s about it.”
Ramirez raised his hand. “Let’s defer this conversation and get this meetup underway. Grayson, w
e’ll bring you up to date on our MAG, so you’ll know how you fit in. We’re all lawmen, meaning that—”
Yolanda interrupted with a loud, artificial cough.
Ramirez laughed along with everyone else. “And lawwoman. Everyone stand and face the flag for the Pledge of Allegiance and prayer.”
Ramirez opened MAG business. “Our police training will help with security when the poop hits the fan, such as crowd control when refugees start piling up. Although he defers to me to preside at meetups, Mark is our founding father and resident prepping expert.”
Everyone applauded Mark, who stood and took a silly bow.
“We have two subjects for general discussion today: expanding the MAG and acquiring a bugout location.”
Relieved that the pressure was off him, Grayson settled and surveyed the group, weighing what he knew about each of them.
“This is the sixth monthly meetup, and we’re doing pretty well,” Ramirez said, “but if we’re to have adequate security, we must grow our numbers. With Grayson and Mama, we have only eleven members. Without more shooters, we don’t stand much of a chance.”
Whoa, Chief. You’re getting ahead of yourself. I haven’t thrown my hat in the ring yet.
Samuel looked concerned. “That’s only about a quarter of the bodies we need for minimum security operations for our bugout location, if we ever acquire one.”
Ramirez shook his head. “We’ve focused too much on things related to living in the woods, building improvised shelters, making fire without matches, etc. That won’t get us very far without a BOL. We also need a variety of specialists to build and maintain our bugout location. Mark and Grayson are our tactical guys. Charles is our gunsmith. We also need medical, electrical mechanical, plumbing, gardening, construction, and farming experts to name just a few. Any ideas?”
Yolanda’s optimism was infectious. “I’ve joined an organic gardening club and getting good at food preservation. I can help establish large-scale gardening.”