The Clark years were hard for the American Jihadist Council. Much of their work had to be done in secret. Clark’s administration didn’t respect the “no go” zones established by the Leakey administration. In the early years of the Sino-American War, when the United States’ survival was in doubt and the American people were in no mood for tolerance, many of Husein’s brothers were imprisoned. The jihad, the cause, seemed lost.
But then, Allah provided a miracle: President Clark died. Harmon became president and seemingly was blind to their intentions. She even reached out to the American Jihadist Council and asked them to play a role in “their” nation’s security. The AJC’s work was starting to bear fruit.
The movement began to grow again, becoming more powerful than before. Huso’s prestige and influence grew within the organization. He even recruited his three younger brothers.
However, its growth cost Huso his relationship with his father. His father’s rejection of the jihad hurt Huso, even more than it had surprised him. Throughout the years of giving speeches and recruiting, he had run into opposition from kafirs; fake Muslims. He tolerated this, knowing that when the United States was conquered, these kafirs would repent or die. Nonetheless, it hurt him to think of his father among them.
When the American Jihadist Council evolved from political dissent into militarism, with the formation of the American Jihadist Regiment, Huso volunteered. He yearned to inflict justice on the world and to feel the power of righteousness. Osmanović began to see himself as more than just a holy warrior, but among a new breed of holy warlords. He dreamed of being a leader in the rise of a new American caliphate.
Huso saw the election of President Tang as further evidence of Allah’s approval. Tang was an infidel, but a useful infidel. Through Tang’s administration, General Mythers sought collusion with the AJC by incorporating the American Jihadist Regiment into the FedAPS, but under the new name of the Domestic Security Force.
The US government provided them with a training facility in Virginia. Furthermore, they were issued military weaponry. The DSF mission was to implement, with force, President Tang’s “bold, new gun-control measure.” Colonel Raed’s regiment was assigned to confiscate contraband weaponry in the southeast United States.
Colonel Raed, as did most AJR officers, laughed at the American government’s stupidity to train a force that wanted to conquer them, in order to disarm an American population that empowered the government. Osmanović wondered if they took the US leaders seriously enough. Americans were stupid, but were they that stupid? Could it be a government trick to ensnare the righteous? Or could Tang and Mythers be training another force to control and disarm them once they were no longer useful? Secretly Osmanović began to think of how to survive such a deception. He ordered his men that they were not to relinquish their weapons to any authority outside of him or the AJR.
The transfer from Virginia to California came as a shock to everyone in the AJR. However, Osmanović thought the move beneficial to the AJR, and him. California was less weaponized than the American southeast; the Californians would be much easier to control. Additionally, California had a greater Muslim population and, presumably, a more supportive community for their mission. If all this did turn out to be a trick, it would be much easier for him to disappear from the American government.
Another surprise, again to his benefit, Colonel Raed selected Husein to form a special unit. One that could easily blend in with the American population. Men were selected on how similar their features were to Caucasians, Latinos, or African-Americans. As ethnic Bosnians, the Osmanović brothers were an ideal choice for the team.
Initially, Osmanović balked at the assignment. He thought infiltrating the American public, pretending to be US Marines, seemed petty and beneath him. Colonel Raed assured him the mission was a crucial element of a propaganda campaign to set the American public against the Marines.
“Divide and conquer,” Colonel Raed said. “The more Americans fight among themselves, the easier for us to conquer them.”
Osmanović’s team was to engage in anything from rude public behavior to theft and assault. They were to avoid arrests, but if caught, FedAPS promised there would be no repercussions for their actions. Violence without consequence appealed to Huso.
“Of course, as part of your cover, you and your men will have to imbibe alcohol and consort with American women,” Raed said in an apologetic tone, but with ever so slight a smile.
Now, Huso sat in a San Diego sports bar catering to Green Bay Packers fans. He admired his clean-shaven face in the mirror, then looked around to take in the atmosphere. His first mission, along with the oldest of his three brothers, Ahmed, was to get a feel for the area and a sense of what the people were like.
