The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  “Maybe they’re hiding the body,” Corey pointed out. “Maybe his cover’s been blown, and he doesn’t know it.”

  Josh threw up his hands. “We can talk ourselves into this or out of it. I’m like Johnny. I’m done losing witnesses.”

  “I understand that,” said Willie. “I’m just making sure we’re clear on this. We know the target and understand the risks. We know the size and composition of the enemy.”

  “I agree,” Corey said. “If we go up there, we’re outnumbered and outgunned. We’re trespassing, and they’ll shoot us, kill us, and walk away.”

  “You boys are forgetting a few things,” said Josh. “Number one: we’re Marines. They won’t get their sights on us. Number two: we’re Marines. And number three: we’re Marines.”

  “They’ve got women and children up there,” Willie blurted out. “If the op goes south, collateral damage could be bad.”

  Johnny held up a palm. “Guys, this is as serious as it gets. I understand that. But if we walk away now, we’ll never know what Daniel was doing and what these bastards are planning. To me, it’s worth the risk, but I understand if you want to leave now.”

  None of them would meet his gaze, as each pondered his own decision.

  Johnny’s chest swelled with guilt. Was he asking too much? What if he lost one of them? Could he live with himself after that? “You’re my friends,” he finally added. “Nothing will ever change that, and what you’ve done already... I don’t have words.”

  He choked up, and in that moment, the lightning that bound them together shone in the whites of their eyes. They were back in a riverine patrol boat with a deck washed in blood.

  “We’re not quitters,” said Willie.

  Johnny swallowed. “No, we’re not.”

  “Then let’s get this done,” said Corey.

  “Amen,” said Josh.

  Johnny nodded and collected his thoughts. “I’ve been in touch with Gatterton. I’ll try to get us more intel before we move. Willie, you and Corey go into town. Get us some wire cutters and supplies. We’ll be up on that mountain for a while.”

  “Roger that,” said Willie.

  Corey glanced up from his phone. “Have you guys checked the weather?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “You decide if it’s ironic or not, but my first job in the Marines was as an 0352 TOW gunner, meaning I know exactly what that missile system can do—and now, so do you.”

  —Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)

  Parker, Colorado was an upper middle-class commuter town southeast of the Denver metropolitan area. Its twenty square miles of subdivisions resembled sunflowers and peonies blossoming across the map. Known for its Western-Victorian downtown area, Parker was no different from thousands of suburbs that sprawled across America; therefore, El-Najjar had no desire to sightsee. His visit to the house on Newbury Court was strictly business.

  From the corner of his eye he spied the two-story homes on either side of the street, the late model cars parked in the driveways, the lawns turned brown from the frost. He imagined summers here, with children skateboarding in the streets, grass being cut, cars being washed, teenaged girls walking toy poodles on pink leashes. Their happiness was born of ignorance. These infidels lived in a prison of their own making, a society whose bodies were poisoned by supersized soft drinks and junk food and whose intellects were quashed by the fashionably stupid who promoted their ignorance on social media. They had abandoned their god in favor of reality television and a chance to become morally bankrupt celebrities whose self-indulgence and scandals were worshipped by the masses. They raised narcissistic children whose sense of entitlement swelled along with their waistlines.

  For his part, El-Najjar was a fifty-nine-year old imam who had spent the better part of his life in the refuge of his own Islamic community in Paterson, New Jersey, where immigrants from across the Arab world, along with Turks and African-Americans, bonded together to form a barrier against the hatred and persecution. Even as some Christians and Jews joined with Muslims to promote unity, the government recruited informants and other spies to monitor El-Najjar’s mosque, never forgetting that two of the 9/11 hijackers who commandeered American Airlines flight 77 had leased an apartment in Paterson. Al-Saif’s jihad would save everyone from the government’s tyranny and open the eyes of infidels seeking the truth, those who would finally answer Allah’s calling.

