The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  CHAPTER 14: Treachery

  The following day Freddy Waters got off a US government jet and entered an embassy limousine. The driver took him directly to Çankaya Köşkü, the presidential palace. That this was Freddy’s second Middle Eastern leader in the week meant nothing to him. In his world view these men were small fry to be swept away. His heroes were largely gone, excepting the seemingly immortal Castro, but enough of the old infrastructure remained. The regime, led by Oetari, would crush these cockroaches in the New World Order.

  Freddy was a die-hard communist. He always had been. The fact that he lived as a very wealthy capitalist was not hypocritical to him; it was the crux of Freddy’s Marxist ideals. Freddy was an elitist, an ideologue who truly believed that the masses should be equal but that they should also be controlled by the intellectuals of society. No one could expect the Homer Simpsons of the world to enjoy life or to appreciate their equality if someone wasn’t telling them what to do.

  There were people who enjoyed responsibility and there were people who enjoyed power. Freddy fell into the latter category. Whether it was brow-beating his fellow terrorists in the sixties or brain washing his students at the University, Freddy relished power.

  Freddy couldn’t dictate to President Ataturk, however. As he handed a hard copy of the photo he got from Oetari’s iPad, he had to admit that exposing those people who disagreed with him was almost as good.

  “The circled man is the trigger-man Mr. President,” he told Ataturk, giving away his fellow American without a sliver of remorse. The pigs deserved what they got. “The rest of them helped him get the job done. They’re a little bonus.”

  Ataturk picked up the eight-by-ten photo, pleased to see the names and addresses where neatly printed below each man’s face. “Very good, this will satisfy the more ardent elements in both my family and my government. Thank you Mr. Waters.”

  “You know, I’ve had problems with these military pigs since,” Waters began, alluding to a personal story, but the president waved his hand.

  “That will be enough. Good day,” Ataturk said brusquely, turning his back on Waters and heading toward his desk.

  Two aides moved between Waters and the president. The former terrorist was momentarily confused. The aides made things plain. After Waters gave the president what he wanted there was no more need for him. Freddy was not who he envisioned himself to be; he was just a messenger.

  Even Freddy’s maniacally twisted brain burned at the slight, but he’d been down a long road to get back to the coat tails of power. Freddy was patient. Towards Ataturk, he projected the thought, “You and all of your little sand-flea kingdoms will disappear in the new history we’re creating. I’ll make sure you’re nothing more than ass wiping camel jockeys before I’m done with you.”

  He left for his hotel. During the drive he put in a call to the embassy, telling them that he would be available to have dinner with the ambassador. The aide told Freddy that unfortunately the ambassador was unavailable. An irked Freddy looked up the ambassador’s general file.

  “Bush appointee—I should have known—I’ll have the bastard shot,” Freddy growled. He went back to the hotel and ate dinner alone. While sitting at the table enjoying a five thousand dollar bottle of wine at the taxpayers’ expense, Freddy sent a text to the president. “Saw Pres. A. and passed him the info. Paris next.”

  #

  As Freddy pulled into the hotel, a posh, modern place wedged between government administrative buildings and frequented by diplomats and their families, the hotel across the street became a beehive of activity. It wasn’t upscale like Freddy’s hotel but it served a clientele just as varied, from just as many places around the globe. It was an ISIS transit point. Recruits flew into Istanbul or Ankara from all over the world to join the jihad. They stopped here before being funneled south to the border villages and into Syria.

  The Turkish government knew all about it, but they did nothing to stop it. As long as there was a Kurdish presence in Syria and Turkey they were more than happy to allow this stream of jihadists to use their facilities and infrastructure.

  In one of the two large conference rooms dozens of desks had been set up. Passports, bus tickets, money; virtually everything a fighter needed was set up as an orderly military style reinforcement depot. It was correspondingly busy. There was a tactical desk set up for the depot commander and he was at that moment intently staring at his computer screen.

