32. CINDY AND TAYLOR AL-AMRIKI
"Maybe just once?”
Cindy wheeled into her parking spot at her apartment and shut off the Chevy Ultra Volt. It was her practice to always buy a well-maintained used car, typically several years old, then when she had to leave, she would send the keys, the title, and arrange for a charity to pick it up. That would be whenever her current alias was compromised, when she suspected that Jason Matthews’ team was getting too close, or at the end of her self-imposed limit of one year in any location, whichever came first.
I’d really love to get the latest and greatest; wonder how a new one would perform? Haven’t had this much fun driving in years!
She picked up two bags of groceries from the back seat, locked the spunky hybrid—bright red, which was a color she normally shied away from—and walked toward her building.
A girl’s gotta have some fun in life. Maybe even a convertible?
As she approached her stairway, the bottom right apartment door opened and the young, first-time mother who lived there stepped out, pushing her baby in a stroller.
“Hi. Going for your walk?”
“Yeah, it’s so pleasant this evening. Supposed to turn cold tomorrow. Just got another ten pounds to get off!”
“Oh, she’s so cute!” Cindy gushed, as she leaned over the crib. “Six weeks?”
“Seven this Friday.”
“Be safe.”
“Bye.”
Cindy walked up the stairs carrying her bags as the young mother pushed her baby stroller down the sidewalk. The sun was setting; soon the LED street lights would come on.
God bless her and her little family. Keep them safe, she prayed silently. And she choked back a sob.
Ed, how I miss you! How I wish we could have had kids. How I wish I could have a normal life.
Her late husband would have been sixty-eight, had cancer not taken his life at forty-nine. Cindy…Karen Lane Richardson…was fifty-seven. She looked no more than thirty-two. And she could never have children.
“Hi, may I help you with your bags?” Her upstairs neighbor, Taylor, startled her as he stepped around the corner.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Cindy handed him the bags, retrieved her keys, and opened her door.
“Anytime.” He handed the bags back to her and without another word, turned and walked down the steps.
Pleasant. But strange. Hmm.
She carried her bags inside, set them on her kitchen counter, walked back to the door and locked it.
+ + +
Cindy’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
“Sam—No time for a doctoral thesis with footnotes. Make sure your team knows these facts. Most were suspected since late ’90s ... better documented and verified over last decade. Validated by several terrorist defectors.
Disclaimer: Still true that many Muslims are so by culture and tradition. However, they all follow the same Quran, so whether they are a peaceful neighbor or a violent extremist is how they interpret that book.
Therefore, any group of Moslems that does not specifically and emphatically denounce—not just words, but actually take actions against—radical extremists, is suspect. They may be endorsing, supporting, or even preparing to participate in those actions.
Some Imams have personally taken a firm stand against extremism and have worked with authorities to help identify terrorist cells. I’ll include a list; they should be contacted. Perhaps they can provide some help or information. Just be aware that they put their own lives at risk by doing so.
Next, your team must understand that regardless of any politically correct rhetoric they’ve heard in the past, there are two significant issues with Islam.
First, some hard liners believe that taqiyya, kitman, tawriya, murana, and similar terms discussed in the Quran permit Muslims to intentionally lie, deceive, create false impressions, break vows, and more. These teachers approve and even encourage these practices against “infidels” for the so-called higher purpose of advancing Islam. You must understand that those who hold this view will violate their oaths of office, allegiance to the Constitution, and anything else. There have been examples from Muhammad in Mecca to Saddam Hussein to U.S. military officers and others more recently.
Second, Muhammed ruled that if a latter Surah contradicted a previous Surah, then the newer Surah was the true word of Allah. That means—make sure your team understands—the early writings from the relatively peaceful days of Muhammad’s long stay in Medina, can thus be over-ruled by writings during his shorter and more violent time in Mecca.