Huso looked around at all the smiling infidels enjoying their lives. He felt pride knowing he would play a leading role in their destruction and earn his way to heaven.
Ava fought many doubts when she moved to San Diego from Wisconsin. Her computer science degree opened the door to many of the military tech industries that had exploded during the later years of the war. Tonight, she felt like it was the best decision she had ever made.
Nearly six hours earlier she’d met a young Marine Corps officer, just returned from the war, who was watching the Packers game at a sports bar. He was tall and handsome with light blue eyes that stood out from his dark features. In addition to his good looks, she found him polite and charming. This surprised her somewhat, but reminded her she should always keep an open mind.
She had never met a real-life Marine before. Shortly after the war started, her cousin enlisted in the Marine Corps. She never saw him again. He had been killed fighting in the Philippines. From what she learned in school, it broke her heart to think how the Marines, and the war, must have changed him. From the media, she heard the Marines criticized for their excessive use of force during the war. Several of her professors referred to Marines as “brainwashed killers.” Huso did not fit that mold. He was too handsome and charming. She could only imagine what he’d experienced; but that was over now. He was home, he was safe, and she was very happy of that fact.
Huso was talking about something to do with the Marine Corps, but she was really too caught up in the moment to pay attention. However, Ava did notice her friend Kayla wasn’t smitten with Huso’s brother, Ahmed. She hoped Kayla would stick it out a little longer. She didn’t want the night to end without giving Huso her phone number.
“I’m sorry, Ava, but I need to be getting home. I do have to work tomorrow,” Kayla interjected.
Kayla’s tone irritated Ava.
You wouldn’t mind staying out late if a guy ever showed interest in you, Ava thought. She pulled her phone out and saw it was nearly 1:30 a.m. The game had ended several hours ago, after which the foursome had gone to a taco stand together. Even the taco stand had long since closed. They were the only ones left in the outdoor seating area. Ava sighed, rolled her eyes, but then smiled at Huso with disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Huso, I have to go. It’s late, and I have to work tomorrow as well,” Ava said with as much regret as she could muster in her voice, hoping Huso would take the hint. “I’m glad we met…”
“Of course, I’m sorry to have kept you out so late. Please, let us walk you to your car.” Huso motioned with his head for Ahmed to get up from the table.
Ava noticed Ahmed’s confusion, but didn’t think much of it.
Most Marines aren’t that intelligent, she thought. He must confuse easily. She imagined that if it had not been for his older brother, Ahmed might not have made it through the war.
“I had a really good time tonight,” Ava said as they passed a dumpster and headed into the back parking lot.
“Perhaps we could meet again? Catch another Packers game?” Huso smiled.
“I’d like that.” Ava smiled back, but she drew out her words to give the impression she was only now considering the possibility. Kayla walked off to the car. Ahmed awk
wardly stood there next to Huso. It bothered Ava more than it seemed to bother Huso.
He must be used to having his brother around all the time, Ava told herself.
“Give me your number. I’ll type it into my phone.” Huso had his phone out and at the ready.
Husein typed the young woman’s number into his phone. He couldn’t restrain the smile from spreading across his face. He wanted to laugh so hard. Then when he realized how his smile would be interpreted, he couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he shook his head at how gullible this girl, like most Americans, was. He looked up from his phone and down at Ava’s face. He thought she must look like what some people would refer to as glowing. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes looked accepting. She returned his smile and flipped a strand of her long blond hair over her shoulder. Husein glanced at her chubby friend pouting next to the car.
Ava must have the car keys, Huso thought. Adrenaline made his heart beat faster. Huso was excited.
Ava’s heart beat faster when Huso motioned with his head for Ahmed to go over to Kayla. Kayla perked up as Ahmed headed over to the car. Ava turned back to Huso, hoping he would lean in to kiss her.
Instead, Ava spun around suddenly at the sound of a loud thud on the hood of her car, to see Kayla sliding off the car to the ground.