  After tugging down his simple woolen cap, El Najjar pulled to the curb and parked. Air travel did not suit him very well. Any flight over one hour wreaked havoc with his back, as did the rental car’s cheap seat with its inadequate lumbar support. Levering himself from the rolling crypt took all of his effort, and he groaned against the sudden fingers of cold air that throttled his exposed neck and throat.

  The neighborhood lay in an arctic silence, the school busses having roared through an hour prior, leaving behind backpacked students and blasts of diesel fumes. A dozen or more crows kept vigil on a sagging power line beneath a lowering gray sky. El-Najjar ambled up the concrete driveway, mounted the stoop, and rang the bell.

  Before he could turn to stare idly at the homes across the street, the door swung open. Tabesh’s beard was longer, his hair grayer, his glasses thicker than El-Najjar remembered, but his childhood friend was still there, beaming behind his aging veneer.

  “Ahlan sadiqi,” El-Najjar said, embracing his friend.

  Tabesh returned the greeting and drew him immediately into the house. “It’s been over ten years, my friend. Maybe more.”

  El-Najjar nodded. “I wish we had time for tea.”

  “Me, too. But I understand. You’ll bring the truck tonight?”

  “Yes. You’ve already moved out the furniture?”

  “Just yesterday. And the family, too, of course.”

  “Any issue with security?”

  “None. The neighbors believe we’re heading back to Dearborn, and I’m sure some are happy to see us go.”

  El-Najjar’s expression soured as Tabesh led him through the empty living room, where holes in the walls and carpet dents like crop circles were all that remained of the home’s décor. They passed through the kitchen and toward a door leading to the basement. Tabesh flicked on a light, then warned El-Najjar to be careful on the narrow wooden steps, each groaning in protest as they descended into the colder, mustier air, their nostrils flaring.

  The cinder block walls were unpainted, and wires and pipes pierced the exposed trusses overhead like aggressive vines. Their footfalls echoed loudly as they continued toward a finished wall at the far end. Set into the middle of the wall was a commercial grade steel door with key lock and deadbolt.

  “They built this when we first moved in,” said Tabesh, passing into the glare of an exposed bulb.

  “I’ve forgotten to ask, but how long have you had them?”

  “Over three years now. I thought someone would come sooner.” Tabesh produced a set of keys and fumbled with the first lock. Once the deadbolt clunked aside, he glanced back at El-Najjar. “Are you frightened?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “I am prepared to fight and die in the service of Allah.”

  Tabesh nodded and swung open the door to reveal—

  A room about ten feet square and lined with stacks of heavy anvil cases the size of refrigerator boxes. Tabesh reached to the inside wall and threw a light switch. Small stickers on the sides of each case bore numbers ranging from one to twelve, with the nearest cases stacked two high so that El-Najjar could reach out and touch the combination lock jutting from its side. Tabesh handed him a small card upon which he had written a list of numbers and combination codes. After matching the case number to the combination, El-Najjar opened the lock. Tabesh helped him release all eight of the heavy latches, and they pried back the lid. Although they knew what was inside, they still widened their eyes in awe.

  Packed in heavy gray foam was a long tube resembling a telescope, a tripod
with bulky legs, a box-shaped sight with three holes, and four projectiles with stabilizing fins folded down for packing. To the uninitiated, this was a military weapon. To those in the know like El-Najjar, this was jihad in the form of the Baktar-Shikan wire-guided anti-tank missile system. The unit was manufactured by the Kahuta Research labs in Pakistan and was the Chinese/Pakistan equivalent of an American TOW missile system. Aiming was accomplished through the Goniometer sight. The operator would simply press the firing trigger and keep the crosshairs on target. The rest was performed by the system itself, which automatically guided the missile to fly along the line of sight for up to 3,000 meters until it struck the target. The missile could penetrate armor up to 500 mm thick, and tandem warheads reached depths of over 600 mm. Two operators were required to haul around and assemble the weapon, but that was of no great concern to El-Najjar.

  He removed his glove and touched one of the missiles, its lethality running up his arm and into his head.

  “Sometimes late at night, I would come here and open one of the boxes,” Tabesh confessed.