Bottom line: Be prepared! While some Muslims will be allies when you prepare to identify and defeat this and other attacks, it will be exceptionally hard to know which ones to trust. Your greatest confidence will be in those who have paid a price. Like the list of Imams I’ll send you, they have stood against radicals even at great personal risk. Otherwise—Watch out!”
Cindy finished, hit send, and took a long, deep breath. As deceptive as political soundbites had become, they paled into insignificance against the intentional lies of so many radicals. She had learned to speak several languages over the years and could understand even more. With her internet skills—exceeding most NSA analysts—she often heard so-called Islamic Peace Council—IPC—members say one thing on U.S. Sunday morning news shows, then invalidate those comments in Arabic later the same day.
She looked up to the ceiling, closed her eyes, and prayed. “Please, Lord God. Reveal truth and lead us to it. Expose deception and deliver us from it. Compel even the media to tell the truth.”
Then she lowered her head and slowly shook it back and forth. “I’m so tired of all the deception.” She shuddered as she thought of how the impending attack would likely play out.
+ + +
“Soon it will all be over.”
Taylor al-Amriki looked at himself in the mirror, wearing only his gym shorts. His still-damp blonde hair was cut in the fashion…or lack thereof…of the gang he joined in his late teens. His arms were adorned with tats from the motorcycle gang he was a part of for the few short years before his drug dealing sent him to prison.
The haircut also helped cover the scar above his left ear, left there by his Dad’s big diamond ring. He remembered a lot of hits in general before his Dad left home when he was ten. But that was the one that required stitches. It also left him with a concussion. He remembered that hit very well.
“Dad, may you rot in hell!”
He turned away from the bathroom mirror and stepped into his Spartan bedroom. Box spring and mattress on the floor, used dresser from the Salvation Army, same with various ill-fitting clothes, floor lamp, and an old TV blaring the local Wednesday morning news show.
Demon Dad, or DD he called him. He remembered being dragged away to Reading Rooms, Temples, and Assembly Halls. He remembered DD lecturing him about all the things he had to do, and all the other things he would be damned for if he ever did them. He remembered the fury toward him and his mother. He remembered the night DD left, never seen by him or his mother again.
Rumor was that he went off to some commune or something.
Sixteen years ago.
Taylor put on a pair of his better-fitting jeans and a collared pull-over shirt, white socks, and sneakers. Nothing ostentatious; that wouldn’t do for this meeting! He brushed his hand through his hair to smooth it down, made sure his light beard was trimmed but not too neat, and headed past the mostly empty living room to his old car.
Neither DD nor anyone else had to tell Taylor that his heart was cold, hard. Yes, he had acted out in school and ended up in alternate schools for troubled youth, while his mother worked two jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. She still needed food stamps, and they lived in government subsidized housing.
That’s how he ended up in his gang. From there, the motorcycle and the “big leagues.” He still didn’t feel like he belonged.
Drugs, then dealing, then prison; and some things there he es
pecially wasn’t proud of. Especially after he found the father figure and the brotherhood he longed for under his Imam and the Islamic faith. But he also knew that the homosexual longings he struggled with would be quickly and brutally fatal if he were found out. He informally changed his given name, Jonathan Taylor, to Taylor al-Amriki; Taylor, the American. He made the change legal once he was released from jail.
Taylor shook his head and sighed, as anger, shame, loneliness, but also resolve slammed against him like a paintball war run amok. He imagined himself being hit relentlessly with different colors of paint at close range, each hit leaving a painful, massive bruise on unprotected flesh. But there was more. The paint was oil based, and DD appeared from off to the side, screaming that Taylor wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough, as he lit an oily rag and threw it at his son.
Taylor had to brake hard to keep from rear-ending a line of cars at an intersection. The anti-lock brakes didn’t work—no surprise with the old clunker—and the car screeched to a stop just inches behind a school bus. The kids looked down at him and pointed their fingers at him, like “you bad man.”
“If only you knew,” he muttered.