“Kayla?!” Getting no response, Ava ran over to her friend. “Kayla!”
Kayla was lying facedown in a pool of dark liquid. Ava knelt down and turned Kayla over. The paleness of her face shocked Ava. She tried to lift her friend, and Kayla’s head rolled so far back Ava thought it would fall off. Kayla’s throat was slashed from ear to ear. Ava froze. Her mind refused to accept this reality.
Huso pulled Ava up by her hair. He put his knife up against her throat. Ava closed her eyes, expecting to die.
“Don’t make a fucking sound,” Huso whispered into her ear.
She was terrified that his voice still sounded charming. When she didn’t die, she opened her eyes to see Ahmed smiling and coming towards her with his knife.
“Fucking yes!” Huso smacked the ceiling of the car. “What a night!” Husein’s adrenaline was still surging.
“It was fucking brilliant! I can’t believe how it all just came together. It could not have been any easier,” Ahmed exclaimed. “I just wish we could claim credit for what we have done, instead of passing it on to the Marines.”
“Don’t worry, Ahmed. America will learn soon enough. When they are submitting to the will of Allah.”
“Yeah.” Ahmed looked at his older brother and commander with admiration.
“Keep your eyes on the road!” Husein yelled. Ahmed swerved back into his lane. “Shit, man, don’t kill us on the way back to Camp Pendleton.” He softened his rebuke.
“Sorry.” Ahmed was a little embarrassed, but it didn’t quell his joy over the night’s success. “I can’t wait to tell our comrades. Our jihad has started. I just wish we could have cut their heads off. That is my only regret for the evening.”
“If we’d killed both of them, who would tell the police it was done by Marines? Besides, we cut off her ears and nose. She’s scarred for life. No breeding infidels with her!” Husein laughed at his own joke. “Our time has come, Ahmed. First, we will rule California; then we will rule America.”
“Goddamned horseshit!” Lieutenant Colonel William “Bulldog” McGregor angrily shut off his television and got up to pour himself some more bourbon. He’d had enough of the media for one night.
For the last two days, all the media talked about was the poor young woman who had been raped and disfigured by two US Marines. Witnesses who had, reportedly, seen the suspects at a Green Bay Packers sports bar in San Diego said the two claimed to be from First Battalion, First Marines. The fact that none of his Marines had been allowed to leave the base was not brought up by the media.
When McGregor initially heard of the allegations, over a phone call at three o’clock in the morning, he contacted the officer on duty at Horno and called for an immediate formation and roll call. He then went down there to visually account for every single one of his Marines. No one was unaccounted for.
They all had been questioned over the last forty-eight hours by FedAPS officers. Everyone appeared to have an alibi. No one had a personally owned vehicle on base, that was known of, anyway. FedAPS security had no record of Marines leaving nor arriving between the time of the allegation and roll call. He’d been on the phone answering to his FedAPS “superiors,” who demanded he provide them with an explanation. He had presented all the facts, as he knew them, to FedAPS officials. However, nothing he said satisfied them.
Within twenty-four hours of the assault, McGregor was on the phone with his cousin and commanding officer, Colonel Arthur “Lucky” Liddell. The colonel was still in the Republic of China, waiting to depart with the rest of the regiment.
Liddell recalled how, during the wars of their youth, some men pretended to be veterans for the sake of getting attention and praise from a grateful American public. Liddell proposed the theory that, given the vitriol of the current anti-war/counterculture movement, some sick individuals pretending to be Marines had executed this atrocity in the hope of a biased media running away with the story. Both agreed it was a stretch and probably unlikely. On the other hand, they had seen this kind of black propaganda tactic played by the People’s Liberation Army. It was a chilling thought, but the only one that fit all the facts. At least, that they were aware of.
