Holy War

HOLY WAR

Copyright © Max Woosley, 2000 All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne, Universal and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by

American Book Classics http://www.american-book.com Salt Lake City, Utah, Printed in the United States of America 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Cover Design, Steve Colquitt, [email protected] Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. ISBN 1-930586-02-7 Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, places characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

HOLY WAR

Max Woosley

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In loving memory to my mother, Betty Ann. She not only gave me life but the ability to face it.

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Foreword

One of the most basic premises of successfully fighting a war remains: “Know your enemy.” The American psyche does not comprehend the concept of Jihad, where merely saying “kafir” reduces any non-Arab man, woman or child to something akin to a mosquito to be swatted without so much as a momentary regret. Max Woosley gets you into the thought process guiding Islamic warriors while they attack a series of American targets. You will become so thoroughly intimidated that you will feel compelled to read on in hopes of obtaining a sense of “just retribution” as they build their body count of kafir. When I inspected security forces at units in Europe during the seventies, I saw vulnerabilities and erroneouslyfocused priorities on a daily basis—the blasts at the U.S. Army headquarters in Frankfurt, the fire that destroyed the Officers’ Club at Rhein Main Air Base, and the car bomb explosion at the Air Force headquarters on Ramstein Air Base—all validated the conclusion: We are not prepared for Jihad. These acts sounded the first bell toll. While training Air Force security forces for the role as defenders of air bases, the direction began shifting to small unit anti-terrorism tactics as terrorist attacks continued to increase. When we heard about more than 200 Marines dying in their beds while trying to keep Beirut airport open for evacuation, the need for redirection reached epic

proportions. The horrific news of over 200 passengers being blown out of the sky six miles high over Scotland added an urgent exclamation point for planners. As chief of Security Operations at Headquarters Strategic Air Command in Omaha, Nebraska, hardly a day passed without a terrorist-oriented threat report from somewhere in the world. Woosley’s descriptions of cells, dispersed attacks, car swaps, false names and target changes sound like extracts of my “IMMEDIATE” folder. I heard the second bell toll. Very soon the world will confront the tenth anniversary of Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait and the subsequent destruction of both nations while Desert Storm rolled over the still burning oil plains. Will the tenth anniversary herald the next tolling of the bells? More importantly, will we be successful if they do sound in America? Not if we do not understand what drives such primitive levels of human destruction. Russell J. Suchy Colonel, U.S.A.F. (Ret.) Former Chief of Security Operations Strategic Air Command

Chapter One Raid

“T

hat red hair is going to get you into trouble. I’m telling you for your own good. You can believe me or not,” Calvin Dary said to his daughter. “Dad,” retorted twelve year-old Rebekah, “why do you keep saying that?” “It’s true, that’s why.” “Lot’s of girls in my school have red hair, and none of them are troublemakers.” She grimaced and unconsciously pushed her hair back from in front of her face. Cal watched her face as expression changes fleeted across her features. Her freckled nose crinkled but her brown eyes sparkled with laughter. Cal smiled at her reaction, “I didn’t say troublemaker. I said it would get you into trouble. And besides, I bet that not one of them has that deep red tint like you have. That’s what’s going to get you into trouble.” He smiled when she stuck her tongue out at him.

Holy War The phone rang and Teresa got up to answer it. She put her hand on her husband’s shoulder on the way by, Teresa’s way of telling Cal that he was being a little too rough. Cal knew she was telling him to lighten up a bit, but he also knew he needed to use this example to help Rebekah understand a principle. Sometimes the right thing to do was to keep quiet. Still, there was no need to upset Rebekah about such a small matter. She always said what she thought, and what Rebekah thought was generally correct. She was a moral, kind and generous human. Cal looked at Teresa who was talking quietly in the kitchen Cal considered the problem. One of Rebekah’s teachers had said something about the President of the United States and Rebekah took exception. Her anger erupted into rebuttal and a reprimand. Cal actually agreed with Rebekah but that was hardly the point. “It’s your temper I’m talking about. That, and the fact that you always voice your opinion even when it’s unnecessary.” How could he make her understand? Cal had always encouraged her to express herself. Well, there was that time a few years ago on New Year’s when she had told her grandfather that he was going to drink himself to death. Even that would have been all right if she had just let it go instead of pounding the poor guy with her opinion. “Well, I was right and my teacher was wrong, Father.” “I didn’t say you weren’t, Rebekah Anne.” “It’s for you, Cal. It’s Stan,” Teresa said from the kitchen. She looked around for the portable telephone.

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Raid Calvin Dary wiped his mouth and carefully put his napkin beside his plate as he watched Teresa pick up the portable. He took the proffered phone, “Hello Stan,” Cal said too loudly while trying to put just the right amount of distaste in his voice for the lateness of the call. “Sorry about the call, Cal. The editorial committee asked me to talk to you.” “You mean you guys all voted to get me to lighten up the article a bit before it’s printed, and you drew short straw.” “No. Not exactly. I mean, you say some pretty hard things in the article and maybe it could be a little more politically correct, that’s all.” The voice said more than the words. The committee had put pressure on Cal’s editor to get him to change his opinion. There is no way in this world that I’m changing my mind on this. I am senior in my department and a direct contributor to increased circulation. The committee can suck eggs. Preferably rotten. “I’m not changing one word, Stan. These modern Khariji are evil, maniacal, and dangerous.” “I’m not arguing with you, Cal. Would you listen to reason? I…” “Maybe you should read the article again, Stan. These people are for real. The Los Angeles Times can stand the heat, if there is any heat from one article. The research is meticulous and accurate. I’m telling you they rival Hitler in ferocity and brutality. You’ve read much of what I’ve found on this group. They’re bad news, to overplay a cliché. You 11

Holy War know just as well as the rest of the world that their attack on the Kurdish village last year was ruthless. They killed more than a hundred people to repay the loss of just one life. They don’t call themselves a group or even gather regularly, but I’m telling you these people have an unholy mission. Do you know I can trace seventeen separate incidents to members of the group that I’ve identified as Khariji?” “Cal…” “Do you know why the ancient Khariji died out?” He could hear Stan take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.” “These were men whose uncompromising dedication to their ideals frequently caused them to fight against unbelievable odds and ultimately die for those ideals. Stan, they were fanatics who’d rather die than compromise in any situation for any reason.” “You’re talking about a sect who died hundreds of years ago and who have no relation to this new breed of Kharijis. The Kharijis never completely died out anyway. There have been Kharijis ever since the first one. I checked.” “You’re wrong, Stan. And besides, there was more than one sect of the Khariji. The only ones who survived were the moderates. What I’m saying is, the unrelenting, hardover-to-the-right Kharijis are back.” “That doesn’t change anything. The ancient Kharijis were hard-over-to-the-right, to use your term, but they still

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Raid have no relation to today’s Kharijis. This is a modern world we’re living in.” “They’ve already proven you wrong, Stan. I calculate they’ve killed over 500 people. Try telling the families of the people they murdered that this is a modern world and there’s nothing to fear. Besides, what is so wrong about printing my opinion and then denouncing it later like you normally do for opinions to the right of the committee’s?” “That’s not fair, Cal, and you know it. Why are you the only voice speaking against this loosely formed group, anyway?” Stan quickly asked. “I’m just the first to go on record speaking against a dangerous group of terrorists.” “You said yourself that they are not a traditional group.” He looked at Teresa. She mouthed, “Dinner is getting cold!” Cal considered Hitler and the power the German people had given him. There was power whenever people blindly followed. Cal would try one more argument to reason with Stan. “Once a prophet of the Kharijis had a man come to him and confess to adultery. The great prophet simply turned away from the man who went on to confess to a total of four separate offences. The benevolent and all-knowing prophet then asked, ‘Are you crazy?’ to which the man replied in the negative. ‘Are you married?’ the prophet went on to inquire, to which the man replied in the affirmative. So the prophet commanded him to be stoned to death, but the man fled. Not to be denied, the prophet had him chased down and killed anyway. After which the prophet spoke well of him.” 13

Holy War “That’s an old form of government. Early Christians also had their own form of government, not too dissimilar from what you just described.” “As I recall, Jesus had a woman brought to him who had also committed adultery. He listened to the arguments then told the gathered crowd, ‘He that has no sin, let him cast the first stone’, and one by one, starting with the oldest and going to the youngest, they left. Jesus finished by saying, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.’ A stark contrast, wouldn’t you say?” “O.K., but Muhammad came before Jesus, and the Old Testament Jewish prophets were just as condemning as the Moslems.” “Wrong again, Stan, on both counts. Muhammad lived six hundred years after Jesus. Why don’t you check that out? And while you’re at it just print the article.” He hung up the phone and returned to his now cold dinner. ∗∗∗ Abu Hamza rode the jostling truck with hands gripping handholds and teeth clenched while trying not to appear uncomfortable. He had told the young driver he had much to consider and to be quiet. The situation might be comical except that any laughter on the driver’s part would have been his death sentence. They rode in silence for hours until at last they stopped at the Russian border station. They were fourth in line with their team’s vehicles all behind them, all marked with the insignia of the fake company. 14

Raid “The border guard on duty is the same man that I’ve seen nearly every time through this checkpoint for the last six weeks,” the driver bravely offered. Abu watched the man’s handlebar mustache twitch with each word. “That is well. Continue with your plan.” Abu had better things to consume his thoughts than worry about this checkpoint. Allah would prove to them his intent by this first operation. If they won the victory easily here, the plan inside America would be just as easy to carry out. It was finally their turn so the driver pulled up. The truck had barely come to a complete stop when the driver grabbed the bag of fruit next to him on the front seat and got out quickly. Abu listened intently, hand on the butt of the revolver hidden under his coat, straining to hear what was transpiring. “Ah, my good comrade, Igor,” the driver said. Abu couldn’t hear the reply. “Here, my employer will not miss a few pieces of fruit from the boxes in the back. Take them to your family and tell the children a crazy Iraqi wishes them well.” The voices faded. Abu knew they were going to look at the cargo in the back. He waited impatiently, trying to remain calm but ready for anything. At last the driver returned to the side of the truck and continued speaking to the guard. “I have several trucks behind me all with the company logo. Do not fail to stop them and badger them in some way. I told them all you were very tough and hard to get along with. The man in the truck right behind is Habib; he 15

Holy War is most frightened. Ask him for his birth certificate and when he fails to produce it, ask him to get out. It will be most fun.” The driver laughed loudly as he pounded the border guard’s back. “You are a crazy Iraqi,” the border guard laughed in return. The driver got back into the truck slowly. He waved carelessly through the open window as they resumed their trek. “How did the load ride? Was there any shifting?” Abu asked when they were away from the border guards. “Nothing shifted and not one of the men could be seen through the stacked crates.” “Your idea worked well. Better than I had hoped. You will be rewarded.” “Allah be praised.” The man smiled broadly. He could afford to smile, Abu thought, the hard part for him was behind. Abu hoped his fears about the next few hours were groundless as he gazed toward the approaching Groznyy. The hard part of his task now lay within reach ahead of them. In preparation, Abu slowly went over the plan in his mind. When they got within sight of their target, the other trucks stopped. Abu and his lone truck continued all the way to the site. Abu watched in the outside rearview mirror as the other trucks fell back, growing smaller in the distance. The plan was simple even though it had three parts to the first and most dangerous stage. First, Abu would insure that all was quiet, then signal the other men to gather as quietly as possible into a ravine out of sight of the 16

Raid complex. Lastly, the trucks designed to carry their prize would be signaled, and the attack would begin. When they reached the site and all was quiet, they signaled to the trucks waiting in the distance. Each truck held highly trained fighters to be used in the attack. Twenty minutes later, nearly a hundred armed men gathered just over a knoll from their target. Abu looked at his watch, stoically waiting for the time when their spy inside the complex would open the gates and begin the greatest era known to Islam since Mohammed walked on the earth. The time ticked slowly by until at last it was the appointed hour. “Allahu Akbar!” Abu Hamza shouted at the top of his lungs. Men ran toward the opened gate and the sprawling complex within. Abu turned to look down the road. In the distance he could see the remaining trucks making good time. All was well. His eyes lifted to see Groznyy in the distance. Smog covered the city like the haze over the lower Euphrates early in the morning when he used to go there for dawn prayers. The source of their nearest danger was well over five miles away. With communications cut, that was much too far. “Allahu Akbar!” He shouted again, and then ran lightly toward the victory that lay ahead. When Abu arrived, the maintenance facility was already quiet. It pays well to have inside information, he thought. “Guide us in the straight path. The path of them Thou hast blessed,” he said quietly, nearly under his breath. He quoted the Fattiha, the Lord’s Prayer of Islam.

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Holy War He passed a helicopter, then continued inside to an inner bay where men were at work finishing the crating of an old Soviet Union atomic bomb. These people have grown indifferent since communism has given way to a weak replacement, an infidel government best suited to serving weaklings. The bomb looked big. Too big, much too big. He tried to still his pounding heart. All they had come through already was more dangerous than this, yet his heart raced at the sight of the large bomb. “I thought it was to be smaller,” he stated in as calm a voice as he could. He would not betray his fear. The bomb must be small, as he was promised. Hasan al-Banna answered confidently, “When the casing and protective shielding is removed, the bomb will be much smaller. Small enough for one man to carry if he had to.” Abu looked at Hasan. He would be a good asset inside America. Abu decided to make one change in their plans against America. Instead of Hasan delivering the bomb across the ocean, he would let the coward Abdallah Jahr take the small ship to America. Abu would make the flight with Hasan instead. His original plan did not include Hasan because Abu knew Hasan the least but he decided he liked the man. And besides, anything would be more appealing than living forty-seven days with a sniveling wimp. He hated wimps. Abu was appeased and began to relax as first one thing then another began to click into place. They were almost ready to begin. The plan was progressing much faster than in their scores of practices. All was well.