The burning rag ignited the oil-based paint that covered Taylor, and he was engulfed in flames, screaming, crying, dying.
Taylor wasn’t imagining. He was remembering the nightmare he had at least once a week, one of several that would wake him up in a cold sweat, his sheets soaked.
Not good enough; never good enough.
“Soon, I will be.”
That’s the way his Imam explained the passages in the Quran. That’s how he, Bassam al-Jabbar, Salim al Mahir, and Umar al-Muntaqim were going to assure themselves of heaven. For the others, there was also the ISIS reward that would go to their survivors. There was no one to receive a reward for Taylor’s act of faith. His mom died of cirrhosis of the liver while he was in prison. She had coped with DD’s abuse, desertion, and the flagrant rebellion of her only child by climbing in a bottle.
So, for Taylor, it was simply to leave the pain of this world and assure his peace and comfort in the world to come. He looked at the boys and girls in the rear of the bus as it drove away, taking them to middle school. A wicked grin crept across his face. Maybe Allah will reward me with a little pleasure with some infidels as I move away from this world to the next.
+ + +
That afternoon, Cindy picked up the boxes Mick had shipped her and transported them to her apartment. Phil, a muscled-up young neighbor who she knew to be a firefighter, offered to carry them up her steps, but she politely refused, saying they were mostly empty and she needed the exercise. In reality, she didn’t want to embarrass him, as each was likely more than he could lift and carry even one flight of stairs.
Within the hour she had the boxes open, inventoried the contents, checked the fit of her armor suit and armored sneakers, and completed functional checkouts to the extent that she could on the various equipment.
By morning, she would be ready.
33. RELOCATE
Roger finished his pre-flight about the same time the hangar door opened. He stepped to the back wall inside the hangar and watched as an airman drove the fuel truck into what appeared to be an empty hangar. Randy Holmes carefully followed the thick chalk marks Roger had drawn on the floor with a marker he had found in the hangar supplies and had “converted.” The lines allowed the truck to come close—but not too close—to the aircraft that couldn’t be seen. The driver stopped the truck with the front tires on the double chalk line as ordered.
Continuing to follow orders that made no sense, Randy set the brake, jumped out, and partially lowered the hangar door, leaving a ventilation gap of three feet. He then jogged back a hundred yards to join the security team, guarding an empty hangar.
Roger had no idea how long it would take the truck to “convert,” or whether it would need to. Could the nozzle and part of the hose convert enough to connect to Guardian while the rest remained in “their” world? The fuel itself had a low molecular density, so it should quickly convert even as it traveled through the hose.
Roger would wait awhile and then find out. To simplify matters, since his upcoming flight would be subsonic, there was no need to worry about fueling the scramjet/ion drive.
He wasn’t a fueling technician, but the general had the information sent to Justin, who then forwarded it to Roger using ordinary but classified email. As long as possible, Justin and Roger would keep the Enigma codec as their personal off-line communication link. And Justin already decided that he wouldn’t surrender his Multiphone unless ordered to. Something didn’t seem right, and he needed to maintain that direct, private line to Roger.
After thirty of “his” minutes, Roger held his hand against the fueling nozzle. It finished “converting” in just a few more minutes.
Okay. Now let’s see what happens when I pull it away from the truck.
As he did so, it was much heavier than he had expected, like he was pulling a large fire hose. But eventually he was able to drag it over to the aircraft and insert it into the main tank.
“Good Lord!” Roger exclaimed. His sudden realization of what might have happened sent a cold chill down his spine. Instead of a gradual, linear conversion between “realities”—what felt to him like a very heavy hose—what if the hose had broken, spilling fuel and filling the hangar? With the fuel truck running!?
Both our realities would have gone up in flames!
Roger breathed a long sigh of relief and made a strong commitment to think things through better in the future. With 20-20 hindsight, he realized he should have first experimented with a garden hose and water.
After a silent prayer of thanks, he began filling the main tank.