FedAPS ordered him to talk to no one outside the Marine Corps about this incident. Yet somebody was. The media kept reporting “high level” government leaks for the last two days. On television, a plethora of human rights experts and advocates railed against the Marine Corps’ patriarchal warrior culture. This incident brought back the controversy of Lance Corporal Schmitt, a Marine accused by the People’s Republic of China and the US media of raping and killing a young Chinese girl, despite overwhelming evidence Schmitt had been killed in combat before the murder. McGregor found the similarities chilling, but for different reasons than what Story Limen was explaining on TV–on, literally, every single network–that this sort of thing was the logical consequence to training men to be “nationalistic killers.”
If true, just what kind of sick enemy were they going to have to contend with now that they were back in the United States? McGregor’s mind mulled over his cousin’s hypothesis as bourbon loosened his brain. The thought depressed him. McGregor got up for another drink. He hesitated as he held the bottle to refill his glass.
The answers aren’t in a bottle of whiskey. Besides, there could be consequences to a hangover, McGregor told himself.
For the time being, he was the highest-ranking Marine officer in Camp Pendleton. He found it already took most of his energy and his wits to combat the increasing number of FedAPS officers who had taken over the base, from taking over the Marine Corps. If his battalion truly was surrounded once more, he needed a clear mind to lead his Marines.
McGregor walked away from the bottle. Instead, he started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he dug out a notepad and pen, then began brainstorming and taking notes.
Am I paranoid? Am I flat-out crazy? he thought, making plans for the extremely unlikely worst-case scenarios. However, influenced by combat in two wars and several conflicts over his military career, he decided this exercise was more productive than getting drunk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“That’s got to be it unless they have more than one place around here called Billy Bones,” Edwards proclaimed. In addition to the name in big white letters and a skull and crossbones across the front of the bar, there hung a Jolly Roger flag on either end of the building.
“It’s how Murphy described it,” Harris said as he exhaled his last drag from his cigarette.
Harris looked at the tattoo on his left forearm. The design, done by Billy Hastings, was based on the Marine’s Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. However, the globe had been replaced by a skull and crossbones design. Hastings’s in
spiration had come from Lieutenant Colonel McGregor when he called Second Section his “Death Squad” for their role in the battle for Shanghai. The entire section painted skulls and crossbones on their LSVs. Hastings artistically combined the design with the Marine Corps emblem. Several “Death Squad” members even had the design tattooed on their forearms. Harris and Edwards were the only two left with the tattoo.
The bar was dark, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust. The first thing Harris noticed was a dusty moose head with a cigarette dangling from its mouth. For the most part, however, the place was decorated with a lot of old Navy and Marine Corps paraphernalia. The two Marines got a kick out of all the pictures of the “old salts” from past eras in past wars. After a few minutes of looking around, they sat down at the bar and ordered beers.
“I can see why Murphy likes this place.” Edwards interrupted himself to take a drink. “There ain’t that many people here.”
“Hell, man, it’s a quarter after eleven. The place just opened fifteen minutes ago,” Harris countered.
“You got a point, my friend.” Edwards reflexively reached for his cigarettes, then stopped, remembering it was illegal. “Fucking no-smoking laws,” he complained. “Anyhow, here’s to getting back home, buddy.” Edwards offered a toast.
“Yeah,” Harris slowly replied and held up his bottle of beer before taking a long pull. Edwards noticed the hesitation but said nothing.
After three weeks stuck in Camp Pendleton, this was the first day any of them were allowed off base.
“It’s good to be out,” Harris said after another drink, this time sounding more upbeat. “Another week of FedAPS’s ‘Civilian Interaction’ classes and I’d have gone fucking UA.”
All the Marines were appalled about the young woman who had been assaulted two weeks earlier. Even more so when it was reported that two US Marines were the primary suspects. Several volunteered to castrate whoever had carried out the gruesome attack. Since no one in the battalion was allowed off base at that point, many thought the reports that the suspects were Marines recently returned from the war were bad journalism at best. Nonetheless, an order from FedAPS required all of them to attend classes on “civilian integration.”
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 11