The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  Twenty-rounds gone.

  One in the chamber, only two left in the magazine.

  He turned to his left and began running, even as he ejected his magazine and slammed home a fresh one. He bolted straight down another line of barriers, these containing four different shooting positions, with large plastic barrels stacked two high on either side. He would need to take on each target separately, since they were spread so far apart and sitting about fifteen yards away. Also, standing beside or partially in front of them were white “no shoot” cardboard targets that had big Xs drawn through their centers. Their placement reminded Willie of a hostage situation, where you had to hit the shooter behind the victim. Willie arrived breathlessly at the first position and took aim. Double-tap. Nice hits. He darted about five yards to the next zone and fired again. Then on to the next one, where he unleashed his rounds. He transitioned smoothly to the final spot, freeing his last two shots and breathing a deep sigh that he had delivered lead only where he had intended.

  “If you’re finished, unload and show clear,” said the range officer.

  Willie complied.

  “If you’re clear, slide forward, hammer down, and holster,” the officer added.

  Once Willie had holstered his pistol, the officer announced, “Range is safe!”

  The score keeper went to each of the paper targets to record Willie’s hits. Meanwhile, the other nine guys in Willie’s squad moved in behind the score keeper, resetting the metal targets, picking up brass, and pasting the paper ones with stickers so they would be ready for the next shooter. Willie helped the others with the reset, even though as the last shooter he was not obligated to do so. He received some congratulatory remarks from his buddies. He was disappointed with a few of his shots, but overall it was a solid first stage—and the competition was for a great cause.

  Willie, along with about fifty other 3-Gun competitors, was raising money for the Marine Special Operations Command foundation, which supported active duty and medically retired MARSOC personnel and their families. Their hosts, the Ant Hill Shooting Range here in Bolivia, North Carolina, was owned and operated by proud supporters of the military, and because of that, many veterans attended their events.

  Today’s three 3-Gun competition was comprised of five stages, three of which involved shooting only one weapon at a time, either a pistol, a shotgun, or a rifle. Two stages required shooters to transition from shotgun to pistol and rifle to pistol. The group had been divided into five squads, and everyone rotated from stage to stage around the course. Ironically, Willie might only shoot for a total of three minutes across five stages, but he had to dedicate an entire day to do so. It took him ninety minutes each way to get to the range, then another five to six hours to compete (because most of the time was spent resetting the stages and waiting on other competitors). To someone on the outside, this sounded insane, but to shooters like Willie, the self-induced stress of trying to fire accurately while on the clock and with everyone watching created a rush that was just a hair’s breadth away from being in an actual gunfight. Additionally, the camaraderie at these events was second to none. Everyone from all walks of life—doctors, lawyers, waitresses, mechanics, welders, kids, and housewives—was a shooter, and they all loved talking about firearms and ballistics. What was more, even the most fierce competitors would not hesitate in lending someone a gun to replace a broken one, although doing so might result in that generous shooter losing his match. No one liked to win because of someone else’s equipment malfunction; that was a hollow victory to be sure. Besides, everyone had invested so much time and money that they hated seeing someone drop out. Willie had been offered weapons when his had gone down, and he had paid it forward when the need arose. This was just one of the many aspects that made 3-Gun such a great and highly addictive sport.

  As he headed back to the waiting area, a familiar face emerged from behind his fellow shooters.

  “Hey, Johnny, what’s going on?”

  Johnny grinned and said, “I’ve come to see how your skill sets have improved.”

  “Well, let’s hope so. I’m shooting this one as a tune up before the Tarheel match in Raleigh. So, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? We could’ve carpooled.”

  “Kind of a last minute thing.”

  “I thought you’d be busy today.”

  “Just in the morning with the lawyer. I told Elina I needed to get out and get away from it all for a few hours.”

  “Good deal. Next stage is shotgun and pistol.”

  “Right on. We’ll link up later for an early dinner. It’s on me.”

  “I’m all over that.”

  “Good. Now just remember one thing. You’re the school bus driver.”

  “Roger that,” said Willie with a wink. “Because I’m taking them all to school.”

  * * *

  They drove up to Wilmington and had dinner at a barbecue place, where the conversation was mostly about Triton 6 contracts and some old buddies they had seen at the wake and funeral. Afterward, Johnny told Willie to climb into his truck, that they needed to talk for a minute.

  “This sounds bad,” said Willie, plopping down in the passenger’s seat.

  Without a word, Johnny handed Willie a block with a Scorpion label, a set of keys and card from a storage company, and a note written in Arabic.

  Willie gasped. “What the hell?”

  “I found these in my brother’s office, up in the ceiling.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No. I’ve been following up, but I hit a dead end.”

  “What do you mean you’ve been following up?”

  Johnny shrugged. “I haven’t, uh, told anyone about this.”

  “Damn, Johnny, how long have you had this stuff?”

  “I found it the day after my brother got killed.”

  Willie turned the block end over end. “Colombian?”

  “That’s right.”