So…at least inanimate objects can transition smoothly.
He had already positioned aircraft transfer valves to “Open,” so auxiliary tanks would gravity-fill off the main tank as long as he was patient. Weight and balance weren’t issues as he had no electronics warfare officer—EWO—and also didn’t have any slugs for the rail gun. But he still needed every drop of fuel to get where he needed to go. He couldn’t just rest overnight—RON—at some convenient base if he got tired or ran low on fuel.
After he was certain the main tank was full and no more could be fed to the auxiliary tanks, Roger returned the nozzle to the truck. Stepping to the control power panel he “converted” the main power switch and turned off the transfer pump. Similarly, he reached inside the open window, “converted” the key, and switched off the engine.
Another MRE, more water, and a final trip to the bathroom. It was far enough from the aircraft that he could still walk through the door.
Soon we’ll be gone, leaving a fuel truck much lighter than when it came in. Somebody’s gonna have to figure out who left all the empty MREs and water containers.
Roger stowed a few of the remaining MREs and water bottles in the only airplane compartment available. He took a final, quick walk-around making sure he could safely clear the fuel truck and walked to the hangar door control switch.
Glad the old legs are working, but good grief they’re sore!
+ + +
“Here we go!” Airman Holmes was the first to see the hangar door start opening. His maintenance chief had told him to remain with the security team, that he would either come get him or he’d be able to drive the fuel truck after the hangar was cleared. “But…there’s nothing in the hangar,” he’d responded to his boss. “Just stay with the security team. And under no circumstances are any of you to approach that hangar without orders!”
Randy and the four security personnel all turned back to the hangar. From the last rays of the setting sun, they could barely make out the fuel truck, right where it had been—and what still appeared to be an empty hangar.
A few moments later they experienced a silent but unmistakable hot blast and distinct scent of jet exhaust. Then it was gone.
Captain Jasmine Brown understood her orders and
was emphatically briefed not to deviate an inch unless ordered to do so. And she was given the single name of the only officer who had that authority. She was to fly her F-15 Eagle as a lead plane for a highly classified cloaked drone that had lost significant FAA-required communications, and, therefore, couldn’t safely navigate back to Grand Forks, North Dakota. Something like that. Never mind that a cargo aircraft didn’t come to Warner Robins to pick up the drone, or why it needed to go to Grand Forks.
So, the whispered speculation concerning the strange events at the J-STARS ramp at Robins Air Force Base was that a highly classified, ultra-stealthy drone landed one night and departed a couple of nights later. But Randy Holmes always wondered how a drone was able to refuel itself, open the hangar door, and eat MREs…
Captain Brown received her clearance and throttled forward into a standard takeoff, not a take-it-to-the-limit high-performance, straight-up climb and flight checkout she performed at the end of depot maintenance before the aircraft was returned to its unit.
Roger didn’t even taxi to the runway. He throttled Guardian up while still on the taxiway and followed the F-15’s climb, staying a thousand feet behind and several hundred feet below to avoid any wake turbulence. The twin aircraft formation, one seen and the other following like the reflection of a shadow, slowly climbed to the selected altitude of just 25,000 feet.
The low altitude was based on prevailing winds aloft, to maximize Guardian’s range with the turbojet. Even with a full load of JP-8, Roger wouldn’t make it fighting against the higher altitude jet stream. The flight was point-to-point and skies were clear, another reason for the quick turn-around. A large storm system was entering western Kansas, and a single day’s delay would have meant at least another week in middle Georgia.
Roger could certainly fly around bad weather, but any diversion around storms would put Grand Forks beyond his fuel range, and aerial refueling was not an option. Literally. To minimize weight and reduce cost and complexity, air refueling hadn’t been designed into the plane. For long trips, the interceptor’s wingtips neatly folded up for transport in a C-17. Also, once Guardian became hypersonic at the edge of space, its range was calculated in thousands of miles, not hundreds.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 16