  An aide in the president’s office had just e-mailed him a bombshell.

  “Allahu Akbar!” he breathed, shaking his head in wonderment. Amazingly enough, he didn’t have to contact his superiors, he didn’t have to hold a conference. All he had to do was to forward the e-mail to the mosques in the United States.

  He typed in, "Search for these soldiers, find their towns. Here are their photos and the addresses. Then show up and slaughter them." Below the simple paragraph was the group photo of Slade and his Delta Force team.

  The terrorist hit send and the message went out to a long list of mosques in the United States who either overtly or covertly supported the jihad. There were hundreds of them.

  #

  Johnny “Johnny Bravo” Garret was out on the balcony of his small apartment. He was off for a few more days after the operation in Iraq against ISIS. He got his nickname from the swath of blond hair at the very peak of his crew cut and his James Dean good looks. “Honey, the grill’s ready. I’m going to throw the steaks on!”

  He slid open the tempered glass door and walked directly into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he reached for the tray with two marinating steaks. The doorbell rang. Johnny grimaced, almost calling for Sherry, his pretty young wife, to get the door so he could get the steaks on the grill. He changed his mind and shut the fridge; Sherry was six months pregnant. Her back was hurting, her feet were swollen; no, he’d save her the trip across the apartment.

  “I got it,” he called to the bedroom where she was relaxing in the rocker in front of the air conditioner—she had hot flashes too. Johnny Bravo crossed the living room and opened the door, still wearing his grilling apron and holding a large two tined fork. He opened the door.

  Three bearded men stood outside. All three shot him in the chest and abdomen with pistols. Johnny Bravo crumpled to the floor. The men rushed inside, dragging his body into the living room, leaving a bloody smear across the cream colored tiles.

  A cry of alarm sounded from the bedroom, “Johnny!”

  The terrorists dropped Johnny on the shag carpet and looked up. Little Sherry, barely five feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds—even pregnant—stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The men put away their guns and drew hunting knives, advancing on her.

  Johnny Bravo went in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t quite recall what was happening, only that he needed to get up, get going—danger! Instincts and training forced him to fight for consciousness. Screaming, pain—danger!—a realization that he was failing. Get up soldier! His eyes fluttered open to a bleary world. There were blurs above him and a sickening flowery smell of sweat and perfume mixed with gunpowder and the brassy stench of blood.

  The cold, sharp sensation of a knife blade against his neck rallied him. It started sawing through the muscle and sinew on the left side of his throat. Johnny Bravo surged. His right hand still had the barbeque fork wrapped around his wrist by the leather thong. Johnny Bravo stabbed upward toward one of the blurs. A shriek answered his action. He pulled the fork out and stabbed at another. There was a gurgling howl. He stabbed again, blindly, knowing there was nothing else he could do but go down fighting.

  Then sirens.

  Finally darkness, a long corridor and a bright white light.

  #

  It was one in the morning when the sedan pulled onto the curb in front of Slade’s suburban house. Unlike most guests, the three men who got out took great care to close their doors quietly. One remained behind, keeping the car running. The men furtively but quickly crossed the lawn
and climbed the steps, speaking in whispered tones. The gleam of knives could be seen from the street light.

  One man went to the door while the other two crowded right behind him, showing anyone that might be watching that they had no tactical training and little common sense. The man at the door tried the latch—it opened—he nodded to his friends.

  He threw open the door and all three rushed inside the front hall, shadows disappearing into a darkened house. The door remained open, but the only thing that escaped the house was the hard to be recognized sound of heavy objects falling to the wood floor.

  Outside, the driver waited impatiently. Secretly, he was glad he did not have to go in. He was excited that he was taking part in the jihad, but the prospect of facing American Special Forces in their own home made him nervous. Then there were the kids. The information said that this Jeremiah Slade had six kids. His fellow jihadist’s had joked about the horror they’d inspire in the neighborhood when they awoke to find the families heads all lined up on the front porch rail like Halloween Jack o lanterns.