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Raid Abu knew that back in Iraq the work was already well underway to ready a ship for the bomb they were now capturing. A smile spread broadly across his features. At last the day was at hand when Jihad, a holy war, would be carried out against the kafir, the infidels. The sound of an explosion brought another smile to his lips. The helicopter was no longer a problem. Plenty of time remained to get safely hidden in the hills far to the south. All was well. He waited patiently as the work continued, and the truck was loaded so it could head back toward Iraq and safety. Only then would he be certain that all was well and that his reward waited for him as assuredly as Allah would receive praise. Without a word he turned to make his way outside, motioning for his interpreter to follow. Outside he waved his arm toward the near fence. “Line them up,” he shouted, glancing toward the sky. Plenty of time before the afternoon prayer, he thought. When it became painfully apparent what was about to happen, one of the men ran forward and began shouting in Russian. Abu waited patiently for the translation. “He says he is the informant and deserves payment for the victory he handed you today, not death.” “He is correct. Tell him,” Abu said to the interpreter. “Have him stand here in front of me.” When, after many thanks and the man had assumed the indicated position, Abu nodded. Machine gun fire erupted all down the line of Moslems. The Russian in front of Abu flinched noticeably as his comrades against the fence fell. Abu Hamza silently pulled his knife, slid it carefully under 19

Holy War the man’s chin and pulled quickly backward. The man gurgled and fell to the ground. “Allahu Akbar!” he exclaimed. “Make certain they are all dead. We must have no witnesses.” ∗∗∗ Abu Hamza went over his baggage for at least the hundredth time. Even as he did so, he cursed himself for a fool and vowed to repent his lack of faith. The necessary items were carefully tucked away inside other containers that would prevent their discovery until well after American customs had done their usual poor job. These infidel dogs did not deserve their riches. They were weak and sloppy and continually persecuted the holy and just, until only a thread of decency remained. But now they would pay for their transgressions. Slowly. And often. Abu glanced at the small, dark man who had delivered the metal detector and was still standing near the door. He had been told to wait until Abu had completed his inspection. Abu turned on the metal detector placed within his chambers for the purpose of insuring that the equipment used at the American airports to view his belongings did not show a single sign of their true contents. One by one he placed toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant, and other containers beneath the machine’s probe. Each time, Abu stared intently at the image on the monitor before him. He had been told this metal detector was exactly the same as those used in most American airports. Still, he must be sure no tell-tale sign betrayed their master plan. 20

Raid Explosives and detonators they would obtain inside America. But chemical and biological agents they must smuggle in with them. He put the containers through once again, one at a time, and stared intently at the exact location where he knew the contraband to be, trying valiantly to see even the faintest lines that would give the real contents away. When at last he finished his inspection, he turned to the nervous man still standing by the door. His face was crisscrossed with lines around the eyes and mouth. The gauntness of his cheeks reminded Abu how much the last of the blockades and sanctions had affected his people. “You have done well. The cries of many dead will be heard in heaven because you have helped to give us a weapon to use against the infidels.” The man smiled nervously, “Allahu Akbar!” God is most great!

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Chapter Two Beginning

A

bu Hamza smiled as he entered his hotel room high above Las Vegas, Nevada. He looked around the overly large room. Americans believed a life of luxury should be coveted. Their desire for material objects overshadowed everything else in their miserable lives. Getting to the top was all-important. Who they used or how contemptible were their lives as a result was inconsequential. The finery, frills, and expensive look made Abu scowl. Decadence filled the room, speaking the decorator’s distaste for Allah and proclaiming superiority over all other men. He had a sudden unexplainable urge to urinate over the carpet and drapery. He carefully laid his baggage on the bed and began to remove the items one by one, placing the hidden weapons into his nearly empty briefcase and the clothing back into his suitcase. He opened the second briefcase to check the money inside. All was well with the stacks of hundred

Holy War dollar bills. They would mean survival during the coming days. Abu extracted a syringe with an attached needle covered by a rubber tip. The syringe was marked ‘ANTIDOTE’ in large black letters. He smiled broadly as he remembered being handed the syringe. “It is filled with concentrated nerve agent antidote, much more than an overdose. Don’t take any yourself; it will cause constriction of the throat, hallucinations, and some other nasty side effects–like death.” He placed the syringe carefully on the bed and returned to his repacking. The door behind him opened and closed quietly. He turned to insure that it was one of his men. Ahmed Hanifa entered and sat down without speaking. If he, Abu Hamza, were to have problems with any of his men, it would be this man who would bring them. He was weak regardless of the outward appearance of faithfulness, allegiance, and piety. He might also be a spy for the financier, Saddam Hussein. Abu cursed his luck; Hanifa was also the only one from his own country. The modern Kharijis had spread out deliberately when the original plan was envisioned. Libya, Oman, Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and even Kuwait were home to at least one modern day Khariji. They never met together, except in groups of no more than three. Their business was almost exclusively conducted on a private Internet network and even then only through a very unique code. Abu Hamza continued to unpack from one suitcase and prepare his briefcase as one by one his team assembled, 24

Beginning each following his orders, entering one at a time without knocking or greeting. He stopped what he was doing to address them when the last had entered. He studied them intently, pride swelling his heart. Each was clean-shaven, wearing American style clothes and just the right amount of jewelry. Hasan al-Banna had even worn cowboy boots; a nice touch, even he had to admit. He and these four men would soon make all Islam proud. It would be her greatest moment since Muhammad first received his visions on the road. Ahmed Hanifa, Hasan al-Banna, Imad ibn Buwayhid, and Banu Hashim looked so different from how they had looked just hours before. The momentary shame of wearing the infidels’ clothing and jewelry would pass, he had told them. Their efforts were for the glory of Allah and their reward would be great, far greater than any of them had ever envisioned. “Remember, my friends,” he began, “the two Americans must believe they are one with us, to share in the glory and the rewards. They must never suspect they are pawns in a much greater game. Speak well of them, laugh with them, touch them. Without them we would be discovered quickly, with them we will succeed and the infidels will suffer as they have never suffered. Give them your friendship willingly, for none of them will ever live to speak of our journey together. “From now on we play our parts. Tonight we go for the last time as a company with our American friends to dinner and a show so popular on the Vegas strip. Enjoy yourselves, for the road before us is lonely and difficult. 25

Holy War And you, Imad, find one of those blonde American women you find so irresistible.” Laughter erupted as two Americans entered the room, again without knocking, and stood just inside the door. “Allah will surely grant us victory, never fear,” he finished. ∗∗∗ The next morning found Abu Hamza and one of the Americans, Stewart Long, walking down the street toward the Army surplus store. They had been dropped off several blocks from the store so that the pickup would not be seen at the store. The truck, driven by the second American, was to park a block away in the opposite direction and wait. If called on the cell phone, they were to pick up the two; otherwise they were to drive up to the back door at exactly 9:15. The pair entered the store one at a time from opposite directions, a couple of minutes apart. After ensuring that the store was empty, Abu walked up to the desk. Stu Long was waiting for him at the counter, engaging the owner in small talk. “I trust you have the material?” Abu asked. Dressed in light shirts and slacks so that the possibility of concealed weapons appeared less, they hoped to put the owner at ease. Abu watched as the owner looked them over. “I trust you have the cash?” he replied. Abu lifted the briefcase to the counter top and took out a bundle of money. The briefcase was now empty; the rest of the money had been taken out. 26

Beginning The owner reached for the bundle, but Stu quickly removed it. “Not until we see the merchandise.” Abu smiled and glanced at his watch, 9:12. It couldn’t be better. “This way,” the owner said, leading them through a curtain into the room beyond. There he unlocked a door and took them into another room behind it. Several LAW rockets, machine guns with ammunition, hand guns with ammunition, grenades, and many other cartons, cases, and pouches lined the floor and the four tables around the room. “Very good, my friend,” Abu said. He nodded at Stu who handed the owner the bundle of money. Outside a truck backed into the loading area. Knowing there must be unseen observers, a kind of insurance against treachery, Abu asked, “Where are your men to help us load the truck?” The owner waved. From the corners of the room and from somewhere above came three men to help with the loading. Abu noticed that their weapons all had silencers, and he also knew there might be more. He hesitated no longer and picked up one end of a crate. Stu picked up the other end, and they turned their backs on the men with drawn weapons and began loading the truck. The second American joined them as one by one the men put away their guns and helped load. The others outside were to wait for Abu’s signal. He walked over to the owner and held out his hand in American fashion. “Thank you for your help. We may be back for more in a few months.” The man shook his hand and smiled weakly. How easy to enter into their confidence, 27

Holy War he thought, these Americans are weak and stupid. Abu’s American friends shook hands with two of the others. Abu walked over to the third man who had come down from above to help them. His unkempt, brown hair stood on end like a tuft of grass near a desert oasis. Abu smiled as he casually put his hand on his concealed knife. He shook hands with one hand and with the other plunged his dagger deep into the man’s abdomen toward the heart. As the man fell, Abu’s right hand grabbed the other’s revolver. Turning quickly, Abu shot the owner in the forehead before he had time to even suspect anything was wrong. Five shots followed in rapid succession. Abu looked around the room, but no others emerged to cause them problems. He waved Stu toward the front as he and the others recovered the money and grabbed several other things of value that they hadn’t ordered from the back of the store. Stu returned from the front with a shotgun and several boxes of shells. “The front door is locked,” he said as he placed his booty under the tarp being pulled over the load in the back of the pickup. A timer was set on one barrel of black powder, and the remaining barrels, twelve in all, were emptied over everything in the front and back of the store. The two Americans got into the truck and Abu pushed the lock button on the rear door of the store. He joined them in the truck and said, “Drive slowly through the alley until you reach the main street, turn left and head out of town on Interstate 15.”

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Beginning When they were five blocks away, the store exploded. The truck shook from the explosion. Abu looked over his shoulder to see black clouds of smoke curling toward the midmorning sky. This was only the beginning. He would enjoy the next several weeks ending with the climax in Washington, D.C., still forty-seven days away. His hand touched his mouth. He missed his mustache. His lip felt so exposed that even licking his lips was uncomfortable somehow. They traveled through the city and into the desert without difficulty. These Americans had pushed back the desert in a way his own people had yet to achieve. His group had traveled from lush and green to stark, dry desert in minutes. Another pickup joined them at the city limit sign and then a motorhome a few miles farther on. The motorhome would serve as transportation and sleeping quarters for the next several weeks. The two pickups would be used to spread the little band out. Detection would be harder that way, and even if one group was captured, the other two stood a better chance of escape. They had transferred all the explosives from the pickup to the motorhome and were almost ready for travel. Noon found them driving up to a construction company west of Las Vegas. They stopped outside an old trailer nestled in a depression. It sat on the eastern side of a hill about halfway down the slope where it could take advantage of the afternoon and evening shadows. Abu got out of the truck and watched a lizard run for cover under a boulder. As always, the desert was inhospitable but life managed to survive. 29

Holy War Abu Hamza walked into the trailer, sat down, and placed ten one hundred-dollar bills on the desk. Stu Long followed and stood relaxed beside Abu with arms folded across his chest. He gazed toward a map hanging behind Abu as if to locate something. After a moment he traced an imaginary line with a forefinger. “I want a box of dynamite. I trust that is enough money to buy one.” The man took the money. Now there was no question that he’d show them where the dynamite was located. Abu smiled. “Yeah, that’s plenty. But you will need more than dynamite to blow a hole in this desert.” Abu misunderstood the American. He thought he wanted more money to show them the dynamite. “You want more money? For what?” Stu didn’t take his eyes off the map, “Nah, I think he’s saying we need blasting caps, wire, and other stuff like that.” Abu smiled his disarming smile. The Americans had told him to bargain, even though he had money to burn. It would make the man relax; money too easily spent would make him nervous. “This is enough money for everything we will need for our operation?” “For the dynamite, yes. And even for the rest of it except the…” Abu’s hand quickly went to his shirt pocket. The man across the table started nervously as Abu extracted five more one hundred-dollar bills. “Here.” He threw them

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Beginning across the desk. “Give us what is required but ask for no more.” Abu waited as the other touched the money and relaxed a little. Perhaps he should have taken Stu’s suggestion and let the American make the transaction. Stu said, “We can make our boss happy and get to dinner at a decent hour if we hurry.” The man behind the desk counted the money, then said, “Let’s go.” He led them to a large tin structure set behind the trailer out of sight of the other terrorists. He unlocked the door and led them inside. “How many caps do you need?” “Ten should be enough,” Abu said. “Make that a dozen,” Stu added. He opened a box and counted out twelve, rolled a box marked ‘DYNAMITE’ over to the door, and added a box with a handle that Abu knew to be a generator of electricity. A coil of wire was added and the man turned back toward them. “We’ll need six rolls of that wire,” Stu said, pointing at the coil on top. The man put the wire back. Abu reached inside his rear pants pocket for a small revolver nestled there. The construction man picked up another box almost as big as the dynamite box. Wire protruding from the top made Abu realize that he had just been given enough wire to do all he needed. The gun was unnecessary. Stu used a wheelbarrow that was outside the door to transport the material they had just bought. While Stu took the material to the truck and returned, Abu Hamza asked 31

Holy War for advice on using the dynamite. He wanted to be sure about placement and fusing. Abu wanted no mistake to prevent success, and above all, he wanted his honor to increase. They shook hands and retraced their steps to the truck while the two construction men reentered their trailer. Imad ibn Buwayhid was their sharpest shooter. He moved to a position in view of the tin structure behind the trailer, aimed carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The sound echoed through the canyon but nothing happened. Abu watched the trailer as Imad fired again and again into the building. Men appeared, running from the trailer, just as Imad succeeded and a huge explosion blew pieces of the building in all directions. More explosions sounded as Abu’s sharp shooters killed everyone. These were construction workers, not terrorists determined to cause as much destruction as possible before being killed, so there was no return fire and a massacre ensued. Three of the Moslems ran to the trailer. Shots rang out and they returned hastily. Two pickup trucks and a motorhome turned around and made their way quickly down the mountainside. The motorhome and one of the pickups turned toward Los Angeles driving slower than the speed limit and careful to obey all traffic laws. The last pickup headed back toward Las Vegas. Their plan was simple. Lake Mead was just east of Las Vegas and Boulder, Nevada. The largest manmade body of water in the world was about to be contaminated with a deadly agent. Afterward, a leisurely drive to Los Angeles would afford them the opportunity to recruit their last 32

Beginning partner. Calvin Dary had been the first to reveal their private affairs to the world. The mounting criticism had forced them to go farther into hiding but had done little else to deter their mission to America. Even so, retribution was in order for one Calvin Dary, senior reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Abu Hamza and Stu Long drove through the city and on to Lake Mead, just two men traveling together stopping for a picnic. They ate, talked, and then cleaned up the area, being very careful to leave nothing behind. As Stu finished, Abu Hamza walked near the water and removed a can of shaving cream from his pocket. He pushed down on the dispensing button but nothing visible happened. He twisted it to the locked position and tossed it as far as he could into the water where its weight caused it to sink immediately to the bottom. He returned to find Stu looking expectantly at him. He said, “In less than twenty-four hours, the infidels will know the fierceness of Khariji Jihad. You Americans would translate that ‘Holy War’.” ∗∗∗ Abu and Stu Long rolled into Los Angeles in plenty of time for dinner. The rendezvous point was a Burger King near the airport. They ate in almost total silence, in two groups, each having one American. The Kharijis hated American hamburgers but ate anyway. That too was part of the plan. They were Americanized. They considered the myriad of foreigners traveling through this airport and 33

Holy War knew they would be just another group eating American garbage food. It would be the last open meal they would consume until the ordeal in front of them was over. The terrorists were continuing to deceive the two Americans. Abu was pleased. The plan was working flawlessly, justifying the months and months of planning and practice. He had begun traveling to the US once every month to attend computer trade shows and conventions, occasionally buying large quantities of computer parts and accessories. While appearing in this venue, Abu passed the business cards of one Umar ibn al-Khattab, an entrepreneur from Al Jawf, Saudi Arabia. He knew the traveling had taken its toll on his patience. For five years, nearly every month, Abu traveled to a country he hated. He was disgusted every time he smiled at one of its citizens or shook someone’s hand. But it had all been necessary and worthwhile. The months of planning were paying off, and that made all the trips worthwhile. His computer business was only a cover, of course. He needed maps to determine their route across America. He needed firsthand knowledge of places, points of interest, targets, and of course, they needed Americans sympathetic to their cause. These Americans were weak. One of his easiest tasks had been to find capable men willing to betray their country for money. Indeed, there was a fairly large computer shop in Al Jawf, Saudi Arabia owned by Umar ibn al-Khattab that did quite a lot of business. Unfortunately, very little of it was Saudi business, the bulk being travelers from Iraq, Iran, Oman, and other nearby countries coming to buy computers 34

