by J B Black
When Hassan looked back up at Faisal, Faisal said, “It is too late to do anything about the 2009 Pensacola Beach Air Show, but can you imagine what would happen if three three-member jihadi teams were on that beach during the 2010 Pensacola Beach Air Show and martyred themselves by setting off suicide bombs?”
CHAPTER 5
Burj Al Arab Hotel
Jumeirah Beach Road
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
12:30 p.m., Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A smile crept across Hassan’s face at what Faisal had suggested. Hassan had no love for the Americans. Their country was an abomination in the eyes of Islam. They were the Great Satan and the protector of Israel, the little Satan. But with an incident such as Faisal described—no, make that multiple incidents—and the right PR, the American public would demand that their politicians abandon Israel to prevent further terrorist attacks just as the American public demanded that America withdraw from any armed conflict once more than a few American soldiers had been killed in battle. That would make his lobbying efforts in the American Congress much easier than they were now.
“Hassan, would you be willing to take on a more active role in the fight against Israel and their corrupt sponsor, America?” Faisal asked.
Without hesitation, Hassan replied, “Yes, yes I would.”
“This then is my proposal to you, Hassan,” Faisal said.
“I will fund your Institute for Palestinian American Relations with an initial donation in the amount of ten million dollars American for the first year.
“I would like you to handle the arrangements to establish a mosque in Pensacola, Florida which will have as its primary purpose the recruitment and training of a cadre of jihadis to participate in an attack on the 2010 Pensacola Beach Air Show.
“You will find a suitable Imam for the mosque whose job will be to build up the mosque’s membership as quickly as possible by issuing a covert call to jihad, select those members who would make the best candidates to be jihadis, and then convert them to our cause.
“The jihadi recruits will then be sent to a terrorist training camp in Libya that I fund and operate. At this training camp they will be instructed in the use of firearms, bomb making and other topics so that their attack on the air show will be successful.
“You will need to arrange for the purchase of a remote and secluded piece of land not too distant from the mosque where the jihadis can continue their firearms and other training after they return from the camp in Libya. They must maintain their new skills away from prying eyes.
“After you have established the new mosque in Pensacola, Florida, if you would like to establish a network of mosques in other cities and select the Imams for those mosques for the purpose of establishing a Caliphate in America, I will support you in that endeavor. However, the recruiting programs for jihadis at those mosques shall be delayed until after the attack on the 2010 Pensacola Beach Air Show.”
“Forgive me, but why the delay, Faisal?” Hassan asked.
“Because I want my first attack on America to be a reprisal against the naval aviation air show recruitment program because of what the Americans did to my nephew. And I do not want to run the risk of something going wrong at one of the other mosques and jeopardizing the attack on the Pensacola air show. So, are we agreed that there shall be no efforts at actively recruiting jihadis at other mosques until after the attack on the Pensacola air show?”
“Yes, Faisal,” Hassan replied. “I understand.”
“Hassan, I cannot risk my country’s government finding out that I am behind any action inside the United States,” Faisal said. “Whereas my government knows about me training and funding Islamic terrorist groups throughout the Middle East and Europe, I fear that my direct involvement in an attack on American soil is something they would not tolerate.
“You are no doubt asking yourself why I have chosen you for this project. Someone who has no terrorist background or direct terrorist ties. Yet, you are someone who has been dedicated to a worthy and noble cause all of your life.
“Hassan, I believe that you are a very capable person. You had the initiative to found your Institute that lobbies for the people of Palestine in the country of our enemies. I believe that you have the skills necessary to carry out my plans for the Pensacola airshow attack and then to establish a network of mosques to recruit jihadis who will wreak further devastation on America.
“Although you will have complete autonomy, I do ask that you communicate on a regular basis with Mohammed al-Murrah, who is my representative in America. I would ask that you treat Mohammed as a resource. He has been a warrior for Allah most of his life and has a great deal of experience in that regard. Now, is my proposal acceptable to you?”
“Yes, Faisal, your proposal is most welcome and I accept.”
* * *
On the long flight back to Washington, DC from Dubai aboard Faisal al-Waheed’s private jet, Hassan and Mohammed discussed the plans for the upcoming events in more detail.
Before they parted company, Mohammed reminded Hassan that he would be remaining in Washington, D.C. to provide assistance until after the attack on the air show. Furthermore, Mohammed suggested that it would be a good idea if Hassan were to communicate with him at least once a week with an update on what progress was being made so that Mohammed could in turn keep Faisal up to date.
CHAPTER 6
Camp Apache
Farnook Province
Afghanistan
May 28, 2009
Reb was sitting on the bed in his barracks room, legs stretched out with his back to the wall, reading a vacation and resort brochure about Seaside Beach, Alabama. The brochure described Seaside Beach as being a ten mile stretch of hotels, condominiums, restaurants, nightclubs, marinas, shopping centers, and a sugar-white sand beach situated between Gulf Shores and Orange Beach on the Alabama Gulf Coast just 30 minutes west of Pensacola, Florida. Reb was thinking about what he was going to do with the rest of his life when he got out of the Army three months from now, in early September.