  Willie tested the block’s weight, sensing it was a little light, since he had held blocks of cocaine before while downrange in Afghanistan. He shook the block, and it seemed as though something might be loose inside. “You mind if I open it?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know how these guys operate.”

  “All right, go ahead. Just don’t get it all over the truck. I’m in enough trouble already.”

  Willie carefully unwrapped the block, which was already cracked in half. The block had a hollow center, and inside he found two sets of curled plastic cords with pencil-like attachments at their ends. Having been well-trained in breaching operations, Willie knew exactly what these were: mini boosters for ignition charges. They were used to ignite slurries and emulsions to full detonation. The initial shock wave traveled through the ignition line, then the detonator initiated the mini booster, giving the energy impulse necessary to initiate larger explosive charges. According to their labels, they were made by a company called EXSA.

  “And you found this in your brother’s office?” Willie asked again, the shock doing the talking for him.

  “He was trying to tell me something, Willie. I think he was murdered for this.”

  There were few things in this world that frightened Willie, but the enormity of this situation was enough to set his pulse racing, his hands trembling. “So you haven’t gone to the police?”

  “My brother was growing out his beard. He worked with Muslims all day long. They recruit jihadis right out of the college. You know how his politics swung all over the place.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’m concerned. What if he was involved? Maybe he got scared, he backed out, and they killed him for it. Or maybe he double-crossed them for some reason. Who knows? The point is, if Daniel was a jihadi and got killed for it, man, I can’t even bear that...”

  “Well, you got no choice now. You need to tell everyone—the police, the FBI. You got coke and explosives coming up through North Carolina.”

  Johnny went on
to explain how Norm Mack had tipped him off, how Bandar had translated the note, and how he had questioned a clerk at Reliance Tactical. He had found the storage unit empty and had reached the end of the trail.

  “I can’t hand this over,” Johnny added. “Not yet. I need to know what my brother was doing. You saw how many guys came to his funeral. Can you imagine them turning on CNN and watching a story about him being a jihadi? I’ve spent my whole life trying to make the old man proud. I spent my whole life in the service of this country.”

  “I hear you, Johnny, but this is some serious shit.” Willie picked up his smartphone and ran a quick web search for EXSA. They were a Peruvian company that manufactured explosives for mining operations. “They’re killing two birds with the coke shipments,” Willie said, after sharing the find with Johnny.

  “I’ve got a couple of names. I called Pat Rugg. If we can find these people—”

  “Stop.” Willie stared emphatically at his friend. “Listen to me, if you go to the police now, it might not be too late.”

  “Are you kidding? They knew I was up at the university. They warned me about interfering. If they knew I was sitting on all of this—”

  “Damn...” Willie sat there a moment, wrestling over what to do. Johnny was digging his own grave with a backhoe, going fast and deep. He needed help, but saying yes to something like this...

  “You remember that time in Germany?” Johnny asked. “That bar fight with those Army dudes. How we were being chased by those MPs?”

  “Good times.”

  “I had a dream about that.”

  Willie looked at him. “Really?”

  “I didn’t know where I was going, but you followed me. Right?”

  “Yeah, ‘cause you outranked me.”

  “You weren’t my friend?”

  Willie sighed. “I see where this is going. You don’t have to play that card, Johnny. I don’t agree with what you’re doing. I think it’s dangerous. But I understand. What do you need?”

  “First, I know what I’m asking. But my back’s against the wall. I got nothing. And I could use everyone’s help.”

  “You tell Corey and Josh?”

  “I’m planning on it. Josh gets back tonight.”

  “Why don’t we go home, sleep on it, then we’ll meet up tomorrow. We’ll get them up to speed, then we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “I thought about doing nothing, just throwing everything away.”

  “You?” Willie asked. “I don’t believe it. You’re one of the most stubborn bastards I know. You’ll tear the shit out of this entire state till you get the truth.”

  “Yeah, I will. And I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

  Willie nodded. “It sucks, but, oh well. If you’re going to be stupid, you better be hard. And I've had a hard life.”

  * * *

  Back home, Johnny told Elina about Willie’s competition, then they watched a movie and ate some homemade chocolate chips that Kate and Isabelle had baked. Around 2200, Johnny let out Bomber, Musket, and Rookie for their walk. He waited at the edge of his driveway while the dogs ventured across the street, between the two houses, and down to the canal, where they would do their business at the water’s edge. During the day, good neighbor Johnny would return with his doggie bags and clean up.

  Johnny zipped up his jacket and shivered against the cold. He stared down the street, where only a few lights glowed in the windows. Some neighbors were retirees who turned in and rose early, like Brenda and Tom Shepard across the street. They were already in bed and watching the local news.

  A few minutes prior Johnny had received a text message from Josh, who said he could meet in the morning. Corey had checked in and confirmed as well. Johnny wished he could explain to them how he had agonized over this, but words would not be enough.

  With a deepening frown, Johnny noticed the dogs were running late. He called out, then whistled, the sound growing thin on the rising wind. Was that a truck engine off in the distance? He squinted through the darkness, toward the canal, hoping to find a silhouette. Groaning in frustration, he started across the street, already rehearsing how he would scold them. When he reached the canal, the dogs were gone. Or so he had thought.