  He laughed along with them, but the thought of sawing off the head of a little girl or little boy was revolting to the naturalized American citizen. Better that he drive the car.

  “What’s taking them so damn long?” he said out loud. His increasingly agitated voice carried a distinct eastern accent. He needn’t have asked, and he swore at himself for a fool. The answer was obvious. It took time to slaughter a family of eight.

  Taking a deep breath he calmed himself, dutifully checking the engine and gas. As he glanced back to the house the sound of his door opening startled him. One of the jihadists—they were all true blue jihadists now—he was pranking him. A heavy blow to his head changed his thinking, but he blacked out.

  The sensation of cold water roused him and he awoke suddenly, sputtering. “What? What the Hell?” he exclaimed, his eyes snapping open. He was in a room. The jihadist tried to rise but he was duct taped to a non-descript grey institutional chair. There was no other furniture in the room. Ignorant though he was, the young jihadist knew that his career was over. He’d been caught.

  “Allahu Akbar! I will tell you nothing—nothing!” shouted a hoarse voice from the room next door. Was it Ahkmed? Muhammad, or the other Muhammad? He couldn’t tell.

  An answering voice replied testily, “Suits me buddy. It saves us space in Guantanamo!”

  A strangled cry was followed by silence.

  He began to sweat.

  The door opened with a bang. He started, his head snapping to the opening. A man was standing there, a tall man with a mustache, Director MacCloud of the FBI. Two other men came in with him. MacCloud dragged another chair into the room and noisily set it before him, turning it around so that when he sat down he was leaning on the back.

  “So Abdul, you’re answering the call to jihad,” he said in a condescending hard Texas drawl.

  “My name is not Abdul! I want to see my lawyer! That’s my constitutional right asshole!” he retorted angrily.

  The man simply smiled. “Your jihadist playbook doesn’t exist with me Abdul,” he said with derision. “You’re in the big leagues now.”

  “You are the police. You have to follow the rules,” he insisted. “I want my phone call and my court appointed lawyer right now—do you understand?”

  “I’m not the police. That means I can do any damn thing I want to you.”

  “It will never stand in trial,” he sneered. “No matter what you do to me nothing I say can be used in trial. You haven’t even read me my rights! You are so screwed; I’ll sue your ass for false arrest and police harassment!”

  One of the two men with the director back handed him across the face and then grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back painfully. He sat there stunned, unable to believe the police could actually do that to him. “You are so screwed. I’m not going to tell you a damn thing until my lawyer is here. Then I’m going to have your badge.”

  “Funny, that’s what the last guy said; the one who broke into Agent Slade’s house with a butcher knife.”

  “Did he succeed? Did he kill the infidel?”

  “Why don’t I let him tell you himself,” the director shrugged. “Andy, would you please bring Abdul-One in here?” The man left the room and came back—with a severed head—only it wasn’t the infidel, it was one of the Muhammad’s. The agent tossed it into the jihadist’s lap. Blood started seeping out of the wound and through his pants onto his legs and crotch. Muhammad’s dead eyes looked up at him. His mouth was open in seeming protest.

  MacCloud pointed at the head. “He didn’t want to talk. If you don’t want to talk—fine—I got your other two buddies in the room next door. Maybe after I put your head on their laps they’ll be more interested in telling me what I need to know.”

  “How, how could you do this?”

  The man who brought Muhammad in, picked up the head and shoved it against the jihadist’s face.

  MacCloud told him, “Get it through your head; I’m not a cop! I’m government! We are at war Abdul; at war with your ilk! Now, since you’ve already violated the Geneva Convention you know what that means? It means I don’t have to follow it. Here are the rules: you talk, you live; you don’t talk, I send you to Allah in pieces; and trust me, I won’t begin with your head.”

  The jihadist began to tremble. “This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening!”