Beginning and accessories just to keep up the appearance of success. The Kharijis might be spread out thinly but they were united in their cause. The computer shop became a frequent place to hold impromptu planning sessions and status briefings. Abu’s time was well spent in this shop between trips to the United States. While traveling, his plans developed and then solidified, and when Abu was at home, the plan was briefed and relayed as other pieces such as Groznyy fell into place. After dinner, the group gathered in the motorhome to discuss final details of the plan. As always, two stayed outside to ensure that there were no casual listeners. Stu Long began the briefing for the last time. “The target is just twenty minutes from here at this time of night. We give you ten minutes head start and then we proceed. You will park one truck up and one down the street from the target. We should arrive ten minutes behind you. The walk from the park to the house is two to three minutes. Two minutes after we pass John’s pickup, he drives around the block and parks directly behind the house. A light going on will signal any difficulty. That means either we need help or they’ve seen us. This is the only circumstance where John comes into the house.” Abu picked up the briefing without pause. “The motorhome stops in the park two blocks from the house. Stu and I get out but the motorhome remains for ten minutes to prevent anyone who might observe us from getting suspicious. We have a key so we enter through the front door. Once inside we go directly to the bedroom, knock the target out, and leave as quickly as possible. Our interests 35

Holy War will be best served if both other people are left alive, however this is not our primary goal. Getting out is. We go through the back door directly to the parked pickup behind the house. Any questions?” “How’d we get the key?” John Wilkenson queried. Abu paused. Should he tell the Americans everything? Why not? He couldn’t think of a reason not to tell them. “I found a set of keys three years ago that Mrs. Dary had carelessly left in her car. I made a wax image of the house key and had that made into a key in Baghdad. Of course, I put the keys back in Mrs. Dary’s ignition where I found them.” There was laughter all around. “What about dogs?” John Wilkenson continued, trying to find holes in the plan. Abu glanced at Stu. He had come to recognize the man’s talents and lean on him for help at appropriate times. “He’s right.” “How many dogs are in the area?” “It’s called a neighborhood,” Stu replied, “and I don’t know. You were the genius who did the reconnaissance, remember?” Abu filed the term neighborhood away in his quick mind. The tone of the voice was another matter. He would not forget that either. But why the veiled anger? Perhaps Stu was under pressure now that the plan was no longer a plan but an actuality. Abu would continue to watch Stu for signs of emotional tension. If Stu worsened Abu would have to act. But he could not let Stu’s tone go unanswered. “I do not like your tone, my friend.” Daggers rasped in their sheaths. John pulled his revolver. 36

Beginning “I’m merely stating the truth. You cannot hold me responsible for an oversight on your part. I suggest we put away our weapons. Dogs are not worth sacrificing our mission or its rewards.” Abu unclenched his teeth and laid both hands on the table in front of him. “Agreed.” “As far as the dogs are concerned, the distance between the back door and the pickup will be only a few seconds. Surely no one will react to barking dogs quickly enough to witness our escape.” ∗∗∗ When Calvin Dary got into bed late that night he found his wife still awake waiting for him. She was naked, which for some reason had surprised him. In truth their lovemaking had always been spectacular, at least in his opinion, and if she were not stretching things, most of the time it was for her too. She stroked his chest, pulled him close, and kissed him hard on the lips. It was very late and Cal was surprised she was still awake, much less wanting him. When they had finished, her regular breathing made him envious. She was able to fall asleep so quickly, especially after sex. It always made his adrenaline shoot through the roof. Holding her, touching her, smelling her fragrance, wanting her, knowing she loved him, experiencing her, and letting his love swell in his heart was the most wonderful feeling he had ever had. He found himself lying there wishing he hadn’t given up smoking. It was the fulfillment 37

Holy War of a promise to his daughter two years before, and he only regretted it after sex. He considered the coming Christmas just two days away. It was their turn to house Christmas dinner for the family. Thirty-two had been at Aunt Edna’s last year, but he was hoping for a round twenty-five. After all, there is always hope. Was that a shadow that moved momentarily across the door? He reached over to turn on the light. A heavy hand holding a piece of cloth covered his mouth and nose. He struggled momentarily, smelling a strong pungent odor. He realized he should alert his wife. He kicked out, feeling his foot hit her in the calf. He twisted his head hard against the pressure from the man above him in the dark. Another form bent over his wife. He heard her whimper, and then blackness consumed him.

38

Chapter Three Publicity

C

alvin Dary woke up to sunlight in his eyes and a strange odor in his nostrils. He remembered the night before and sat up violently. A force from behind pulled him back down and his head struck a wall behind the sofa where he was sitting. His arms were tied behind his back with rope that was tied to something beneath the sofa. He had come up so fast that the force of his own movement had caused him to sit back violently when he reached the end of the rope. Who were these people and what did they want from him? Teresa! Oh, my God, Teresa. “What did you do to my wife? Where is she?” The room was moving and it was full of men. The odor he smelled was not the one from the night before, but the smell of close quarters with men who had not bathed properly. “If you remain quiet and do nothing to cause us to use force, it will go better with you and your family.”

Holy War The man who spoke was an Arab dressed in American jeans and a tee shirt that proclaimed in bright red letters, “GO REDSKINS!” The smirk on his face hid something truly sinister. “Is my family O.K? Why have you kidnapped me?” He cursed himself for a fool, and then realized they were perfectly legitimate questions. Why had they taken him? “You will be our reporter. We expect you to report what you see and hear with the same vigorous enthusiasm you normally display. My name is Abu Hamza. Our names are important so be careful to remember them exactly. This is…” “I will not help you in any way. Anyone who breaks into private homes, takes innocent people against their will, and forces them to do their bidding cannot merit help of any kind.” Abu sat down and made a show of leaning back into his heavily cushioned chair. A smile spread across his features that Cal thought was pure evil. A shiver went down his spine, as he perceived the distant coldness of fear begin to build in his heart. These people must be Khariji! Cal took the time to look around. One American and three Arabs were in the room with him. A driver or perhaps two, since they were obviously driving down a road, made five or perhaps six total. “That would be truly unfortunate, Mr. Dary,” the man calling himself Abu Hamza said quietly. Too quietly. The smile on Abu’s face was resolute. “You can just get yourself another patsy.”

40

Publicity “And you will have to get yourself another wife and daughter. Rebekah and Teresa are their names, I believe. Cal felt the coldness of ice enter his heart, and his voice sank to a whisper. “You worthless, murdering…”; he couldn’t go on. What was the use? If these were the Kharjii he had researched, they were indeed capable of murder. None of his words could affect them. Abu opened a case in front of his feet and extracted a newspaper clipping. “Untie his hands but leave his feet for now.” One of the other Arabs complied. The returning circulation actually hurt. He had thought it would feel good. His hands ached as he reached with considerable difficulty to take the paper. It was his article from months before proclaiming Kharijis as the new Nazis. His phone conversation with Stan flashed before his mind’s eye, and he knew his first pang of regret. He now knew for sure who these men were, and they were more for real than even he had predicted. And they apparently held grudges. “So, my opinion angers you.” Cal said the words as calmly as he could. “Not at all, Mr. Dary. It is that you oppose that which is true, and worse, that you put stumbling blocks in the path of those who would believe.” “I do nothing of the sort. I only try to inform my readers about the facts of the world. I want their emotions to be based on truth.” “I will not argue with you, Mr. Dary. You will do as I say, exactly as I say, or you will die and your family will

41

Holy War die. Make no mistake, I will be rewarded for removing infidel blood that fouls the earth with madness.” Cal sat considering his predicament. He could try to escape, or signal someone when they stopped, or any number of other possibilities. The risk he took with his own life was not worth thinking about. The risk he took with the lives of his wife and daughter was another matter altogether. He had not been told he would be killed, but it must be the most likely outcome after whatever they had planned was completed. “I will write your article if you let me talk to my family.” “I don’t doubt it, Mr. Dary, and it will not be one article, but many. Apparently you misunderstand. I have not taken your wife and daughter. We have many other more important things to do than nursemaid two women. They are still at home, no doubt with many police by now, but you will not talk to them. Now sit down.” The motorhome was coming to a stop. Cal’s mind raced with possibilities the future might hold. When the motorhome stopped, Abu got out to be followed back in after a couple of minutes by another American. “Everything went well, John?” Abu asked of the American. “Of course, I dropped off the pickup in front of that Mexican restaurant. The pickup’s doors are unlocked and the key’s in the ignition. It must already be in a shop that removes the parts to sell elsewhere. Ahmed Hanifa picked me up and we accepted the new pickup from one of your people. He made it clear to us that going back to Iraq was the only thing he cared about.” 42

Publicity Cal realized these people were thorough. Abu was clearly making his point. It was obvious he wanted Cal to know what was going on and the fact that they were thorough and careful. He could just as easily have held the discussion outside. “Don’t you need to take notes, Mr. Dary?” Abu asked. “No, I assure you that you and your escapades will be burned into my memory forever.” They all laughed. He didn’t mean it as a joke. “How far are we from San Luis Obispo?” Abu asked of no one in particular. “About thirty miles,” the American called John answered. Cal was filing facts away for possible use later. He would categorize every detail and build a file on each of them in his mind. This Abu Hamza was a name from the past. He was a famous Muslim who had lived hundreds of years ago. An idea came to him, “Why don’t you introduce me to your other compatriots? You do want me to use names in the write-ups, don’t you?” Cal was surprised at the answer. “Of course I do. This is Ahmed Hanifa, across from him is Hasan al-Banna, standing next to the door is John Wilkenson, and by the table there is Stewart Long. I’m sure you can spell all those correctly?” Should he hide what he knew about the history of the Kharijis? How much was the information worth to the authorities?

43

Holy War “Come now, Mr. Dary, surely there are others who recognize the names. As soon as you print them many will know who we are.” All right, then. “Yes, I do know the names. I don’t recognize all of them, but I do recognize two, so I suspect they are all ancient names of some renown in the sect of the Khariji.” The man did want him to name them all for they were already famous people, but only to Moslems who knew the history of the Khariji. “You are very learned,” said Abu Hamza, trying not to look impressed. The puzzle was coming together, but it looked as if the number of pieces were far larger than he at first had imagined. As dusk fell, prayers began. The two Americans guarded him as the Moslems prayed. As each one started, the sounds they made were almost singsong, but the melodic rhythm soon gave way to a droning that went up and down in strength. He sat unable to move or to put the noise out of his mind. The sound was enough to drive him over the edge, which wasn’t very far distant from where he sat. An eternity later Abu finished and stood. “Come. Ride up front so you do not miss anything of importance, Mr. Dary.” They untied his feet but retied his hands, then led him forward. John took the driver’s seat and Abu indicated that Cal was to take the passenger seat. As he sat down, he saw Abu Hamza, who was directly behind him and take out a revolver with a rather large silencer.

44

Publicity “Yes, Mr. Dary. I intend to kill you at the first sign of anything out of the ordinary. In this case that is anything more than sitting and watching.” The motorhome left the main road onto a secondary road. This one was much narrower than the main coastline artery. He wondered where they were headed and why. The motorhome turned left onto another road, then stopped near a power substation next to two pickup trucks. Cal and Abu were left alone in the motorhome as men took positions they obviously had been prepared for. Two men, one on each side of the road, lay prone with rifles of some kind while the other men gathered around the fence protecting the substation. Cal watched with horrified interest as the men quickly cut through the fence and placed what could only be explosives next to several of the electrical units inside. All at once the reason for the two men lying beside the road became clear to him. He checked the rearview mirror. Nothing was coming. He looked forward, but a curve around a rock outcropping obscured his view of the road ahead. “Who are the other two men, Mr. Hamza?” he inquired. “Imad ibn Buwayhid, and Banu Hashim. Your memory is known to be unusually good, Calvin Dary. I suggest you remember the names and spellings. And do not call me by your American title. I do not like mister; Abu will suffice.” “It appears as if you are the learned one, Abu.” “Silence, dog. I will not take kindly to your provocation. There are many reporters in the United States, any who would do as nicely as you. Remember, if you force me to 45

Holy War kill you, I will ensure the death of your wife and daughter as well.” Cal wanted to hit the man. “I understand.” He had never hit anyone in his entire life. Fighting didn’t solve anything. After his first real fight as a child, his father had proven that to Cal. It only made matters worse. Yet his anger was so strong that he had to fight against his desire to hit or curse. The sound of an approaching car made him snap his head around. What were these madmen planning? Surely they weren’t going to kill an innocent passerby. The car passed the motorhome without incident, but just as it neared the midpoint between the two prone men, they opened fire. The car fishtailed first one way then the other, then accelerated. A puff of smoke erupted from the nearer man and an explosion rocked the motorhome as the rear of the car exploded. The momentum of the now flaming car carried it into the outcropping where it bounced once, then stopped altogether. One of the men ran over to the now unmoving car and unnecessarily fired into the interior. These men obviously wanted no witnesses. They were truly evil. Now he had more proof than he ever imagined. As John climbed into the driver’s seat of the motorhome, and the other men returned to their respective vehicles, Cal sat in stunned silence. All three vehicles pulled out onto the road and resumed their trek north. They made their way back to the coastal road and into San Luis Obispo. Full darkness had fallen by the time they reached the city. They were on top of it before Cal became aware that most of the town was in darkness.