  About five yards back, off near his neighbor’s house, the ground began to move. He rushed over and found all three dogs lying on their sides. They shook violently and foamed at the mouth. Had they eaten something bad? Was there something in the water? His breath quickened as he glanced around.

  He turned back to Rookie, who was no longer moving. Beneath the dog’s collar was a piece of paper. Johnny used his phone to illuminate words written in black marker:

  Back off. Otherwise your wife and nieces are next.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Joining the Marine Corps changed my life forever. Joining Johnny did the same damned thing, for better, and for worse.”

  —Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)

  The three bedroom ranch on West 4th Street in Cedar Falls, Iowa shone in the faint glow of the corner streetlight. Blue siding and beige shutters had been freshly painted just a week before Thanksgiving. The house was built in 1953, the first year of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s presidency, and other than routine maintenance, not much had changed on the property since then. A white picket fence extended down to the front curb. An American flag hung from a mount beside the garage door and billowed in the cold, dry air. The Ford Fusion parked in the driveway was washed every Friday, its oxford white surfaces reflecting the towering oak tree whose roots spanned large sections of the front lawn. During the summer, one might expect a front window thrown open and an apple pie cooling on the sill. Boys would play touch football, while neighbors tended to their flower gardens and bought lemonade and cookies from girls sitting behind a cardboard stand down the street. Meanwhile, were he still alive, Norman Rockwell would have sat behind his easel and captured these images on canvas for his editors at The Saturday Evening Post. This was small town America, in all of its glory.

  Tomorrow was trash collection day, and Dr. Mohammed Nazari rolled his bin out of the garage. As he reached the curb, he was met by his next door neighbor, Frank Austerlitz, an owl of seventy-seven whom everyone called “Frankie.” With stooped shoulders and an uneven bearing, Frankie, whose ancestors had settled in Iowa in the 1830s, reached the curb, released his bin, then sighed and wobbled over to Nazari. “Good evening, neighbor.”

  “Hello there, Frankie. How are you feeling?”

  The old man grimaced. “New meds, old meds, none of them work. They just give me constipation. And my back is still killing me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t grow old.”

  Nazari smiled. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Frankie glanced at Nazari’s house. “That paint job looks great.”

  “You’ve told me at least four times.”

  He frowned. “Really? Well, you take better care of the house than Jack Dover and his alcoholic wife ever did. That’s why he cheated on her and he never had time to fix up the place.”

  Nazari shrugged. “I still say this is a nice neighborhood with some great people. I was worried when I first moved in, but everyone’s been so friendly. And I figured this house deserved a fresh coat of paint.”

  “Now you’re making me feel bad about my place.”

  “Oh, your house looks fine, Frankie. If you need anything, let me know. You have a nice night.”

  Nazari returned to his garage. A dozen or more cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly along the far wall, waiting to be unpacked. He had moved in nearly a year ago, but he had been so busy at the university that even his weekends were crammed with research, catching up on emails, and grading student exams. It was just as well now. The America he knew—the one his father had escaped to in 1978 during the Iranian Revolution and the one that had changed forever on 9/11—would be born again. Unfortunately, Nazari would not be here to marvel over his efforts. Allah had
other plans for him. He shut the garage door and went inside to his home office, where a colonial-style desk and colossal hutch were stacked with paperwork. Sitting near the lamp was a black-and-white photograph of Nazari and his parents taken over thirty years prior, when he had been in kindergarten. He remembered the trip on the Long Island Railroad, the car clicking and clanking from the Ronkonkoma Station all the way into New York City, where his parents had taken him to visit the Central Park Zoo. Back then, his mother’s thick black hair had flowed down to her waist. Her parents had emigrated from Sao Paulo, Brazil, and she had been born and raised in Miami. She was accepted to the State University of New York at Stony Brook, where in her sophomore year she had met Nazari’s father. They were married before either of them graduated, and Nazari was born the year his father entered graduate school to earn a doctorate in electrical engineering.

  Nazari had attended his parents’ alma mater, where he earned an M.S. and Ph.D. in civil engineering. Afterward, he accepted visiting instructorships at the University of Toronto and at Alfaisal University in Riyadh. It was there in the capital city of Saudi Arabia that he befriended members of the Muslim Brotherhood. Refuge and patronage were provided to them by the House of Saud, who used them to bolster their Islamic legitimacy and gain greater influence over Arab politics. Swayed by his friends and colleagues, Nazari adopted the Brotherhood’s ideology, which blended Islam with Arab nationalism to criticize and ultimately shun autocracy and the West. He agreed with the notion of empowering the people with Sharia Law to create an ideal republic. His time away from America allowed him to develop a more objective eye, and he grew frustrated over the evil he saw within a country he had once loved. Like young Rasul, his eyes fully opened. Muslim-Americans faced an increasing threat, and America was doomed if it continued along its current path.