  El-Najjar stepped back from the case and frowned. “Why would you do that?”

  “If someone passed a remark to me or my wife, or if the kids at school bullied my sons, I would stand here and pray and reassure myself that our day would come.”

  Gritting his teeth over this, El-Najjar clutched Tabesh by the shoulders. “Your prayers have been answered, my friend.”

  * * *

  The freezing rain began at dusk, pinging through the pine needles and branches to alight on Johnny’s shoulders. He checked his phone, swearing at the current temperature, just twenty-eight degrees. Willie and Corey were equally miserable, no doubt, but Josh had it made, monitoring the drone’s feed from inside their SUV.

  After acquiring two sets of wire cutters and some snacks and drinks to last them through the night, if necessary, they had collected their gear, hiked up the mountain, and spread out to conduct reconnaissance and surveillance operations. They grew more attentive now as residents arrived home from work. Updates were shared via text. As the rain fell harder, Johnny moved in for more cover and a closer look.

  Lying now on his belly about three meters away from the perimeter fence and buried beneath some shrubs and piles of leaves, he lifted his binoculars as a Nissan Maxima rolled up and parked in front of the trailer next door to their target’s. Even before the car door opened, their target rushed out of his trailer, hopped down the steps, and jogged to the car.

  Johnny smiled as a woman climbed out of the Nissan, removed her headscarf, glanced around, then kissed their target before he dragged her back to his place. Muslims refrained from sex before marriage. Tell that to their target, a backslider, indeed, whose extended stay at the enclave included an age-old form of cardiovascular training.

  A text from Josh indicated that he had captured the greeting on video. Willie, who was stationed along the fence behind the trailer, reported several findings. First, the curtains on one of the windows was open, and as best as he could tell, there were only two occupants inside the trailer: their target and the woman. Second, several men had gathered at the shooting ranges across the compound but the rainfall had nixed their plans. He had zoomed in and confirmed that many of their weapons were manufactured by Blue Door.

  Corey continued creating his own map, accounting for each trailer and its occupants as they returned home. Johnny had instructed him to identify those trailers where children resided. They might be able to select their approach while keeping their backs to those homes. They needed to not only account for their targets but what lay behind those targets. Of course, if they executed the operation correctly, no shots would be fired.

  The radar map on Johnny’s phone showed a major storm front with a southeast track, ready to bear down on them. The breeze kicked into a gale, with the oaks swaying and groaning, the fence rattling, and leaves swirling down from the canopy. He tucked himself in deeper and peered through his binoculars. Two pickup trucks parked near a pair of trailers positioned in an L-shape. Given the vehicles, Johnny half-expected men dressed in flannel and donning trucker caps to hop out. Two bearded men in business suits rose, waved good-bye to each other, and returned to their respective homes. Johnny asked the others for a headcount. The numbers fell between twenty-four and twenty-nine residents, but they needed to include the old men they had identified earlier.

  Oddly enough, the wind died and the rain thinned to a drizzle. He lay there for several minutes, as though frozen between radar sweeps, his gaze flicking curiously to the sky for answers. Soon, the air around the enclave filled with static, and the thunderheads led the charge, ushering in an armored corps of undulating black clouds drawing lightning from the slopes. The limbs shook violently, and the NO TRESPASSING – PRIVATE PROPERTY signs posted at twenty-foot intervals along the fence clanged against the chain links and their loosened ties. Johnny ordered the men to stay low. The few cars that entered the enclave now high-tailed toward the trailers, residents running from the vehicles to seek cover, stopping only to reclaim little ones who strayed away beneath the angry heavens.

  The seconds between a flash of lightning and the subsequent crack of thunder could be used to calculate the distance of a lightning strike, the so called “flash to bang,” method. Every five seconds equaled one mile. However, the next bolt required no accounting—because it struck just outside the fence, a jagged seam of silvery God’s blood dividing the world in half. The ground reverberated, and the thunder was so loud that its concussion slammed Johnny into the dirt. He lost his breath, grimaced, then glanced up through the rain at his phone, where another text from Josh popped on the screen: It’s coming through now! Johnny tucked deeper into his hunting jacket and pulled his cap over his brows.