46

Publicity The two pickups had pulled ahead long before arriving at San Luis Obispo. This was a practice they would keep up, no doubt, whenever they traveled. Cal suspected that whenever the group was together people who saw them would die. One hundred fifty miles north of town they pulled off the road, then into the field next to the road where no traffic could be seen ahead or behind. Their headlights were off and they traveled much too quickly for the darkness and the unknown field, but a few minutes after leaving the roadway the motorhome pulled to a stop near the two pickups. John Wilkenson brought them food in white Styrofoam containers. It was a salad and some kind of casserole with pasta and hamburger. It was still warm so John’s pickup had only been a few minutes ahead of them. Cal surprised himself by eating all the food. When they finished eating, Abu brought Cal a large leather case and stood looking down at him, clearly thinking. No expression crossed his face as Cal examined the man’s features. Stress lines ran vertically between his eyes almost up to the hairline. Dark circles surrounded the almost black, puffy eyes. This man was not sleeping well. Light came back into Abu’s eyes and he unzipped the case. Cal could see a portable printer stored inside. He knew what was on the other side without looking. “I guess this is a hint for me to get to work telling the world what heroes you were today.” “Do not forget our conversation of earlier today, Mr. Dary. I will not warn you again. Here is a list of rules you will comply with as you write.” 47

Holy War Calvin set about to put into words the horrific events of the day. He knew Abu would scrutinize every word thoroughly but still spent some time trying to come up with a way to pass a message to his editor. The problem he faced was how to conceal the message from the terrorists, yet make it visible to his editor. He could think of nothing. The words came in pieces, his normal rhythm lost somewhere in the death of that car driver and in the darkness of San Luis Opisbo where looting no doubt had taken place. He was sure the space on the front page would be allocated to him but wished to God that they would put his article on the very last page. In truth, no matter where this piece was placed it would be newsworthy. A thought struck him. He backed up to the opening statement after the letter to his editor and replaced the opening line with “It was once said of communist China that they are a sleeping giant. Today the true sleeping giant felt the first pin prick of a wake-up call. Five Khariji terrorists and two American sympathizers destroyed a power station southeast of San Luis Obispo for no other reason but to cause terror. A passing motorist was killed quite intentionally. He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He massaged the text over and over trying to get in as much information as possible to give the authorities data to build a file they could use to track whoever these murderers really were. Names wouldn’t help; places could be filled in later by someone else. What could he tell law enforcement agencies that would be helpful that no other reporter knew? Finally, he decided he knew nothing about any of them except the facts surrounding the murder and destruction of 48

Publicity the substation. He must change that by being his normal inquisitive self from now on. Surely they wouldn’t let him describe the vehicles they were driving, especially since they had just bought a new one. Perhaps information about his abduction would help. He finished the details of today’s events, then began to recap his own abduction at the bottom. If they wanted credit for terrorism, then that was surely worth the writing. His family was no doubt terrorized. He wrote in simple phrases, trying not to highlight his own predicament while describing his family’s succinctly. Cal followed the instructions fairly closely while writing but he was sure there would be much haggling over the exact wording. The surprise came when they only took out the names of the Americans but left the rest just as he had written it. Abu put the pages in a manila envelope and gave them to John who quickly left with the package. “How will you get them to my editor?” “Stan will get the article, Mr. Dary, never fear.” “I’m sure he will, but the news will be useless if we don’t get it to him in time to make the morning edition.” “John is taking them to the nearest working fax machine. From there they will go to a man waiting in a hotel. He checks in for a single night, has a pleasant meal in the restaurant, and keeps to himself. He faxes your article to your editor, then immediately leaves the hotel in a taxi, walks several blocks, enters a car, travels to a city some hours away, spends the night with a contact, and then returns to Iraq. Later we will use American friends and 49

Holy War other nationalities chosen strictly for the one transaction of receiving and sending each single fax. We have planned for years and nothing has been overlooked. Your government, marshals, sheriffs, FBI, and anyone else who tries to track us will fail. Our mission will succeed and you infidel Americans will suffer in payment for the pain inflicted on our people through the years, but especially for your war of aggression which you labeled ‘Desert Storm’.” Cal was stunned. He couldn’t believe the thoroughness, for one thing. How was he to get a message to anyone of import? How would they be stopped as long as they made no mistake? He had watched them carefully. When they stopped for gas, they did so one at a time, and the Americans were the ones to always make the transaction. When they stopped for food, only the Americans went in and brought the food out to the group. When they traveled they did so alone, one vehicle on the road at a time. And now this. It was impossible. Cal had seen a lot of material stored inside the motorhome, including food. What the future held was uncertain, but one thing wasn’t; a long journey was before them. Cal hoped it wouldn’t include a lot of death. They settled in for the evening, and Cal thought he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He laid his head down and felt his body relax. He was overly tired from the ordeal of the day, probably more from the emotional tension than anything else. Sleep came quickly. The sound of the opening door brought him to wakefulness with dawn light just beginning to show on the eastern horizon. It was Abu Hamza holding two 50

Publicity newspapers in his hand. He gave one to Cal and sat to watch him read. It was the local San Luis Obispo paper proclaiming ‘POWER STATION DESTROYED’ as the headline. The article recapped what he already knew and went to some length about the murder coinciding with the substation bombing. He noticed there was no mention of terrorism. One line questioned, ‘Wanton destruction or deliberate act to cripple the city? Or was it something else?’ He looked up to see Abu smiling at him and proffering the other paper. It was the Los Angeles Times. His article was on the front page, but the headline was a world apart from the other he had just read. “TERRORISTS STRIKE AMERICA!” Various articles on their exploits took up the front page. Cal did not know there had been two hits in Las Vegas. One was the destruction of an Army Surplus store that had been known to deal in illegal weapons. The terrorists had taken a truckload of something heavy out the back door, then set off an explosion that completely destroyed the building and five others before the fire was brought under control. The second had been a construction company where they had obtained the dynamite used to destroy the power station. Cal looked up unconsciously. That meant they had traveled across state boundaries and the FBI would be involved. Who else would be involved he did not know, but his hopes of finding a way to get a message to someone went up several notches. It would now be up to him to stop these murderers, but he would have to be very clever.

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Holy War He went back to reading; this time he read his article. It was word for word as he had written it. This time there would be no editorial hashing at his style or his words, no one phoning to ask him to tone it down. The description of the destroyed car and bullet-riddled body within brought sudden thoughts of his own death. They would surely kill him if they succeeded in whatever goal was their ultimate aim. He not only had to stop them to keep them from killing more Americans, he had to stop them if he was to go on living. “We leave tonight and travel in darkness. Your next article will be tomorrow night. Keep thinking of ways to pass a message to your American friends, but it will be useless.” Cal fought to maintain control of his facial expression. Of course they had to suspect, but hearing Abu Hamza say it stunned him nevertheless. Cal forced his mind to consider the terrorists’ next most likely target. Where could they drive in just a day? Abu grinned. “If I even think you attempt to conceal a message in your writing, I will kill your wife, never forget.” Cal changed the subject. “Where are we heading that is north of here?” “San Francisco.” Cal’s heart leapt to his throat. The Golden Gate Bridge!

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Chapter Four The American Beginning

E

lliot Grover exited quickly from the helicopter holding his hat with one hand and his suit coat with the other. Anson Hicks walked just as hurriedly next to him holding his coat in his hand. “I hate helicopters,” Elliot yelled at Anson. “What?” he shouted back. Elliot waited until they had entered the waiting car. “I hate helicopters. They’re noisy, windy, and dangerous. Whoever invented them was a madman determined to torture all of mankind, at least that portion of us who have to ride in the insane contraptions.” “Yeah, but they’re convenient.” “You’re an optimist, Anson. An optimist does not belong in the same car with me.” The other man grinned.

Holy War The driver asked, “Where to first, El, the Dary home or headquarters?” “The Dary home.” The car accelerated quickly, passing through the small buildings on the far end of the airport and on to an access road. “I have a bad feeling about this one, gents,” Elliot Grover said to the two men. “You have a bad feeling about every one of them, El,” the driver replied. “Yeah, that’s because he’s not an optimist,” Anson put in. “And that’s why we don’t belong in the same car with him.” “No, it’s because America is ripe for terrorist attacks. Oklahoma City and the World Trade Center were just indicators of what could happen. Nothing really bad has actually happened yet.” “Sometimes you’re hard to work with, El,” the driver said as he accelerated onto the freeway. “You call the scores of dead in Oklahoma City not really bad?” “Wait and see. It could get much worse. Let’s go over what we have, gents. An unknown number of terrorists arrange for a buy of weapons from a local Army Surplus that also happens to be a front for nastier weapons. They take what they want and destroy the rest. We get six bodies and five burned out buildings. They travel to B&G Construction west of Las Vegas and take a boatload of explosives. We get four bodies and one burned out building. They travel here to Los Angeles and take one famous columnist, scare his wife and daughter nearly out of their minds, and leave the building intact. They shift north 54

The American Beginning

to San Luis Obispo, take out a power station plunging the city into near darkness, kill an innocent passerby, and destroy his car. “So here’s what we know about these terrorists thus far. They have a proclivity for destruction, abduction, murder, and who knows what else, but they haven’t yet been seen. And it appears as if anyone who sees them winds up dead. Coincidentally, of course.” “We’ll get a break,” Anson said, after a short pause. “Optimistic thinking again. We’ll get a break if we can stay sharp and maybe if we get lucky. These guys are good, highly trained, and purposeful. Read that article again if you don’t believe me; it says nothing. The Army Surplus incident tells us nothing. The construction company incident tells us nothing. The power station incident says nothing about them either. We got nothing and we’re likely to get nothing. One thing I’m sure of is that we have to get ahead of these guys and do that quickly.” They drove up to the Dary house to find a cavalcade of Los Angeles’ finest reporters waiting for them. There were news trucks, cameras, cars, and people everywhere. I wonder if it’s like this when a cop gets killed? They lose a reporter and the rest of them gather round the flagpole? They stopped in the middle of the street and all three men got out. Elliot said, “I want this block clean, I want this block clean real bad, and I want this block clean real bad, right now. We have three cars pulling in here within ten minutes

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Holy War that I don’t want noticed. Make it happen.” He walked up to the house waving off the reporters. He didn’t have to knock on the door. It opened and he faced an L.A. policeman. He held out his FBI badge and introduced himself. “We’re waiting for you and three other groups of FBI people. What are you trying to do, take over? Come on in.” Elliot ignored the attempt at humor and looked around for the wife and kid as he made his way into the interior of the house. “There is only one group, not three. They’ll be here in a few minutes to escort Mrs. Dary and her daughter to a safe house. In the meantime, I’m here to talk to her for a few minutes. Where is she?” “In the kitchen; it’s over there.” The policeman pointed. Elliot turned toward the kitchen and saw Jessica Yarrow standing near the doorway. She was his right arm and the better quarter of his brain. They worked well together and Elliot was glad she’d been assigned to the case. He walked over to her and they shook hands. “Been here long?” “Yeah, too long. Actually, I got here about fifteen minutes ago. I feel so sorry for the poor lady. She’s about to lose her self-control.” “Transport team should be here momentarily. I’m going to get her as ready as I can. You know how difficult leaving your home, your friends, and being surrounded by FBI can be.” “Good luck.” “Thanks. I’m sure to need all the luck I can get before it’s over.”

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Elliot walked into the kitchen expecting just about anything except what he got. When you take over situations like this, almost anything that can happen does. Murphy rarely sleeps. Someone said, “This is the man in charge, Elliot Grover.” The woman, her name temporarily slipped his mind, started crying and ran over to him. She grabbed him and started weeping into his jacket. “I’m so glad you’re finally here. Where have they taken him? Is he alive? When will he be free to come back home? Have they hurt him? Oh, my God, what am I going to do?” He held out his arms while she wept, not knowing exactly what to do. Across the room, Jessica mouthed ‘Teresa’ in exaggerated lip motions. He smiled at her gratefully. Jessica was his right arm. They had worked together several times and she knew his proclivity for forgetting names, even right after meeting someone. “Teresa, take it easy. I’m sorry I don’t have much information for you.” Fact was, Elliot didn’t know much. Teresa needed to be transferred to a safe, more controllable environment and that was his first priority. He set about to change the subject and hoped she didn’t get back to it. “We’ve just set up our operations post not far from the safe house you’ll be staying in.” “Why do I have to go there?” She pulled back and wiped her nose with a handkerchief, “I’m so sorry. Look at me, I’m a mess.” Her eyes were positively puffy, like they’d

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Holy War never be the same again. She was a handsome woman even so and obviously loved Calvin Dary. This guy was lucky. “These people mean business, Ma’am.” He wanted to give her a little history. Most of the time the FBI, as well as the CIA, stayed ahead of terrorists. “They’re a hard group and we’re not sure what they plan to do to you or your daughter. And besides,” he smiled his best smile, “we need you safe so you can help us capture them. We’re going to transfer you to what’s known as a safe house for a little while, just until we capture them and get your husband back. The US government has a long history of winning in situations like these. I’m sure we’ll have your husband home soon.” “How can I possibly help?” It had already made a difference. She was beginning to concentrate on something other than her pain and worry. “You know your husband better than anyone else in the world.” Amid the babble of voices he heard the front door open and someone greet Samuel Sheppard. “Excuse me, are you ready, Teresa? Packed, I mean? Your escort just arrived.” “Yes, we packed hours ago, right after we got the call.” Jessica came forward and gently took Teresa by the arm. “They’re here, Teresa,” she said quietly. “We need to get you away from the crowds and reporters to a place you can feel safe.” “Agent Jessica Yarrow is the best analyst in the FBI, Teresa. With her on the team we have the best chance of finding your husband.”

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A half-smile crossed her lips as she looked at Jessica. “What if Cal calls here? What if he gets away and calls?” “We’ve already had the phone forwarded to the safe house. If he calls here, it will ring there. Please don’t worry. We’ve done this lots of times and there are probably hundreds of things already done that you’ll think of later. Is the front secure?” he asked Samuel. Elliot knew it was but asked anyway. “Yes, there’s no problem. Most of the reporters are gone, but they’ll be back.” He took Teresa by the forearm and led her toward the waiting car. “Teresa, you need to read everything he writes. Look for something hidden in his writing only you would know. Look for patterns throughout every article. Think about what Cal might do under the circumstances. Tell us everything you notice no matter how insignificant. Anything could be of importance. We’ll need everything you can think of even if it sounds crazy or stupid.” After they had entered the car, he belatedly remembered the daughter. He shut the door and bent down to look through the open window at them. “Your daughter’s name is Rebekah, isn’t it?” “Yes. Rebekah, this is Agent Grover.” “Are you really usually successful?” Rebekah asked, quietly. Elliot hadn’t known Rebekah had been listening to his conversation with Teresa. “Yes, Ma’am, we sure are. Don’t worry. But we do want you to read those articles, too, O.K.? And call me Elliot.”

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Holy War “Me? You want me to read them?” “Yes. I’ve read your file and you seem to be about as sharp as your dad. And we could use the help.” “I will do my best.” “You and your mother should sit down together and talk about it often. Then later you should sit in your room and think about it by yourself. If you come up with something, call me.” He extracted a business card from his pocket, turned it over and took out his pen. He paused. “555-7861,” Jessica said. “Thanks.” Elliot said as he wrote the number down. He looked up to find Rebekah staring at him with a querulous look. He extended the card to Rebekah. “She’s really good with numbers and names and I can barely remember my phone number at home. We were briefed on our local numbers earlier today and I usually don’t remember them long. Jessica’s awesome, isn’t she?” “My father’s awesome, too.” Elliot could see tears welling at the edges of Rebekah’s eyes. “He’ll help us find him. I’m sure that somehow he will.” “My father always says the future holds what you build on today.” “Wow. That’s profound,” Elliot said. “I know. My father taught me a lot. He says that a little here and a little there and pretty soon you have something bigger than the individual parts, something you can get your hands around.” “Are you saying your dad might leave little hints for us?” 60

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“We read a story once about a girl leaving bread crumbs on the road so she could find her way home. I’m sure he’s trying to do something like that, only in reverse. He’s leaving bread crumbs, but so you can find your way to him.” Rebekah looked down at the business card. Elliot felt small somehow. A building block idea to get a message out was a good idea his team hadn’t thought about. How would Calvin Dary go about building a message? “It’s not my phone. But the person that answers that phone will know how to get me quickly. Call me any time, day or night.” “I think it’s a good idea for me and Mom to be involved, Mr. Grover. My father and I are real close and we understand one another.” “I’ll make sure it happens. Be certain to call if you come up with anything, no matter how small you think it is.” He nodded at the driver. The window went up and three cars pulled off together. He walked over to his car and got in. “Headquarters. Let’s get this thing rolling.” Just before they got to headquarters, his cell phone rang. “Grover.” “We have 162 dead in Las Vegas from a bacteriological agent in the water supply.” “Is it contained? Have you called the Center for Disease Control?” “Yes, it’s contained, but that hardly matters, and yes, the CDC has been notified.” “What do you mean, it hardly matters?” Elliot didn’t understand.

