Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Then he had grown numb to it like most others. The wars dragged on, the original intentions questioned, the missions changed, and as each Islamist outrage around the world continued to be perpetrated, he tuned out unless it was on home soil.

  And there had been too many of those, even if they were all home grown.

  It’s terrifying to think that our own citizens would want to harm our country!

  And yet here he was, fitting a sign with those three hateful words around his neck. He retrieved the detonator with his right hand, and stood trembling by the desk side, wondering who they intended him to kill, and why he had been chosen. He wasn’t political, he barely kept up with the news. He and his friends sometimes chit-chatted about what was wrong with the country, he taking the side sometimes that not only the country but the entire West had become too complacent, too politically correct to speak up and face the problem that it was now enveloped in. Muslim immigration wasn’t compatible with the Judeo-Christian Western world. Most Muslims were perfectly nice people who wanted to live in peace with those around them, but they wanted to live in peace in a culture that matched theirs.

  A reasonable aspiration, he thought. Americans love America. Why? Because it’s the greatest country the world has ever known, built with the blood, sweat and tears of pioneers who left their homes, crossed an ocean, and helped create the greatest democracy and military power in history. But if our country turned to shit for some reason, and we were forced to leave, would we immigrate to other countries and live with the locals, or would we seek out other Americans, and try to set up America-Town or some equivalent. Most likely we’d try to do that if we moved to Mexico, where the culture might be too different for some. But if we moved to Canada, would we really try to set up our own communities, or just blend in with a local population so similar to ours.

  He had bet on the latter, which his friends hadn’t really argued with. His point had been that when Muslims were forced to leave their countries because of war or other intolerable conditions, they came to America or Canada or the United Kingdom and wanted to live in peace. But when they found the country they had moved into so dramatically different than anything they could have imagined, they moved into enclaves with other Muslims, trying to set up their own “Mini-Iran” as Axel Rose had so delicately put it years ago.

  And with those enclaves, a bubble quickly formed blocking out the reality of the culture they were living within, inspiring leaders to step up demanding the West change its laws and ways to permit their backward ways of thinking if looked at from a Western perspective where we are in some cases centuries ahead. And when a new generation of youth, born into these enclaves, citizens of their new country, are preached to day in and day out that their own country, the adopted country of their parents, hated them and their ways because they refused to let women be covered head to toe, refused to allow Sharia law, refused to change zoning for a Mosque, refused to condemn Israel for defending itself, these children quickly learned to hate. To hate those different from them, to hate their own country.

  He had thought it so blatantly obvious that he found it impossible to believe that his government hadn’t come to the same conclusions. Western Europe certainly was noticing it, but was it too late? New citizenship tests and courses in the UK, right wing anti-Muslim parties winning more and more seats, Holland repealing multiculturalism, France banning the burqa. These countries were beginning to fight back, but was it too little too late when millions lived within your borders, many born there with the full rights of citizenship.

  The discussion with his friends over beers had been prompted by the outrages of Boko Haram and the kidnapping of the several hundred girls, and had been one of the more spirited ones, all of them arguing passionately about the same thing, even their buddy in London joining in over Skype missing his morning “Tube” as he called it.

  Jackson sighed. That was the most political he had ever gotten. And he wasn’t even sure how political it was. It wasn’t a Republican or Democratic thing, it wasn’t Left of Right. It was preserving our way of life against an enemy determined to end it. It was Capitalism versus Communism, the good old days of the Cold War. Two fundamentally different visions for the world, determined to wipe out the other.

  And now here he was, turned into a pawn of the enemy.

  His cellphone rang in his pocket.

  “Answer your phone.”

  He reached in and answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Hang up the phone on your desk.”

  It was the same voice. He complied.

  “Now listen carefully. You will walk out of your office, walk to the center of the floor, stand up on a desk, and yell ‘Allahu Akbar’ three times, each time thrusting your free hand into the air. Then you will press the detonator. We will then release your wife and daughter. Repeat these instructions.”

  Tears poured down Jackson’s face as he carefully repeated the instructions, his shoulders slumping, his chin dropping to his chest as he realized he had only moments to live, and it was his friends and co-workers who he was to kill.

  And those who survived would think he did this to them, not the madmen on the other end of the phone.

  “Very good, now proceed.”

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  “No.”

  “You will proceed or we will kill your wife and daughter, starting with your daughter.”

  “I won’t do it, not until I’ve spoken to them. I want to say goodbye.” His voice cracked on the last word, the tears blinding him, his entire world a blur as if looking through a water feature wall, rivulets of pain and anguish trickling from the top to the bottom, then escaping and burning hot salty streaks down his cheeks down to his neck and chest.

  “Very well.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Peter, is that you?”

  The voices of his two most precious possessions killed him. There was no doubting they had them both, and there was no doubting if they were willing to have him kill dozens or more, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill two more innocents to attain their goal. But just hearing their voices seemed to make everything okay, everything normal again for just a brief instance.