Three months had gone by since the incident at the village of Lashwan where Reb and Jake had—for all intents and purposes—executed the eight Taliban in retaliation for the murder of the schoolgirls from Majeed’s village.
Shortly after the incident, the press had received an anonymous tip—Reb and Jake were convinced it was from the woman who had been on the satphone—about an unidentified American soldier who had gone rogue and killed eight innocent Afghani farmers in cold blood at the village of Lashwan. There was no mention in the story about the murdered schoolgirls or the Taliban who had killed them in cold blood.
Political pressure was brought to bear and the upper echelon of the military command in Afghanistan called for an investigation into the matter. The result of the investigation revealed that a special ops unit had indeed been involved in an incident that was only vaguely similar to what the press had reported. In fact, a full report of the incident had been filed. The author of the report was a Captain T. R. Rogers of the 4th Scouts.
It was decided that a court of inquiry would be held just to make sure that no laws had been broken by Captain Rogers and that the rules of engagement newly instituted by President Soetoro’s administration had been followed to the letter.
During the proceedings of the court of inquiry, Majeed gave testimony about what had happened to the schoolgirls from his village, Jake gave testimony about Reb saving his life by drawing the attention of the Taliban who was about to kill him, and the video from both Reb’s and Jake’s mini sports cameras was introduced into evidence.
The court deliberated for several days. Most of the senior officers wanted to recommend Reb for another medal—he had been awarded the Silver Star two years earlier—for bringing the Taliban to justice for what they had done to the schoolgirls. Several others wanted to bring Reb up before a General Court-Martial for violating the new rules of engagement. A compromise was reached. Instead of facing a court martial
and possible prison time, Reb received a letter of reprimand.
The letter of reprimand had been delivered to Reb yesterday.
* * *
There was a knock on the door and Reb said, “Enter.”
The door opened and Jake Gant stuck his head inside Reb’s room.
“You busy?” Jake asked.
Reb put down the brochure he’d been reading for the thousandth time and said, “No, what’s up?”
Jake entered the room carrying a large manila envelope. Closing the door behind him, Jake went over and grabbed the chair from under the small writing desk that, along with the bed, were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Jake moved the chair next to Reb’s bed and set the manila envelope down on the seat of the chair. He then went back to the writing desk, opened the bottom right drawer and took out a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and two whiskey glasses.
Jake went back to the chair, picked up the envelope, took his seat, laid the envelope in his lap, poured two inches of the amber fluid in each glass, and handed one to Reb.
“How’s your arm doing?” Jake asked, referring to the wound Reb had suffered during the shootout with the Taliban at Lashwan when he had diverted the attention of the Taliban who was about to shoot Jake and the Taliban shot Reb instead of Jake.
“It still hurts from time to time,“ Reb said. “But my Doc says there was no nerve damage and minimal damage to the muscle. I should be back to a hundred percent in a month or so.”
“I heard about the letter of reprimand,” Jake said. “This political correctness shit with these new rules of engagement is getting out of hand. Please tell me you’re not still thinking about staying in.”
Reb got a real serious look on his face and said, “You know, my granddaddy served our country in World War Two. He was in the infantry at the Battle of the Bulge. Got tore up pretty good by shrapnel from a German eighty-eight shell—air-burst he said. My father got drafted and served a tour in Vietnam. Did his bit for the country.
“I grew up on a small family farm. My parents taught me about work ethic and I helped out on the farm starting at an early age. My parents instilled in me the idea that in order to get ahead you had to work hard and that, if you worked hard, there’d be no limit to the rewards you could get for your hard work and that America was the only nation in the world where that was true and that America was worth fighting and dying for.
“I joined the local Boy Scout troop—the same one my father had belonged to—and I bought into the creed they espoused.
“The farm had good years and it had bad years. The last two years I was in high school weren’t good years for the farm. My parents were far from well off. So, it made sense to me to take ROTC in college and get some help from the government to pay my way through school and then I’d serve my country for the mandatory time and then get out and go about my life.
“Then 9/11 happened, the world changed, and I was ready to go and fight for and, if necessary, die for my country.”
Reb paused and then smiled at Jake before saying, “Of course, it didn’t take long for me to modify my thinking slightly and adopt the attitude that General Patton had promoted—that it’s always best for the enemy to die for their country so you can keep on fighting and winning for your country.”
“You’ve by-God-damn got that right, buddy,” Jake interjected.
“Where was I now?” Reb said. “Oh, yeah. So, I’ve been putting my ass on the line for almost eight years fighting against radical Islam and their jihadists. During President Shrubb’s administration, at first, most things made sense to me. Bin Laden and Al Quaeda came after us and they were operating out of Afghanistan. So, we retaliated against them here in Afghanistan to take away their safe haven and hunt down Bin Laden. And we seemed to be doing some good. It was a real war and, for the most part, the rules of engagement weren’t so fucked up that American soldiers were being sacrificed for no damn good reason—like they are now. I didn’t agree with everything they did, but for the most part, I think they were on the right track.”