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Holy War “It’s Lake Mead that’s been hit.” “And Lake Mead services much more than Las Vegas.” “A lot of southern California gets water from that lake as well. This is going to cause a lot of serious problems.” Elliot couldn’t let the subject alone. There were too many unanswered questions. “Why did only 162 die? Las Vegas is a huge city.” “There are systems running constantly whose only job is to detect impurities in the water. Lucky for the Las Vegas people that their water system is modern. If that terrorist agent was in any number of others, we’d have thousands dead.” “So these detectors alerted someone and they shut down the water?” Elliot asked. “Well, sort of. These systems shut down the water without human assistance.” ∗∗∗ Cal couldn’t figure out why they were just sitting doing nothing. They had stopped for some unknown reason just north of the Golden Gate Bridge in a parking garage. They had been sitting several hours and he was hungry. His constant guard had changed from Abu to one of the others he thought was Banu Hashim, but wasn’t sure. He did know Christmas had come and gone without a word. He had missed Christmas with his wife for the first time. How were Teresa and Rebekah? Better yet, where were they? Had the government stepped in and made sure they were safe? 62

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He looked at the supplies above the lower bunks. He slept with enough explosives to blow up half of America, and what was in the pickup trucks must certainly be enough to finish the job. So what were they up to? They had been gone a very long time so something was up. He went over in his mind all the conversation from the previous day and night, but nothing came up to give him a clue. He had considered several times blowing the stash in the back of the motorhome, killing himself and the terrorists. But he knew if he didn’t get them all, Teresa and Rebekah would be killed, and he would have died for nothing. How he would start a fire or detonate the first explosive, he couldn’t figure out, anyway. Most of the items were in boxes or containers, so he would have to break into one and ignite it somehow. If things got much worse, he would have to blow them somehow because many Americans could die before these guys were caught. Calvin Dary considered his predicament. He did not possess any skills he could use such as explosives or firearms training. He wasn’t particularly strong and didn’t know any martial art. He couldn’t even run very fast. His only weapons were the computer keys and his words. It was time to come up with a plan to pass a message. But what kind of message? It wouldn’t help to just tell the FBI where the terrorists stopped for the night. No, that wasn’t right, even that would make a difference. He began to tally the number of known dead and could only come up with one from San Luis Obispo and a handful or so from the Las Vegas Construction Company and

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Holy War Surplus Store. They were doing very little damage as far as he knew, but he could see in their eyes that murder was not even considered avoidable. The sound of pickup trucks arriving caused Cal to look out the window. Shortly, the door opened and the air was suddenly charged with emotion. Abu said, “Bring the computer.” They exited the motorhome and Abu, Banu, and Cal got into one of the pickup trucks with Cal in the middle. John got in the motorhome and drove off and Stu Long drove the other pickup alone. That left three others missing. There was a sense of urgency now; after waiting nearly all day, suddenly they wanted to move in a hurry. The motorhome was in front of them with about a dozen cars in between. The pickup Stu Long was driving was about the same number of cars back. They nearly got onto the Golden Gate Bridge before the rush hour traffic stopped them. Time seemed to stand still. It must be a bad traffic jam, we haven’t moved in almost an hour, Cal thought. Traffic was moving toward them, albeit slowly, so that meant the terrorists hadn’t caused the traffic jam, or had they? Banu began to look often at his watch. Abu was stoic. Cal could read little in their faces or eyes. He told them about the local AM radio station where they could get up to the minute traffic reports on what was happening on the bridge and elsewhere in the city. Perhaps information about the traffic jam could aid in determining what damage the terrorists were attempting. After a few minutes the announcer told them about a three-car pileup involving a bread truck on the southern side.

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Finally the traffic began to make progress. Cal looked west toward the nearing sunset. Seeing the sunset made Cal remember that Moslems prayed at sunset. How could these guys believe any god would listen to them after what they had done and no doubt what they were planning to do? As soon as they finished crossing the bridge, Cal looked back to take in its majesty. It got to him every time. It was a magnificent construction that spoke of American ingenuity. Cal thought about the building of it early in the twentieth century. Great difficulty had been encountered building the foundations, especially the center foundation. Finally, a large cylinder, the Roman cofferdam, was lowered through the water and into the earth beneath. After pumping the water out, work began on the foundation for the center support. He couldn’t remember exactly how long the bridge was but it was more than a mile, almost two, if his memory served him right. Cal was startled out of his thoughts when Abu said, “Tell me when Stu’s pickup is fully across, Mr. Dary.” He turned without thinking and observed the pickup. “It’s over,” he stated matter-of-factly when the truck cleared the bridge. “No, turn back around and keep watching.” Cal looked at him from the corner of his eye as Abu pulled a small, black box from his coat pocket. It had three switches and a lone red light. He pulled an antenna out and calmly pushed the top button. The red light lit momentarily as a loud cracking sounded somewhere near. Cal realized what had just happened and turned to stare at the bridge.

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Holy War Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He turned back as Abu pushed the second, then the third button. A second loud cracking was followed immediately by a thud he could feel in his chest. He couldn’t be sure at first, but then it became clear that the center section of the bridge was falling. “Stop the truck, you murderous animals!” he shouted. “I want to see! You think we are murderers, but look at yourselves. We will repay you!” “You will see enough from here. Do not forget your family, Mr. Dary. There are more of us than you may think, so do not even think to destroy us with the guns or the explosives we carry. The will of Allah is of primary importance; our lives mean little. If we fail, others will follow until our mission has been accomplished.” He watched in horror as the bridge collapsed behind him. He could see cars partially floating away from the bridge. On top of one he could clearly see someone standing, waving his arms as if to attract attention. How anyone had survived the long plunge into the cold waters below amazed him. Obviously, many more had not. Anger welled up from within the deepest part of him and he struck out at Banu, the driver. The truck swerved as Banu fought the flailing of arms against him. A heavy object hit him in the back of the head but he retained consciousness. He leaned back against the seat, put his hand to the back of his head and felt a lump already forming. He turned back around to watch the carnage. People were running all over the bridge that buckled and twisted like a living snake. Cal then noticed the cables hanging and 66

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realized what the first two buttons had done. They had cut the two large cables that ran over the top of the bridge to help support it. Abu reached behind Cal and pounded Banu on the back. “I told you it would work!” he exclaimed. Banu began laughing almost hysterically and pounded the dashboard. “It is a thing of beauty! Only Denver Stadium will be better!” Abu’s head snapped toward Banu. His eyes were full of fury but he said nothing. Denver Stadium? It was as if Banu had shouted the words into Cal’s ear. They were going to Denver! What was going on this time of year in Denver Stadium? It must be professional football playoffs. Yes, that would explain it: Denver was in the playoffs this year. But how had the Moslems known Denver was going to be good enough to get into the playoffs? Perhaps, he decided, they had planned to hit one of the playoff games and Denver had been the most logical choice. They were hours getting out of San Francisco, which gave him ample time to write. He told the story in dispassionate terms, knowing his words would be changed if he didn’t follow the rules. He gave glory to Allah, told of the faith of the terrorists, and praised their work while weaving in the facts, as he knew them. Only two sentences were carefully constructed to hide a simple truth. “The Khariji are like a herd of Broncos in America’s Wild West. They buck and push against American arrogance as they snort their defiance.”

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Holy War After Abu gave his final approval Stu left with the article. Cal wondered if the hint he had planted in the article would be recognized. We’re in trouble, big trouble. America is too open a society to prevent this type of attack. We’re too trusting, too faithful, and if you think about it, too honest. America is complacent. We should have been working to prevent this from happening. A well-planned series of attacks by a small group of foreign nationals, with the help of American sympathizers, and backed by all the money necessary, is capable of causing major damage to the American people as well as to America’s resources. Why hasn’t the FBI reacted already? And better yet, why didn’t America’s considerable intelligence resources know of the impending jihad and stop it before it began?

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Chapter Five No Witnesses

C

alvin Dary’s night was spent fitfully tossing and turning on the slim mattress that served him for a bed. The others had less, yet he was the uncomfortable one. It bothered him that the Americans among them slept on soft mattresses and the Iraqis slept on the floor covered by single blankets, with rolled up jackets or their arms serving as pillows. This was winter and it was cold since they never ran the motorhome’s generator at night. He assumed the generator made too much noise since no one had ever mentioned exactly why they didn’t run it. He thought about how warm his home was, then began to think about his wife snuggled under their covers and whether he would ever see her again. Their daughter was the joy of their lives, too. What a wonderful child Rebekah had always been. She had never caused them one minute’s trouble. Her laughter rang in his

Holy War heart and brought tears to his eyes. He shook them off, unwilling to allow himself the weakness. Cal’s arm was asleep and he was cold. He rolled over in the semi-darkness and tried to think about tomorrow. What should he do? What could he do? He never had been athletic. His one try at football had ended in embarrassment and failure. He had played exactly one play on a kickoff. The other team had kicked off and it all happened so fast that he didn’t know which to block of the two guys who came running toward the ball carrier. He finally just stood there as they both tackled the ball carrier. His coach had yelled at him after the play, “For God’s sake, hit somebody, Cal!” He promised himself not to be so indecisive, if he could only figure out what to do. Finally, gratefully, he fell asleep. Morning brought the newspapers as always. They were in Arizona going where Cal couldn’t even hazard a guess, traveling down a two-lane road and staying off the interstates. They had stopped only briefly for Stu to buy a paper from the stand at a 76 station. They never did two things at the same place. Gas was a single stop as were newspapers. They had lots of food, almost as much food as they had explosives. Cal tried to determine how long the food would last. Maybe that information would give him an estimate of how long the terrorists planned to continue their attacks. The newspaper was passed around as each took turns recounting their favorite excerpt. Five hundred fifty-three had died in San Francisco, 162 in Las Vegas, and one in San Luis Obispo. One hundred sixty-two souls in Las 70

No Witnesses Vegas! The death toll was rising rapidly. How many would die before this crew was dead or gone? Finally, it was his turn. He hardly glanced at the headlines but folded the paper in half and placed it head down on his lap. His eyes focused on the large type on the bottom half of the front page. OVER 700 DEAD! Almost a thousand Americans had lost their lives. He couldn’t grasp the suffering. Cal thought how his own family would feel if he were suddenly gone. The anguish due to a natural death was nothing compared to that felt after a murder. The family and friends almost always wanted either vengeance or the ability to forgive, usually vengeance. Teresa and Rebekah would suffer for many years, as well as the rest of his family. Cal shook himself, then quickly scanned that article and several others dealing with various aspects of each incident. He turned to the editorial page. Stan’s article was entitled: “Retribution shall be mine, saith the Lord.” Cal couldn’t remember exactly, but he didn’t think that was quite right. In any case, Stan was trying to say that God would repay the terrorists for the horror and destruction caused to America. Cal knew God’s retribution would be longer in coming than any American retaliation. The death count from the water in Las Vegas was up to 162, with 553 in San Francisco, and one in San Luis Obispo. Seven hundred sixteen dead and still rising. Cal considered Denver. He knew that to be one target, but how many others would be ‘hit’ before these madmen arrived in Denver? The nearest large city was Vegas, but San Luis

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Holy War Obispo was a small city, so why was he thinking they would attack another large one? When they pulled off the main road onto a secondary road then onto a gravel road, Cal was not surprised. They turned once again up another dirt road with only a mobile home and a barn in sight. He looked both ways but nothing was visible: no homes, no telephone poles, no power lines, no fences. Nothing. The three trucks were all there along with an eighteenwheeled truck configured as a flat bed. Chained down on the flat bed were four very large, shiny, canisters each marked: “1010-A SONAR MEASURING DEVICE”. The surprise wasn’t the truck for he was beyond even mild shock with this group. They planned well and knew exactly what was next; it was the new American standing beside the flatbed that surprised him most. Cal rolled the window down to listen. “You’re almost a day late,” the man said. John Wilkenson walked over to the new American and briefly shook hands. “Hey, Mark. Haven’t seen you in a couple of years. So this is my baby?” John ran his hand down the edge of the flatbed. “It sure is and you can have the whole enchilada. This truck drives like a piece of solid steel without shocks and springs,” Mark Tildon replied. “You have to be smarter than the truck.” “So you’re going to have trouble, then.”

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No Witnesses “No, Mark, I’m going to drive this baby to victory. I twisted my foot as a small boy sightseeing on Hoover Dam and I can’t wait to get even.” Both men laughed without humor. ∗∗∗ Elliot Grover hung up the phone and turned to find everyone looking at him. His people were stressed. “Get back to work, people. Still no news.” One by one the FBI agents returned to work. They were all wondering if someone in their families would be next, or someone they knew and loved. America was hurting and fearful, perhaps more now than ever before in history. Accusations were flying freely, blame was being spread around like butter on a hot roll, and so far no one in America had done one positive thing. Elliot, himself, couldn’t do much until this group of people, or perhaps someone from one of the other government agencies, gave them information. He only knew that they had to catch these guys. His people needed a lift but there was nothing he could give them. Elliot decided to tell them what little he knew. He stepped on a chair, then onto the top of a desk. There were more than fifty people in this room. Facsimile machines were noisily spitting paper, a few telephones were ringing, and the sound of people moving chairs and getting back to work caused enough noise that he needed to get their attention. “Everyone!” he nearly shouted. “Here’s what we have, people. These guys are leaving no witnesses, anywhere. We’ve had thousands of reports of 73

Holy War sightings but none of them have led anywhere.” He started to say, ‘I think’ but changed it just in time. “The Washington team thinks these guys are traveling in one or two-man units and meeting at designated sites. We think they are Iraqis or Iraqi trained and funded. We think they are traveling in the company of Americans. That would help explain the fact that we haven’t located them. Americans driving, buying gasoline, paying for hotels, et cetera, wouldn’t be noticed. If the terrorists are staying in cheap motels, the Americans rent the rooms and the Iraqis could then crawl in the back window.” Someone toward the break area in the back raised his hand. “Yeah?” “They have to make a mistake sometime. Do we know approximately where they are so we can concentrate in that area?” “Good question,” he replied. “They must be within a few hundred miles of San Francisco. Obviously they are traveling in small teams but the Americans are buying the food, as well as the gasoline and other items. We’ve notified everybody we can identify who owns a fax machine and told them to institute a policy of awareness. These guys have faxed every one of Calvin’s articles and we think they’ll continue. We’ll get a break. “In the meantime, Johnson, gather your team and check every motel, gas station, KOA, restaurant, and watering hole between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Metters, you take yours and do the same thing between Los Angeles and San Luis Obispo. Wilkins, do the same between San Luis 74

No Witnesses Obispo and San Francisco. Call in whatever help you need. Make it happen.” Ken Metters asked, “What are we looking for in particular, besides the obvious?” “That’s exactly what we’re looking for, something besides the obvious. Jessica, you ready?” “You bet,” she replied. They traveled to the safe house using a circuitous route and arrived almost an hour later. It was just a five-mile journey. The job of interfacing with the families of victims was difficult. Family members were just as much the victims, if not more so. The very fact of not knowing where their loved one was or whether he was alive was tortuous. He had often told his wife he didn’t want to get hard like so many others; he wanted to feel their pain. It helped motivate him. To see their anguish and pain gave him inspiration like nothing else. Elliot wasn’t going to lie to her. Later he might need Teresa and then he would need her trust. But what do you say when you don’t know anything? “I’m sorry, Teresa, still no positive news, but we do have a lot of leads. Have you reviewed the two articles?” “Yes. It’s Cal’s writing, all right.” “You’re sure?” “Yes, of course. He has a particular trademark in his writing. The style is definitely Cal, but the tone is so dark. He writes with almost no emotion.” He had noticed that, too. “It must be the influence of his captors.” Elliot had almost said ‘terrorists’, but that word

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Holy War had all the wrong connotations. “They want him to say certain things, I’m sure.” “I know. We’re just glad he’s still alive.” “You wouldn’t believe the number of people we have on this. The FBI has over fifty people in LA alone working nothing else. There’s never been anything like it in the history of America. We’ll get these guys, Teresa. Just keep looking and thinking. Don’t give up. You and your daughter may be the critical piece to the jigsaw puzzle.” “Well, there is one thing,” Teresa said, looking down at the floor as if contemplating. “What?” “Calvin has an aversion to horses. He’s never used them to describe anything before. I think maybe he was trying to tell us something.” “You mean the Broncos statement about bucking and kicking?” “Yes, exactly,” she replied looking into Elliot’s eyes. “Believe me, Teresa, we have a team of specialists pouring over every word. We looked at Broncos, too. We couldn’t come up with any good ones, but we’re still in the process of tracking down everything we could think of from horse farms to rodeos. Can you possibly give me any ideas?” “Maybe. I want to talk with Rebekah while we look over our photo albums.” “Good idea,” Elliot said and then, without looking around, “Bob, you still here?”