  “Yes, it’s me. Are you two okay?” It was everything he could do to control his voice, to portray the strength he felt he needed to as a man, as a father, as a husband. He knew they must be terrified, and it was up to him to save them.

  “Just scared, honey. What’s going on?”

  He could hear the fear in his wife’s voice, but also the forced strength as they both tried to shield their daughter from the horror around her. “Have you heard the conversation?”

  “No, we’re in a room. Somebody’s with us and they just told us you were on the phone.”

  “Okay, Lizzy darling, Mommy and I have to talk about your birthday, okay, so Mommy’s going to cover your ears.”

  “Okay Daddy!”

  His heart almost broke as the excitement in her voice over the prospect of her birthday wiped away all fear that might have been in the little six year old’s heart.

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “They’re forcing me to wear a suicide bomb vest—”

  “Oh my God!” His wife’s voice cracked, her spirit breaking as his own control slowly lost grip.

  “They want me to blow up my office or they’ll kill you and Lizzy.”

  His wife was sobbing now and behind it he could hear the innocent gentle humming of his daughter as she tried to do her part in not hearing the conversation, a tune, a beautiful simple tune he had heard a thousand times before breaking through over the gasps and cries of his wife, finally sent him over the edge as he realized he would never hear the song again.

  “I’m sorry, hon, but I can’t think of anything to do, anyway out of this. I asked them for a chance to say goodbye and they agreed. Once this is over with, they’re supposed to let you two go free.”

  “Oh, Pete, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what to say! My mind is a mess!”


  “Just say you love me, and you forgive me.”

  “Of course I love you, and forgive you for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Yet.” His chest heaved as the tears flowed and his sinuses began to clog. “Today I’m just a normal guy, tomorrow I’ll be a villain, hated by everyone. You need to make sure they know I was forced to do this.”

  “I promise you, Pete, they’ll know. No one will ever believe you did this willingly. Not your parents, not your friends. No one.”

  “I love you, Connie, with all my heart.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Put Lizzy back on.”

  “Oh, God, Pete. Please don’t let this be the end. Please!”

  “I’m so sorry.” He sucked in a deep breath and held it, trying to build up the strength to say goodbye to his daughter.

  “Hi Daddy!”

  “Hi, sweetie. Listen, Daddy has to go now, and I just wanted you to know that I love you, okay?”

  “I love you too, Daddy!”

  “Good. Now you listen to your mother, and you be good for her, okay?”

  “Okay. What are you getting me for my birthday?”

  A sob erupted from him as he pictured her sitting at the kitchen table next week, her party cancelled, her mother a mess, her life collapsing around her as the world vilified her daddy.

  “It’s a surprise, honey. Now Daddy’s got to go, okay?”

  “Okay, bye Daddy.”

  “Bye sweetie.” His finger hovered over the trigger, part of him wanting to end his pain now, but he knew he had to follow their instructions to the letter. “Good bye, Connie. I love you. Forever.”

  “Good b—”

  The conversation was cut off, the mechanical voice, emotionless, replacing the tortured voice of his wife. “You have said your goodbyes. Now do you remember your instructions?”

  “Y-yes,” he gasped. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, just his eyes, and noted it was almost noon. The floor would begin to empty out if it wasn’t already, as the staff headed for lunch. If he could just delay things he might save lives. “Just give me a minute to compose myself.”

  “One minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  He carefully let the detonator hang by his side as he blew his nose several times, clearing his sinuses as best he could, tossing the tissues in the trash. A few draws from his bottle of Diet Pepsi moistened his rapidly drying mouth, then he suddenly dropped to his knees, ripping his face mask off as he retched into the waste basket, he watched in horror as the trigger bounced off the floor, the red button touching the carpet as it hit at an angle, the button not depressing.

  He grabbed for it, securing it in his hand as he rid himself of his breakfast, then wiped his face clean.

  “It is time.”

  He nodded. “Give me a second, I just vomited.”

  “No more delays.”

  “I’m not delaying.” He took another large swig of his pop, swished it around his mouth then spit it into the garbage can. He checked himself in the mirror, confirming he had no vomit on his clothes or face, then pulled the face mask back in place as he eyed the clock roll 12:01. “I’m ready.”

  “Proceed.”

  He sucked in a few deep breaths, his hand gripping the knob of the door, then slowly opened it, peering out to see if anyone had noticed him yet, then peaked around the corners. And almost smiled. As he had hoped, the hallways were filled as people rushed out for lunch. No one paid him any mind, even those going past him, their minds in another world as they debated what to have for lunch, and where.

  He walked down the aisle, following the flow, then turned toward where his old cubicle used to be, the phone still held to his ear. Suddenly his buddy Jake Davidson popped up from his chair and grinned. “Hey, is that you Pete? What’s with the ski mask? I was just about to come see you, see if you wanted to go slumming. A few of us are going to Molly’s for l—” Davidson’s eyes bulged. “Oh my God!”