  * * *

  By midnight, the clouds had thinned to long tendrils connecting the stars. There was an almost silicone sheen to the darkness, with the rain dripping off everything in a cold yet serene soundtrack. Windows glowed from the two trailers nearest the main gate, but the others had gone either dark or shone with the flickering light of televisions, as though they were replaying highlights of the storm. Johnny cupped his gloved hand around his face to warm his runny nose. After meeting with only mild success, he eased himself back and away, finally sitting up behind the shrubs. When he turned his head, he found Daniel standing near a broad trunk, dressed in ManJams and with a prayer rug tucked under his arm. His eyes were black pools, like a shark’s or snake’s, the pupils having receded into that same abyss that had captured the little boy too afraid to fight.

  He spoke fervently, the words in Arabic, his face contorting as he seemed to chastise Johnny for what he was doing to himself and to his friends. Johnny felt unhinged and could only sit there, rapt, his brother’s robe growing translucent to expose roiling flames within. The flames licked up Daniel’s neck, got under his cheeks, then raged high from his head.

  And just as suddenly, he was gone. Johnny checked his watch. It was nearly 0200. Had he fallen asleep? Where had the time gone? On his phone were seven unanswered texts from the boys. With a start, he seized his binoculars.

  The trailers near the main gate shone in the tight beams of halogen spotlights, but their windows were otherwise dark. There were no guards visible. The enclave slept. Johnny ordered Willie to start cutting the fence and for Corey to rally on Willie’s position.

  Shivering and with bones cracking, Johnny crawled to the fence and worked the wire cutters, his pectoral muscles flexing as he drew a three-foot tall opening between the links. He pried back the fence like a tent flap and secured one side, then the other with zip ties. Willie reported that he was good to go, as was Corey.

  An earlier text from Mark Gatterton said he could not confirm if the Bureau had an agent inside the enclave. His contacts were hitting the proverbial brick wall as they attempted to access files on the investigation. For some reason, even they were locked out. He urged Johnny to abandon his plan. Gatterton was a great friend
and an outstanding Marine, but he did not fully comprehend the agony and the aggression in Johnny’s heart.

  There was nothing left to do. It was time to issue the order.

  Johnny drew in a long, icy breath, rubbed his jowls, then shut his eyes, squeezing them as though he could blink off his fears. Decades had passed since he had sought God’s help for anything. He felt like a hypocrite who attended church on Christmas and Easter and spent the rest of the year drinking and whoring. Why would God help and protect him now? He had no answer; nevertheless, he asked for forgiveness and for protection.

  All right. He was ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “An old Greek once said that in war, the first casualty is the truth. He must have been drinking with an old pirate, who said that dead men tell no tales. Honestly, I’d like to shoot both of those bastards.”

  —Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)

  One57 in Midtown Manhattan soared some ninety stories into the night sky, marking it as the newest and tallest residential building in New York City. Two years before the tower opened, Nicholas Dresden purchased a 10,923 square foot duplex penthouse on the 89th and 90th floors for a record $89.9 million dollars. The skyscraper’s exterior was designed by famed French architect Christian de Portzamparc, who chose dark and light glass to create vertical stripes that manipulated sunlight and maximized views. New York-based designer Thomas Juul-Hansen, known for his contemporary and luxurious interiors, created for Dresden a stunning living space that captured the awe and imagination of every visitor, with soaring glass juxtaposed against ultra modern and functional decors.

  Dresden stood at his living room window, the multicolored city lights going nova as his focus waned. He blinked and gazed across the monoliths, toward the dreamlike expanse of Central Park, where trees wore shimmering aureoles cast from beneath their limbs. This was a fresco experienced by only the chosen few, the sons and daughters of finance, the captains of industry and real estate... the job creators, the powerful who could, in one fell swoop, decide a new course for the nation. For now, though, the city lay stock-still, like a tableau vivant caught between a day that had changed the world... and another soon to come.