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No Witnesses “Yeah,” a black-haired man replied from behind him. “Make it happen.” ∗∗∗ John Wilkenson sat in a line of vehicles that was almost five miles long, stretching from where he sat to Hoover Dam. He looked in his rearview mirror and tried to determine how many vehicles were behind him. It was the one thing they hadn’t planned on, traffic jams caused by their own activity. He was on the east side of Hoover Dam and he was nervous. He had no weapon; it was too dangerous to carry one. His old wallet had been replaced with a new one containing only his fake IDs and money, just in case he needed some. He had never been fingerprinted so he was untraceable unless a nationwide campaign was launched to find someone who knew him. The Khariji had known that a nationwide search was a probability in America so after they approached him following Desert Storm five years ago, he had been required to distance himself from anybody and everybody. He had trained for this job for years and he was going to make sure he stayed alive to enjoy the rest of the money. So far he had collected 100,000 dollars every year, and when this job was over, Allah could collect all the praise he could muster but John Wilkenson was moving to Brazil with the cool five million he had been promised. He reached over to the glove compartment and extracted a folder with everything he needed in it and placed it carefully beside him. He inspected his logbook. It was his 77

Holy War alibi so it had to be watertight. He checked the carefully recorded dates and pickup times, the supposed blown tire where he spent an overnighter to get it replaced. In actuality, he had traveled directly from the location where the switch had taken place. The logbook was impeccable, so he replaced it in the folder. John looked around the inside of the tractor. Everything was in order. He pushed aside the curtain hiding the sleeping chamber behind the front seats. One thing remained. He checked the diving equipment lying on the bunk. It, too, was in perfect working order. He finished his inspection, then allowed the curtain to fall back into place to mask everything behind. Nothing illegal was there but there was no need to invite unnecessary questions. John turned around to face the dwindling line in front of him. The plan ran through his mind one last time. The outside rearview mirrors gave him a good picture of the bombs hidden inside the crates marked as sonar devices. All were tied down and none had shifted during the ride. He reached up under the dash and extracted a small plastic case from which he removed a syringe marked ‘ANTIDOTE’. He carefully removed the protective rubber tip on the needle, remembering Abu Hamza’s conscientiously delivered words. ‘An hour before your plunge into the water, you must inject yourself with the antidote or you will die long before you reach the safety of the shore.’ John wondered once again about the powerful agent Abu Hamza had placed in the water of Lake Mead. It had been a whole week since Abu had released the small canister of bacteriological agent into the water behind the 78

No Witnesses powerful Hoover Dam. Yet, its strength was still enough to kill if John only swam in the water; amazing. He gritted his teeth and drove the needle into the muscle of his leg, being careful to miss the bone in the center. The pain caused him to wince even more, being greater than he anticipated. He pushed the plunger until the liquid was gone then pulled the needle out as quickly as possible. He casually threw the syringe out the window and rubbed vigorously on his newly inflicted, albeit insignificant wound. He pulled up to the hastily assembled inspection point and actually prayed to Allah for safe passage. In Europe, as well as in other countries in the world, traveling was possible only when a passport and other identifying papers were carried. Hoover Dam had always been open just like the rest of America, but now inspection points had been set up at both ends. Of course, a car full of explosives wouldn’t be enough to do more than scratch the surface of the dam. Even a semi-truck such as his wasn’t big enough to do much damage above the dam. But his was special. He was next. Again he knew momentary fear. John Wilkenson slowly, deliberately focused on his front: his company was real, the material he supposedly carried was real, his papers were authentic, he really was a company employee, and this was a real delivery to a destination expecting the material he carried. Actually, the real electronic and mechanical equipment was disassembled and melted down by now. The explosives he carried in the unobtrusive canisters had replaced it. Short of an X-ray or opening of the canisters, he had nothing to fear, yet. Not 79

Holy War until he had the planned blowout on the dam did he have anything to fear. “Turn off the truck and step down, please. Bring your log books, driver’s license, registration, permits, and bill of lading.” Standing next to the police officer, he handed his folder over and looked around casually. “What a mess those murderous bastards have caused, huh?” “Please be quiet, sir,” was the reply as the police officer went through the material. A signal must have been given but John didn’t see it. Men and women came running from everywhere with weapons drawn. “Turn around and put your hands on the truck,” the policeman shouted. John fought the run instinct. They had prepared him for this. The guards were bound to be extra careful; almost anything could excite their attention, a misplaced comma, a missing signature, a suspicious name, almost anything. His story was tight so he need only wait for the police to sort it out. John tried to convince his racing heart that all this was expected, but failed. It was a cool day but sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip anyway. One by one his hands were cuffed behind him. Belatedly, he remembered his instructions, “What are you doing? Let me go. Somebody needs to call my dispatch. They’ll tell you I’m on my way to Torrance, California with this load.” He was taken into a prefab outbuilding where temporary telephones and radios had been set up. “Damn it, you guys, I’ve already lost a bet ‘cause I’m late with this load. I 80

No Witnesses should have bought new tires when I saw they weren’t so good. I’ve lost a hundred big ones because of a blown tire, so I don’t need another hang up. Somebody get their act together and get me back on the road.” “Please be quiet, sir. We’re checking anybody suspicious.” “I’m not suspicious; what’s so suspicious about a load of electronic equipment? My name is John Price. You can check me out with my company or the union.” “Please be calm, sir. This will only take a few minutes.” Phones were in use and people were talking in the little room so that he couldn’t hear who was talking to his dispatcher. This had all been planned. Suddenly he wasn’t worried. He had a good feeling about this one. “It’s O.K., Bob,” someone shouted. “Why did you stop me?” he asked. “You were supposed to be here yesterday. You’re a day late,” was the reply. The policeman uncuffed him, “Sorry about the delay, Mr. Price. Have a good trip.” “That’s it? Have a nice trip, Mr. Price? You guys are insane. You ought to join the terrorists, you’re just as crazy as they are. Oh, that’s right, you can’t find them or maybe you would join them.” “You’d better go while you still can, Mr. Price.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He got back on his truck just barely able to suppress a laugh. He waited an interminable amount of time before being directed back into the stream of traffic going across the bridge. The traffic was now down to almost nothing on 81

Holy War this side of the inspection line. He accelerated to the speed limit and a little over, according to his instructions. Near the middle of the dam, he reached for the button installed just last night on the dash and pushed it. A popping noise sounded, and the front right tire ruptured from an internal explosion. He deliberately steered to the right until he hit the barrier and stopped. He got out screaming and cursing and kicking the tires. He banged the door with his fist and then squeezed between the fender and the barrier to the bad tire and kicked that, too. He continued down the side of the truck as police once again arrived. “You all right?” one of them shouted. “Yeah, no problem. I could use some help getting this tire changed though. It’ll help the traffic flow.” “Hoover base,” the policeman said into his walkie-talkie, “we need a maintenance truck out here. He’s got a blown tire.” The record of the first blown tire was a stroke of genius. It placed credence on this incident and would probably give him the extra time he needed. “I’m going to check my load and then get started.” He made his way down the line of chains holding down his four bombs and surreptitiously removed a pin on each one. When the flatbed reached forty-five degrees, the chains would slide off and the bombs would roll into the water. They were set to detonate at midnight tonight unless tampered with or a remote signal detonated them early. He got back to the front of the truck just as the maintenance truck drove up. Three men got out to join the 82

No Witnesses two policemen already there. He opened the truck door, “Just let me get my gloves and we’ll get started. I sure do appreciate the help.” He climbed into the cab, slipped first one arm then the other through the straps, pulled the binding straps tight, slipped on the mask and mouthpiece, then slid over to the passenger side of the cab. He pushed yet another button, and the hydraulics that would tilt the flatbed started pumping from batteries stored in the spare compartment; they would only need twenty seconds. Now, even if someone had the presence of mind to disconnect the batteries under the hood, the flatbed would still lift on the side away from the water until the bombs rolled off. Hoover Dam was a thing of the past; it was just a matter of time. The whine of the flatbed raising brought a smile to his lips. Brazil, here I come, he thought. Remarkably, no one noticed anything until he opened the door. He stood on the step and jumped toward the water several stories below. The sound of shots rang out just before he hit the water. He let his momentum take him well under water before starting to swim for the far shore and upstream, away from the dam. He knew the officers above were firing into the water in a vain attempt to hit him. Off to his right he could see powerful lights probing the water. He had forgotten the viewing ports; he would be visible. But how could they shoot him from those? He felt a constriction in his throat, then realized it was more than a constriction. It was rapidly developing into real pain. He tried to swallow and discovered he couldn’t. The antidote hadn’t worked! 83

Holy War Even though he was swimming for all he was worth, he knew he was losing the battle. His arms felt like lead weights as he struggled to swim through the water toward safety. They knew he was here and were probably watching what was surely his death fight. He’d rather drown than go through the agony he suddenly realized was before him. He pulled off his mask and tried to force himself to draw water into his lungs. He inhaled but involuntarily coughed before the water entered his lungs. By the time the air had left his lungs and he had stopped coughing, he was in full view of one of the ports. Now he didn’t have enough air to attempt to scream. His mouth opened in horror as the woman watching his death turned from the frightening vision before her. His last thought was that at least she had the breath to scream.

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Chapter Six Ramadan

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al Dary sat on the east side of Hoover Dam, parked in an overlook along with several other campers, motorhomes, and cars. Behind the dam, Lake Mead shimmered as the sun cast its faint rays on the surface. There was no room for another vehicle in the parking area. The windows of the truck were opened and Abu Hamza turned to Cal Dary. “One word and your family dies. Watch the dam,” he said. Abu picked up a box with a trailing wire running to the cigarette lighter. He pulled out an antenna and pushed a button without pausing. In front of the dam, volumes of water sprayed high into the air and sirens sounded. The spray of water created rainbows against the sun dipping low on the horizon behind. The sudden spray cascaded back into the water, but little else happened.

Holy War Suddenly, activity erupted in the center of the dam as well as on both east and west sides as water began to spray from the southern face where water should never spray, not even at full capacity. The spray continued for only a few seconds before the center section of the dam could be seen moving. Then, with a boom like a huge bomb, the dam gave way to the pressure of the water. Debris, cars, trucks, people, and water were hurled southward away from the disintegrating dam. Billions of gallons of water rushed downstream in a torrential flood. With more force than a tidal wave, the wall of water plunged downstream to leave total destruction in its wake. Cal Dary put his head in his hands. He tried not to imagine the destruction hurtling down the river. “No, my American reporter, you must watch a moment longer.” The gun poking into his ribs reminded him of his predicament and he looked back up, leaving the tears on his face. Cal watched in horror as Lake Mead poured its contents past the ever-crumbling dam. What further problems would be caused? Cal could only guess. That his family and Los Angeles would be gravely affected was a certainty. When the rushing water was no longer breaking large pieces from the crumbling dam, Abu said, “Start the truck and drive. Tomorrow RamaDaan starts and things will be much different.” ∗∗∗

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Ramadan Beginning the very first day of Ramadan, things were indeed different. They traveled only at night, ate only at night and then only one meal. The Americans were also forbidden to eat or drink during the day, not so much as a cup of water. The prayers now differed from previous ones and lasted longer. There was no joking of any kind allowed and not much talking. The Iraqis’ meals consisted only of dates and water, nothing else. Two days after the Hoover Dam incident, Cal considered whether or not to tell the two Americans about the deliberate killing of John Wilkenson. They had heard about John’s death in the lake, but it was clear only to Cal that Abu Hamza had wanted him dead and that was why he had detonated the bombs while John was still in the danger zone. He finally decided if he ever got Stu alone, he would warn him. It might sow seeds of doubt in his mind enough to cause one of them to make a mistake the feds could capitalize on. He considered his pun on capitalists and decided to try to put that in the next article. The other American, the one they had picked up with the delivery of the flatbed, was too quiet and too unknown to trust with his knowledge of John Wilkenson’s fate. What was his name? They pulled off the road at an overlook somewhere in the back roads of Colorado. Calvin Dary stepped down to the ground, grateful to be stopped. His legs ached from the long hours riding at thirty miles per hour down winding, steep roads. It was mid-afternoon as Cal and Abu Hamza strode up to the railing at the overlook. Colorado was truly beautiful. His eyes took in the valley below and the line of snow-covered trees by the tens of thousands, or could it be 87

Holy War hundreds of thousands? A pickup truck turned the corner going up the mountain nearly a half-mile in front of them; it was one of their two, no doubt having stopped here also. Stu Long walked up to stand beside them. It was cold and overcast so they were alone at the pullout. “I didn’t think we’d ever get here,” he complained while rubbing his thighs with gloved hands. Cal had always wanted a jacket like the one Stu wore. White wool around the collar, brown leather, and brass buttons. Why is he helping these killers? Cal thought again, his mind going over and over the possibilities, again without coming to a plausible conclusion. “Me, either,” he replied. “Where do we stop next and for how long?” It was an innocent enough question. “Silence,” Abu said quietly, without looking at either of them. Stu shrugged and pursed his lips. Cal began doing a few deep knee bends to get his circulation working again. The big toe on his right foot was numb. The sound of an approaching car made Cal cringe. Don’t stop, he thought. Don’t stop. He was horrified as the car pulled in just two parking slots to their right. A woman got out and Cal looked at Abu to gauge his reaction. The sound of two closing doors made him look back at the car, but he could only see the woman. A small child? Abu turned toward the car, then back to the panorama while placing his hand nonchalantly inside his coat. “Charlie, you just pee over there and let’s get going,” the woman said. “I’m sorry,” she said to Cal, he being the only 88