  Jackson looked at his friend but said nothing, using every fiber of his being to try and convey the only message possible at that moment.

  Run!

  Davidson stood frozen, then finally comprehended what was happening and tore out of his office, sprinting to the far wall where he had a direct line to the stairwell.

  “Run! There’s a bomb!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as soon as he reached the wall, “There’s a bomb!”

  Screams erupted as Jackson climbed on the desk of his old cubicle, giving the others a focal point to run away from. He raised his fist in the air and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” More screams erupted as those not paying attention jumped from their desks, realizing whatever was happening wasn’t a joke. He slowly lowered his hand then pumped it in the air again, each precious second he delayed as he followed his captors’ instructions to the letter, saving lives. “Allahu Akbar!”

  A beep emitted from the vest, and he realized he had gone too far.

  The pain was intense and instantaneous as Peter Jackson of 42 78th Lane erupted into a ball of flame and terror, the first draftee in a new army determined to fulfill the goal first chanted by crowds of believers in 1979 Tehran.

  Death to America!

  Site 10, U.S. Air Force Plant 42

  Palmdale, California

  The Skunk Works

  Three days later

  Major Jason “Ticker” Miller gave the thumbs up to the Crew Chief and pushed the throttle forward on the F-35B Lighting II, one of the world’s most advanced Fifth Generation fighter aircraft. Taxying to Runway 07 he received clearance from the tower and pushed the throttle forward hard, the single engine shoving him into the back of the seat, a feeling he would never tire of, and a feeling he knew he would never experience again.

  For today was the day he knew he would die.

  As he cleared the runway, gaining altitude, he banked hard to the right, pushing it full throttle as he hugged the deck. Disabling his transponder, he turned off the radio, the tower already protesting and instead spoke into his mike, knowing the cockpit voice recorder would tape everything and that someday his family might hear why he was doing what he was doing.

  He checked for threats but the display showed clear as he rapidly chewed up the two hundred miles to the Mexican border.

  “This is Major Jason Miller, United States Air Force. This message is for my family, friends and fellow servicemen. What I do today I do not do willingly. I love my country, I love my job, and I love the American way of life. I would never do anything to hurt my country, nor anything that might lead to harming my country. But today I have no choice. My wife and two sons have been kidnapped by Islamic terrorists, and I have been coerced into stealing this aircraft. If I do not, they have assured me they will be killed in a most gruesome”—his voice cracked and he sucked in a breath, trying to keep it together—“and horrible manner.”

  He paused as he noticed two Raptors being scrambled toward his position. He ignored them, the border only two minutes away, and the Raptors behind him with no hope of catching him. He wished it wasn’t so. To be splashed by two of his comrades, taken out of the game while he betrayed his country, would be a far more preferable way to go, but he had followed the instructions to the letter, not willing to risk his family being killed for his failure to deliver.

  He just prayed the United States Air Force would be able to retrieve the aircraft before it was handed over to some foreign power like China or Russia. He had wondered why a terrorist group would want the plane. Using it would be almost impossible since it was unarmed and they would need to be trained on it. The thought had crossed his mind that they would force him to train them, but it would still be unarmed. Then, last night as he gripped his baby son’s teddy bear in one hand and his Glock in the other, he had figured it out.

  They were planning on selling the plane to raise funds for their cause.

  He was certain the Chinese or Russians, hell, even the North Koreans or Iranians, would pay hundreds
of millions for the plane. A fully functional Fifth Generation fighter jet, one of the most advanced aircraft in the world, would fast-forward any country by years, and for backwaters like Iran, decades.

  If they could figure it out.

  He had some doubt of that, but was also pretty certain if there was a bidding war, the Chinese would win.

  And they could definitely figure it out.

  Under any other circumstances he’d have reported the phone call he received last night, but it was his family. His wife, his sons, Jimmy Jr. not even a year old yet.

  He knew he was betraying his country, and it broke his heart, he a true patriot. But he also knew his country better than most, and knew the capabilities of its military and intelligence resources. They would find the plane, they would retrieve it. Of that he had no doubt.

  Which gave him a slight amount of comfort that in the end the damage to his country would be minimized.

  I wonder if anyone will ever know.

  Something like this would be hushed up for certain, but the way the press were nowadays, they didn’t give a second thought to what was good for the country, they were merely obsessed with the scoop, the rush to be first to broadcast the latest government gaffe or tragedy.

  He just hoped somebody would get this recording someday so his name might be cleared.

  I just hope Dad forgives me.

  He felt himself begin to choke up as his thoughts moved to his father, a proud Air Force man who had been prouder still the day his son had received his wings. And he knew he’d be torn apart by the stories that would be told of him should he not succeed in freeing his wife and children by sacrificing his own life.