“Hear, hear!” Jake said, raising his glass up in salute.
“And then we got sidetracked with Iraq … and we kicked Saddam’s sorry fucking ass … and we won the war … and then every goddamn radical Islamic terrorist in the whole fucking world showed up in Iraq to help the ones that were there already so they could kill infidels … along with plenty of Muslims who just happened to be in the line of fire.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Jake said in agreement.
“And what’s even sadder than that is that the American people had gotten so tired of what was going on in Iraq and Afghanistan that they let the mainstream media sell them a false narrative about a presidential candidate they knew virtually nothing about and now we’ve got this clown Barry Soetoro and his far-left-progressive administration with these new rules of engagement that are hamstringing the soldier on the front line and getting American soldiers killed.”
Reb lifted his glass and took another sip of whiskey.
“All that said, can you believe that I was considering making the Army a career instead of getting out after my eight year obligation?”
“Yeah, what the fuck were you thinking?” Jake asked, mockingly.
Reb raised his glass again and, after taking a healthy swallow, said, “Well, my momma didn’t raise any fools and for those politically correct hacks on that board of inquiry to issue me a letter of reprimand because I violated the new rules of engagement when we took out those Taliban war criminals the way we did … well, that was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for me.”
Reb took another drink of whiskey and said, “Anyway, to answer your question, I’ve submitted my letter resigning my commission at the conclusion of my obligation.”
“You made the right decision, Reb,” Jake said, picking up the manila envelope from his lap.
“What’ve you got there, Jake?” Reb asked.
Jake handed Reb the envelope. “My way of saying thanks for saving my sorry ass on more than one occasion, buddy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Reb asked.
“When’s your time up?”
“I’ve got about three months to go,” Reb said.
“What do you plan on doing once you get out?”
Reb cocked his head to one side and said, “I’m thinking about going to Seaside Beach, Alabama and start some kind of tourist related business. I’ve always thought I would like to Captain a charter fishing boat. Why do you ask?”
“How much money does it take to do that sort of thing?” Jake asked.
Reb looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes like he was running the numbers through his head, then said, “Probably half a million or more for the boat and the fishing tackle. God knows what the permits and licenses would run. I’d have to have a website and do advertising. Plus, I’d need enough additional funds to cover operating expenses like payroll for a deckhand or two, fuel, and marina fees for berthing the boat until I get enough regular business to break even. Of course, I could live on the boat and that would help with expenses. Anyway, what with sending my mom money to help her out after my dad died, and then having to sell the farm this past year after mom died to pay off all of the farm’s debts and the estate taxes, the little bit that I’ve managed to save the past seven and a half years wouldn’t even make a decent down payment on the boat. And, from what I hear, small business loans aren’t exactly easy to get for a start-up business right now.”
“Well, what’s in the envelope ought to help,” Jake said.
“What is it?”
“That, my friend, is the Qui Tam action that you filed.”
Reb got a confused look on his face and shook his head. “I filed a what kind of action?”
“You filed a whistleblower claim,” Jake said. “So, here’s the deal. Morgan Group, a private contractor that does business with the United States government here in Afghanistan, bribed some under-paid government contra
ct administrator in order to secure some very lucrative government contracts on a no-bid and/or rigged bid basis to build what you and I would call gas stations at one hell of a markup. You with me so far?”
Reb got a goofy smile on his face, rolled his eyes, and nodded his head up and down and sideways.
Jake shook his head at Reb and continued. “I—meaning you—managed to get my hands on the kind of evidence such that Morgan Group has agreed to settle this matter without a long, drawn out court battle. That’s good news, because sometimes these cases can take years. Anyway, the lawyer representing you says that you will be getting a check in the amount of twelve million and eighty dollars for your share. That’s free and clear after the lawyer’s share and after federal and state taxes. And he said you should receive payment—deposited directly to your bank account—sometime in the next three months, which is right about the time you will be getting out of the Army. How’s that for timing?”
“What the fuck, Jake?” Reb said. “I can’t take that money.”
“Reb, you’ve saved my life more than once—most recently in Lashwan—and I’ll never forget the time with the Iranian Mata Hari—”
“Yeah,” Reb interrupted, “I’ll never forget that occasion either.”
“—so, I decided this was as good a way to say thank you as any.”
“Twelve million dollars is a hell of a thank you, Jake.”
“Hey, my life is worth at least twelve million; and, if I’m ever in Seaside Beach, I won’t turn down a place to stay and a fishing trip on that boat you mentioned.”
“All right. You’ve got yourself a deal,” Reb said.
“There is one other thing,” Jake said.
“Here it comes,” Reb said.
“General Davidson has been appointed as the new Director of the Federal Bureau—”