  “You bet it is, Abdul. You are now in the deepest, darkest hole in this United States of America! No one knows you’re here; no one knows you exist! The only way you leave this room alive is by answering my questions—do you get it Abdul?”

  The jihadist trembled, staring at the glazed eyes of his High School friend, part of his mosque gang. A week ago they were making out with girls at the senior party—now?

  The director’s voice was a low menacing growl. “I’m about to let my boys here have you.” He waited, but there was nothing except the young man’s teeth chattering. All right Andy, show Abdul we mean business. Cut off his balls.”

  The big man took out a wicked looking trench knife. There was nothing the driver could do. His ankles were taped to the legs chairs. The big man took the knife and slit open his trousers at the crotch. He felt the edge slice his skin.

  He howled, “No, no please you can’t do this! Don’t do this!”

  MacCloud held up his hand and the big man stopped, holding the knife up so that the blood running down the blade was inches from his face.

  MacCloud’s tone became gentler, more like an understanding mentor. “That’s what it’s going to be, or you can tell us what we want to know. You’re not giving anything away; we’ll find it all out eventually. When we’re done here, I’ll have you transferred to Guantanamo Bay. You’ve seen the news reports. They’re well treated. You can sit there until the war is over and work on your tan. After the war is over and done, well, you didn’t kill anyone so who knows what will happen. You could be out raising a family in a few years and this will be nothing but an unhappy memory.”

  “Or,” and the directors voice sank to a menacing growl again. “Or you can say nothing and die like your friend here, without striking a single blow for your jihad. That means Hell buddy. You didn’t die with the blood of an infidel on your hands. You check out with nothing!”

  That was enough. He couldn’t talk fast enough.

  #

  After the prisoner’s statement, MacCloud came out of the interrogation room. He had already been on a quick conference call with Gann and Mertzl. He called them again.

  “It’s confirmed,” he told them. “They got the information from an e-mail forwarded to their mosque. We’re raiding the place as we speak. If this checks out with Corporal Garret’s attack then the common thread is the hotel in Ankara.”

  “We followed up on that,” said Gann. “The hotel is an ISIS staging depot. It will take some digging to find out how they got the information.”

  “Ankara—Turkey?” the gruff voice of
Mertzl asked.

  “Yes, that’s where the trace led us.”

  “Our pal Freddy Waters is in Ankara,” Mertzl informed them. “One of the Mobility Commands VIP jets is at his disposal. He landed in Ankara yesterday. He’s leaving for Paris today—if this is on him, I’ll have his ass. Corporal Garret is in critical condition. They raped and beheaded his wife. She was six months pregnant,” the general paused before finishing. “They cut out the baby and beheaded her as well.”

  There was a long pause while the three men digested the situation. MacCloud broke the uncomfortable silence. “I think we all know Waters is behind the leak.”

  “That ties it to the president.”

  “This is SEAL Team Six all over again,” Mertzl growled.

  “Gentlemen we have to tread very, very carefully with this president.”

  “This is treason!” Mertzl exploded, putting it right out there in the open.

  “It is,” Gann agreed. “However, we’ve all been in this game long enough to know how pawns are used. That’s what the president is doing.”

  “Waters is on the board now; he’s fair game,” MacCloud said. “Just as young Ataturk found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, Waters might not realize what a dangerous world this is. My men saved Slade’s family Gann, maybe your man should know that.”

  “He can make the same mistake he made with the young Turk,” Mertzl chuckled mirthlessly.

  “Slade is on his way to Paris. That’s where Freddy is. I’ll see to it that they run into each other.”

  CHAPTER 15: Paris

  Slade landed in Paris tired and in a foul mood. He’d read up on Freddy Waters. The information didn’t improve his demeanor. If ever a man deserved the business end of his Special Forces killing knife twisted in his kidneys it was Waters.

  “If he leaked the information about our unit to ISIS I promise you, Mr. Waters, you will take days to die!” he muttered to himself.