Ramadan one still facing her, “my little boy had to pee and there’s nothing anywhere, not even a decent bush at this time of year.” He didn’t know how to respond, or even if he should. Would they kill him if they thought he was trying to pass some message? He decided to follow their lead and faced the valley without a word, hoping the woman would just get in her car and drive away. “Say, I know you. You’re Calvin Dary from the Los Angeles Times. I’ve seen your picture in the paper. My father reads the LA Times religiously…” Before the terrorists reacted, she realized her predicament. “Get back in the car, Charlie, hurry.” Abu turned and aimed, the gun coughed and the woman fell. Behind her, blood and bits of brain and hair littered the car hood and windshield. Abu and Stu walked quickly toward the car and Cal followed at a run. “You can’t kill an innocent child,” he shouted as they rounded the rear of the car. The boy, Charlie, stood as if frozen to the ground, with his penis still out and mouth wide open, unaware that his mother lay dead on the other side of their car. Abu raised his revolver and Cal struck out, first at his arm, then at his face. The gun barrel hit him across the forehead and eye with a crack, cutting deep into his brow. Cal fell to one knee then the other. Blood flowed freely down his face and into his eye. The gun pointed back to the boy. “This is RamaDaan.” Cal deliberately used its Islamic pronunciation rather than the Americanized version. “A thousand good deeds will be 89

Holy War credited to you if you spare the boy now!” He did his best to shout but it came out more like a croak. “Silence, dog!” Abu shouted back, but the gun quivered in his hand. Was it the promise of blessing, the need to perform good deeds during their holy month, or a spark of mercy? Cal had no way of knowing. “You say you are here because we killed your women and children. So how is this different? How could you be rewarded for such a thing? Is not RamaDaan the month of generosity?” The boy began to cry. Cal knew he was running out of time, for the sobs of the boy would add fuel to the flames licking at the will of Abu. “For true Kharijis, faith is justified only when correct belief is added to right action.” Cal was glad his voice sounded firmer. Abu Hamza turned from the boy and pointed the gun at Cal. “Turn your back to me and stay on the ground.” Cal turned instantly. He heard Abu say to Stu, “Put the body inside her car, find the keys, and push the car over the cliff, down there where the fence ends. And hurry.” Cal turned his head to watch Abu crawl under the car and put his knife through the gas tank. Gas gushed over Abu’s hand and onto the ground. One spark and Stu and Abu would be dead. It was a foolhardy thing to do. The car started and backed up while Abu took the boy and disappeared out of his field of view. He turned around and watched Stu drive the car to the edge, get out, and push it over. Several crashes later the car rested wherever its

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Ramadan momentum and gravity carried it, but no explosion sounded. Stu lit a match and ignited the gasoline from the punctured tank, then started for the motorhome. “Get up. Come on, hurry it up.” Thankfully no other cars happened along before they could get back on the road. The boy was missing. “Where is Charlie?” Cal asked, timidly. He deliberately used the boy’s name to add a touch of personal interest. “He is tied up, sitting on the toilet in the back with his mouth taped shut. If he makes so much as one sound, I will kill you and then him. If you speak one word to him or so much as give him a single piece of toilet paper, I will kill you and then the boy. I have almost exhausted my patience with you, Calvin Dary.” “Why didn’t you just leave him there for the next car to find?” “He may only be six or seven, but he has seen enough of us and our transportation to give the authorities sufficient information to track us. Relax, Calvin Dary, when I release the child, it will be in a place where he is certain to be found after a few hours. It is not your concern. We are three hours from our rendezvous point; get the computer and begin to write your next article. It is Saturday and I apologize that the Sunday edition will miss your article. But Monday’s will have the largest you have written.” “What would you have me put in it beside the killing of Charlie’s mother?”

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Holy War “That will suffice for now, but do not forget to adequately capture how we saved the boy because he is a child and we’ve had enough dead children of our own.” “That isn’t enough material. What else would you have me write?” He was hoping for more information to aid in his attempt to get location data to the authorities. “You will find out soon enough. But I will tell you it is our second biggest target.” ∗∗∗ M. James Vernider, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, watched the exchange with pleasure. It was about time someone besides the Secretary of State slammed Betz around for being recalcitrant. “No, Mister Betz, I don’t think you understand,” the President of the United States said. “I don’t care if you are the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, I’m telling you that there is no other priority except stopping these terrorists.” “I can’t just drop everything and focus all my resources on this problem, big as it may be.” “I’m not telling you to stop everything else. What I am telling you is that every ounce of manpower we can put on this thing is required to stop these murderers. You heard what these people discussed here today.” He pointed around the conference table. “You have one priority and only one priority, just like the rest of us: protecting American lives

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Ramadan and the American way of life. Everything else is secondary, and I do mean everything else.” “There are other hot spots in the Middle East, Mr. President.” “Not anymore,” the President replied. “I don’t understand. I’m just as angry about these attacks as you are, Mr. President, but if we pull people from other assignments, their covers will be blown, and they may be discovered before we can get them out of the country. I’ve told you, it will take years to get other operatives in like positions. We can’t just give up the gains we’ve made in the Mideast. What are you afraid of anyway? You’re already in your second term, you have nothing to prove and nothing left to gain. You can’t even run for reelection.” The director of the Central Intelligence Agency stood to leave. He folded his planner and picked up his pen, taking extra time to place his pen in his shirt pocket in just the right spot. The President stood as well. The face of the American president turned red as he fought his anger. “Do as you are instructed. I expect to know who these people are and who funds them, and I expect to have that information just as soon as is humanly possible.” Shelby Betz walked over next to the President, “The agents that I refer to, Mr. President, are important to our national security.” “And I’m telling you that unless these monsters are decisively stopped, our nation has no security. Do as I have instructed.” Shelby Betz turned without a word and left the room. 93

Holy War The door shut behind him, “Our relationship has deteriorated since the Air Force Academy,” the President commented to the room at large. No one there knew how to answer. The President collected himself, sat down, and began again, “Since the beginning of this campaign of terror, I have received several good pieces of work from various sources. Several of them are included in the packet before each of you. There is the possibility of attacks of retaliation by Americans on anyone thought to be of East Asian descent, possible rioting, and other situations we need to come to grips with. Review them and be back in here to discuss possible avenues of response in one hour.” The President stood and exited without another word. M. James Vernider watched the remaining people look from one to another. No one had seen the President indecisive before. Always he ran the country like he flew a jet fighter, with solid control and full knowledge of how to control her. Now, he seemed to have no idea how to deal with these terrorists. He seemed to be hoping that someone else would do it for him. They hurried to their respective offices to review the material the President was worried about. Jim stayed behind. One hour wasn’t worth leaving and coming back. He checked his phone messages. None were from Elliot Grover, and nothing else was more important than the coming discussion about Elliot’s reports. He opened the folder to read whatever was there that he wasn’t already familiar with. ∗∗∗ 94

Ramadan Abu Hamza stood in the middle of the living room of the large house nestled in the mountains south and west of Denver, Colorado. Bought by Stu Long three years before for this one night, the log house was exactly as expected, and the attached garage was more than large enough. Food and water to replace their diminishing supplies, extra cans of gasoline, ammunition, weapons, and other items of general usefulness were stacked in easy-to-load boxes and crates. A large television sat against the real wood paneling next to the staircase, and seven chairs sat in the spacious room facing it. When they had planned the series of events last year, hope said they would get this far, but very few believed it in their hearts. Standing in the room, Abu knew his faith was stronger than it ever had been. Allah would see them to victory. He knew it now. They brought the boy in blindfolded with Cal Dary. Abu considered killing them both when they left this place, but the added danger necessary to replace the reporter would be not worth the satisfaction. Soon Dary’s usefulness would be expended and then he would take great pleasure in ending the American reporter’s useless life. The room erupted in shouted Arabic phrases. Imad was waving his arms wildly and gesturing toward the boy. “He will cause our destruction!” he bellowed. “You cannot be serious about sparing the life of one worthless infidel child. A thousand curses on him and all his family!” Banu’s nostrils flared in anger. “It is a risk we cannot take. We must not take!” Imad shouted, then drew his knife.

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Holy War Abu knew with certainty that blood would be shed. Imad’s eyes traveled from Abu to Calvin Dary. As if on that signal, Ahmed Hanifa grabbed Dary from behind as Imad’s knife shifted toward his throat. Cal was helpless, struggle though he might. Hamza drew his gun and yelled across the rising din. “Imad, spare him or I will kill you.” Imad turned to look at him. The pointing gun didn’t waver. Cal kicked out at the legs behind him, landing one of his shoes on the shin. A grunt of pain was followed by a punch to the back of Dary’s head. Ahmed Hanifa let Cal’s limp body slide to the floor. Abu Hamza quieted the men and began a discourse in Arabic using the same arguments Cal had used earlier on the roadside. At last the argument, if not settled, was at least tabled. Abu Hamza continued in English, “Ahmed Hanifa, Stu Long, and I will travel to ensure preparations are complete for tomorrow. We will return in four hours.” Calvin Dary sat up and rubbed the back of his head as he looked around the room. Abu continued. “Be certain that if one word passes between the boy and Calvin Dary, I will kill you all. If one scrap of paper passes between them, I will kill you all. It is a good thing to spare the life of the boy during RamaDaan, but we will not allow him to destroy our destiny.” Cal Dary said, “I would prefer to work in a bedroom or kitchen. The boy just lost his mother. I will give you no cause to kill him, not even one look.” Abu nodded his acquiescence. “I will return. I expect to find things in order when I do so.” Abu gestured toward the 96

Ramadan door and Ahmed Hanifa and Stu Long made their way outside. Abu went to the door and paused long enough to watch Calvin Dary leave the room. “Make certain he doesn’t climb through the bedroom window,” Abu said before closing the door. The three men gathered in a single pickup and started for Denver. A package must be delivered to Stu’s place of work and a pickup point established based on the wind predictions for tomorrow. They started working on the pickup point first. They traveled in silence until their first location had been reached. They discussed various sites and finally settled on one all three could agree on. “We will wait here in this Kmart parking lot for you tomorrow. We will not travel to you; you must rendezvous here. It is too dangerous to travel around after such an incident. We will park there, just a foot or so from the edge, where those trees and shrubs are,” Abu said, pointing toward the far side of the parking lot. “Sure, no problem.” Was that a slight tremor in the man’s voice as if nerves were affecting him? It did not matter, as long as he carried out their plans for tomorrow. Stu Long was the only one who could. Abu smiled, “Very well, then. Take us to the blimp so we may insure that the package arrives in one piece.” They once again made their way down Denver’s busy streets to the place where Stu Long would board the Goodyear blimp. They parked and Stu opened the briefcase to ensure that he had the right one, then went in alone to place his thermos in his locker, lock the locker, and return. 97

Holy War Abu Hamza turned to Ahmed Hanifa as they sat alone. “The coming retaliation, does it bother you?” “I am not weak as you suspect. How many times must I tell you the fire of jihad burns as hot in my veins as it does in yours?” “I am not questioning your loyalty, only your will.” “My will is not my own, but Allah’s. Perhaps you should question the will of the American, Long. He is sympathetic, but he is no Moslem. His will is weak as is his mind. I told you before and tell you again, it is a mistake to trust these Americans.” Abu Hamza watched Ahmed Hanifa’s fingers move as though he was touching the dagger he customarily carried. Perhaps he had been wrong and the others correct. Perhaps this man was not as that ancient one whose tenderness for weaklings condemned him. He smiled. “Then Allah be praised! We will gather in Washington and together watch the infidels’ world collapse. As for the two Americans, they will meet with an unfortunate accident as planned, just as did John Wilkenson.” “That we will gather is certain and great will be their destruction.” Stu returned, and once again they traveled in silence to the mountains and the waiting men. “It is time for prayers,” Abu announced. “We pray for tomorrow’s success. Thousands will die.”

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Chapter Seven Denver

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alvin Dary sat in the master bedroom, his stomach churning. Hunger was beginning to get to him earlier and earlier each day. The required fast was causing him discomfort during the day, but nothing he couldn’t live with. These people did it as a matter of course and broke their fast with dates and water only. He had built a file in his head on each of the men and each of them had weaknesses, but none that could be used against them easily. Abu, of course, appeared weak only to arguments of logic that included the Koran or its teachings. Abu’s reluctant willingness to spare the boy had surprised Cal. This was a point Cal would try to use again if the opportunity was presented. He wished he knew more about Abu’s beliefs. Even a few American lives saved would be a victory of sorts.

Holy War Ahmed was quick to pull his knife either against an American or an Iraqi, but Cal had heard the other terrorists say that he would rather attack key targets and leave the masses alone. Perhaps he had been a military man. That would answer why a strategic target was considered permissible while a bridge full of innocents was not. Hasan al-Banna was quiet and kept to himself. He was like a rock in his support of Abu or the master plan as the occasion warranted. That in itself was a weakness. Any man blinded by commitment was exploitable in some fashion. Hitler’s minions were proof of that concept. Millions were killed simply because they were Jews, and Hitler didn’t like them. The old Soviet Union was considered weak by the American military. Their personnel were trained to do what they were told and, in the absence of direction, do nothing. Imad ibn Buwayhid had a weakness for blondes. How such a thing could be used against him, Cal didn’t know, but he would continue to consider possibilities. And lastly, Banu Hashim was the nervous type. It might be possible to cause the terrorists to start fighting among themselves. One or more wounded or dead would improve the odds stacked against Calvin Dary. He considered again how to get a message to the authorities through Charlie and failed again. One idea did surface that he knew would work. He would get a message to his family through the boy – as soon as the boy sat where he could hear their conversation. Sunday dawned, and besides prayers, nothing untoward happened. Cal worked on his little piece about the boy and 100

Denver wondered what was coming today. It would be the most catastrophic event yet, if Abu Hamza was to be believed, and Cal knew his word was good. He had proved it over and over again. The man might be over the edge, but he was truthful. Morning prayers seemed to last an eternity today. Perhaps it only seemed so because of his desire to go to church himself. He missed his daughter with a passion. Their time together was always special on the weekend, he having more time to devote to her and she not in so much of a hurry with her weekday duties and interests. Would they go without him today? He hoped so; they needed the additional consolation and hope. He thought of a scripture, although he didn’t remember where it was found, ‘without hope we are among all men, most miserable.’ He still had hope in his heart that he would escape. Denver Stadium held thousands that were soon to die. Suddenly, Cal’s own escape palled in comparison. Despair hung over him like a blanket. Early morning saw the men outside doing what, he could not tell. He and Charlie were left alone with only one of the terrorists as a guard, the American, Stu Long. Finally, his chance to be alone with Stu. But what Cal’s heart wanted most was to pass a message through the boy to his family. Cal argued with himself only momentarily then walked over to where Stu sat. He cleared his throat and Stu looked up. “I don’t like you, Stu. I want you to know that,” he began his often rehearsed set of lines. “Screw you.” 101

Holy War “What I am about to tell you is not a feeble attempt to get on your good side or cause internal strife. I would like to be released, that is certain, but my release is not what this is about. Just listen, is all I’m asking.” “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. There is only one thing that talks to me and that’s money. There is absolutely not one thing you could say that I could be even remotely interested in.” “You don’t care what happens to your fellow Americans? Hundreds of innocent lives mean nothing to you?” “America killed 120,000 Moslems during Desert Storm. What about them? Did you ever think about that, reporter boy?” “Yes, of course. Dozens of times, but they invaded a country for no cause.” “So, what made us responsible all of a sudden? Huh?” Cal looked at the moving figures outside the window. Realizing he didn’t have much time, he attempted to steer the conversation to another track. Arguments were obviously wasted on this man, anyway. “Hamza blew the bombs under the dam long before John was safely out, and much sooner than he had to. I watched him do it. There was no way anyone could have done anything about those bombs before midnight, anyway.” “Are you crazy? John was killed when he got hit by a bullet, you idiot.” “What makes you think it was a bullet?” Cal asked. “No one knows that.” Stu put his book down, “Abu told me he saw it happen.” 102

Denver “I was with Abu, remember? I didn’t see anything, and besides, John was in the water hundreds of yards from us. We couldn’t possibly see him.” “Maybe. And besides Hamza didn’t know how long it would take for a bomb squad to safe those explosives. Abu detonated those bombs under Hoover Dam just like he should have done. John was expendable, if he wasn’t already dead.” The front door opened and closed. The conversation was over. Cal hoped it had been enough to make Stu think. Mid-morning saw Stu leave with the other American, Mark Tildon. The rest of the terrorists spent the day in preparation for getting back on the road. Only one guard at a time was with Charlie and Cal, but there was always one, which caused Cal great turmoil. He should be able to think of something to get them out of this predicament. There was no phone, and if there were any neighbors they were not visible at all; he had surreptitiously checked out every window. Even if he did escape, they would surely find him before he got word to the authorities, and in any case, his family would be dead. He had a knot in the pit of his stomach that was not associated with hunger. They had something big planned today, but he had no idea what. If he could get word to the authorities, what would he tell them? Even if the police showed up outside right now, the two Americans would surely carry out whatever act of cruelty and death they had dreamed up for Denver anyway. The afternoon passed slowly as one by one the Iraqis came into the house. It was a few minutes before Cal 103

Holy War realized that one of the Americans was back. It was the other one, Mark Tildon, so Stu was going to set off the bomb this time. He wondered if Stu would then be killed also? ∗∗∗ Elliot Grover stood looking at a map of the United States. The activity behind him was very loud. Phones, computers, discussions, printers, fax machines, and machinery of various sorts all created noise that distracted most people in the room. Elliot Grover was engrossed in pinpoints of interest on the map. There were red pins in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo, and Hoover Dam. A black line with arrows indicated the route taken so far by the terrorists. Right after Hoover Dam was destroyed, an ever-widening circle where the terrorists could be was placed on the map, but as the days passed the circle got too large and was removed. They could literally be anywhere now. He tried to think like they thought, but found it impossible. The poisoning of the water was typical, as was the Golden Gate Bridge and the Hoover Dam. He could even explain the kidnapping of Calvin Dary, but the power station at San Luis Obispo was just out of character. Outside of the single death it caused, nothing of import had happened. And another thing, the timing was atypical. The Las Vegas water supply had been poisoned the day of the kidnapping. Then there was San Luis Obispo, Golden Gate and finally Hoover Dam. Only four days elapsed between 104

Denver the beginning and the destruction of Hoover Dam. Rapid fire, boom, boom, boom. No traces of substance had been found except fingerprints, which so far were not in any database they had checked. So the terrorists and their American accomplices weren’t fingerprinted. Five of them, Dary said in his article. Was that the whole truth? Were there five Iraqis or five counting both Iraqi and American? They were looking for five Iraqis not Americans. That was a mistake Elliot would rectify. He began to tap his foot with hands clasped behind his back. Where were they? Who were they? And what was next? Would it be a convenience store or another bridge? It was Sunday afternoon; he looked at the clock at the far end of the room. It was six in the evening now, afternoon having passed with hardly a notice. The hundreds of calls about terrorist activity were exhausting them and the various local police departments. Lots of people were in strange accidents, murders occurred, and a host of other malicious events happened every day in America, but since the terrorism started, somehow people just knew; everything that happened was inspired by the terrorists. So anybody who saw anything remotely suspicious called the FBI. There were three incidents that had attracted his attention. A body that was about a week old had been found in a copse of trees outside Seattle somewhere. This guy had been killed with an underwater spear gun. However, that seemed to be in the wrong direction in addition to being a little old. An elderly couple in Arizona had been killed while watching television two days ago, but nothing of 105

Holy War value had been taken. And a woman was shot in the head while traveling with her eleven year-old son in Colorado, not too far from Denver. The boy hadn’t been found yet, but the estranged husband hadn’t either. The single bullet in the woman’s head hadn’t been much help. And the disappearance of the boy wasn’t hard to explain in light of the father being missing. The curious part about that one was they were killed on a mountainside in a fairly remote part of Colorado. Bells sounded in Elliot’s head. DENVER! “Jessica!” he yelled, turning again to the clock on the wall. Six oh five. The place was suddenly quiet. Jessica came running up. “Yeah?” She was breathless and not from the run. “Denver’s playing in a playoff game today, right?” Yes,” an agent one desk away said. “They’re in an afternoon game. Started at four, Denver time.” Elliot’s speech was hurried, “Dary’s article after the Golden Gate Bridge incident said, ‘The Khariji are like a herd of Broncos in America’s wild west.’ The Denver Broncos are playing this afternoon.” “You’re right!” Jessica exclaimed. “Tell me again about the murder of that woman in Colorado.” Jessica recounted the facts, and hastily. “Check me on this one. Remote site, back road, mountainside, strange place to catch up with your estranged wife and kill her, son is missing but someone besides the father may have taken him, car is pushed off a cliff with her body inside. Why take the time for that? The terrorists haven’t struck in several days, which means they’re hiding 106

Denver somewhere. We’re waiting for something big. The hotshot analysts from Washington keep telling us that during their holy month they won’t do anything. Maybe not, but the bomber at Hoover was American. What if they have more Americans or what if they’re all Americans that took on Moslem names like Kareem Abdul Jabaar or Mohammed Ali? How many people in Denver stadium? Seventy thousand?” “I agree. It’s worth the effort.” “Jessica, you’re in charge here until Anson Hicks arrives later. Soon as he does, come to Denver. Get the jet ready to fly there now. And get on the horn with our guys and alert them to what we suspect and the fact that I’m coming in. Have them check everything, and I do mean everything. If security on the ground in Denver thinks we should clear the stadium, then clear the stadium, and I’ll take the flak later. Get a chopper to the stadium area. We may need it. And get enough police there to do an effective job of containment. Use the National Guard if you have to, just don’t forget to include the President in on the decision. “I’m out of here. This baby is all yours. Tell Hicks not to forget Teresa and her daughter.” ∗∗∗ Stu Long was not happy about going back aboard the Goodyear blimp. He hated heights. And this time it would be much worse than ever before. He stood at the kitchen sink apparently preparing hot chocolate. His thermos stood

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Holy War on the counter next to the sink. He took his time making sure that at least one of the crew saw him making the hot chocolate, as was his custom before flight. When Stu was alone, he quickly poured some of the chocolate into the false top. The rest he poured into the sink and rinsed both the pan and the sink with water. He picked up the thermos and gathered his gear. The crew walked to the inspection point with their gear and waited for the guards to check everything to make sure no one was smuggling a weapon on board. Today they were even more thorough than usual. Kevin, the pilot, asked, “Why the extra guards?” “FBI said to beef it up and be on the lookout for those crazies from Iraq. The FBI are taking no chances. Everywhere people have gathered since Christmas, security has been like this. Like they are going to bomb a stadium with 70,000 people in it with 250 police watching.” Kevin said, “Well, if they were going to bomb the place they’d do it with this blimp or one of those ad aircraft.” “Those airplanes aren’t allowed to fly today and your blimp is undergoing more scrutiny right now than Leonardo diCaprio in a girls club.” The copilot said, “Let ‘em search all they want to, I say. I just want a good game.” The guards were very thorough as they searched bags and people. Finally, it was Stu’s turn. He placed his gear on the conveyor belt with the only personal item he brought with him, his thermos. He tried to look bored as they went through his gear. It was strange that the only item he brought aboard besides his tool and spares kit almost got 108

Denver him caught. The extra guard picked up his thermos. Was he FBI? “What’s this?” “It’s only hot chocolate,” he replied as coolly as possible. His answer was not enough to appease the man. He picked up the thermos and shook it. “For God’s sake, here, take a drink,” the pilot said, coming over and taking the thermos from the guard. Stu cringed inwardly. “He always takes hot chocolate on a game and it’s always in this thing that weighs a ton and looks like its been dropped from a truck.” The pilot reached for the top. Stu nearly panicked. “So, why’s it so heavy?” the guard asked. “You’re being just a little ridiculous, aren’t you? How much plastic explosive could you cram in here, anyway? This thing isn’t going to blow the stadium, so would you relax? It has a heavy bottom so it stays upright.” He pointed to the bottom. “This is the only thermos we’ve taken on board the Eagle blimp that hasn’t fallen over at one time or another. I’ve tried to find one like it but they don’t make them anymore. We’d all have one if they did.” “All right. All right,” the guard said reluctantly. Stu gathered up his bag and his thoroughly shaken thermos and walked toward the waiting blimp. “Hey, Stu, don’t you wish you had girls fighting to get to you like Leonardo diCaprio?” “What are you talking about? I have more.” They got inside the blimp and stowed equipment and personal effects. Stu watched the FBI and police moving 109

Holy War around the blimp with sniffer dogs looking for explosives. Nice try, boys, he thought. He began the routine task of checking out his equipment. He took one long, slow, deep breath after another until his heart ceased its endless pounding against his chest. He actually started to get a little bit lightheaded. This was the worst, and he was home free here, he told himself. Their targets in Oklahoma would be a cakewalk without witnesses. He was over the hump. ∗∗∗ They had turned on the television to watch a game at four. Cal thought that was pretty strange, a group of Iraqi terrorists sitting around watching an American football game. It hit him after the first quarter ended that only the two Americans had said anything during that first quarter. Now it was almost seven and the fourth quarter was nearly over. With the exception of two times when all the Iraqis went for prayers, and Ahmed Hanifa and Mark Tildon left for some reason, all of them had sat around the television watching. Charlie had been blindfolded and put in the kitchen. Once Cal had heard him crying and wanted so much to go to him. He knew it would be a death sentence for both of them, so he sat in silence and watched the Denver Broncos blow three chances to go into the lead. Now with five minutes left, they were two points behind and had the ball on their own twenty-five yard line. The Bronco’s quarterback had announced that this was his last season, so 110

Denver they needed at least a field goal to make possible his dream of a trip to the Super Bowl and another win. At that moment he realized why they were watching this game. They were going to blow up the stadium! He looked at Abu Hamza who was watching him. Abu smiled. “Get the computer bag,” he said simply. Cal rose to comply. “Get the boy,” he heard Abu order behind him. Cal returned with the computer and briefly considered hitting Abu Hamza squarely in the middle of that beautiful smile of his. He put his hand to the crusty, dried blood on his own forehead and thought better of it. He might not be able to stop today’s catastrophe, but he steeled himself to stop the next one if he could, no matter what the cost. How many hundreds would die today because he was unable to do anything? Or worse, how many had already died? The nagging in his mind continued until he began to question whether he had the will to allow his wife and daughter to die for the greater good. He realized they were all looking at him, so he sat down. On the television, the two-minute warning had just sounded. Cal considered what could possibly happen next. They had only taken one of the pickup trucks, but he didn’t know which one. One of them contained more explosives than the other. Given the worst case, how much explosive could one pickup truck carry? And how could two people plant that much material without being seen? He came out of his reverie in time to watch the last two minutes of the game. Denver was on the opposite team’s thirty-yard line and it was third down and seven. One more play and they could kick a field goal and win if they could 111

Holy War hold their opponents to no score. He wondered why he still cared when he knew that in moments they could all be dead.

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Chapter Eight Close Encounter

Stu checked the game clock. It was time. He moved the keyboard sitting in front of him and opened an access panel beneath it. The panel was more of a shelf for the keyboard than anything else, but the maintenance manual called it an access panel. He reached inside and pulled out a very thin gun he had placed there more than a month previously. A silencer was not necessary but the proper sequence of death was. There must be no radio communication with anyone. The pilot first, then the copilot, with as little time as possible between them. It was already too late to interfere with destiny but plenty of time to capture one man coming out of the night sky with a parachute. The gunshots were both rapid and effective. He pulled the bodies out of the way and sat at the controls. He brought the majestic craft around and pointed it toward the far end of the stadium and into the wind. Stu retrieved the

Holy War thermos, twisted hard on the base to arm the charge contained within and carefully sat the Thermos on the floor next to the bodies. Next, he put on one of the emergency parachutes, mentally pushing down his fear of heights. He would dive out and look up just like he had practiced. He went back to the access panel and extracted the device that would destroy the craft after he was out. He armed the explosive and placed it on the ceiling in the middle of the cabin. Four minutes. He had four minutes to get out and safely away from the blimp after the thermos went out of the window. Two minutes to get to the plaza left him plenty of time to spare. He returned to the cockpit in time to see the game clock go under two minutes. He waited until he was in optimum position over the stadium far below and dropped the thermos out the window. Its impact on the turf below would set it off, spreading its contents of death on the unsuspecting crowd. There would be no team from this game going to the Super Bowl. VX was one of the most powerful nerve agents in existence. With the right conditions, everyone in the stadium would be killed. Of course, the terrorists hoped to kill all of them but expected perhaps a quarter to a half. Stu didn’t care how many died as long as he was paid his five million. Now he need only wait until his craft came over the plaza where he was to jump out. The plummet to the earth would be quick. He knew because he had practiced it. He would leave the parachute in its pack on his back until the very last possible second. It would unfurl only briefly so as 114

Close Encounter to minimize his exposure. If Calvin Dary were right, the terrorists would probably kill him as he approached the truck. He tried not to think about that. He didn’t have much time to think, in any case. Stu put the revolver in his belt, opened the door, and dove out. He twisted back to look at the blimp and counted to himself. He must concentrate on the rip cord. Too early or too late would have the same consequence. The blimp, now high above him and slightly to the west, disappeared in a thunderous explosion that lit up the night all around him. He hoped he didn’t need it in the seconds ahead. He fought the urge to pull the rip cord and slow his perilous descent to the ground below. He counted slowly, looking up, resisting the urge to look down, then finally, when he could stand it no more, he pulled violently on the rip cord. He felt sharp pain as he was jerked violently upward. He grabbed onto the straps across his chest and looked down. He was O.K., in fact better than he had hoped. He could see the truck sitting just where he expected to see it and he was coming down less than a hundred yards away. He readied himself to unstrap the parachute and run to the truck. ∗∗∗ Calvin Dary heard the announcer say something about a small explosion on the field. Had the first of their bombs been a dud? Then the chilling reality hit him. One of his friends had been in Desert Storm and had come back with many medical problems. He had sworn then, and continued 115

Holy War to swear in the years following, that Saddam Hussein had unleashed some form of biological weapon that just didn’t work as effectively as Hussein had hoped for. His friend had wondered through the years why the madman hadn’t just used nerve agent. Cal’s guess was that this time the madman had unleashed that real terror on America. “Turn it up!” he shouted at whoever was holding the remote. The announcers went wild when people started dropping on the field and apparently going into convulsions. When the people in the stadium saw what was happening on the field, panic set in as crowds of people stampeded over each other toward the exits. The number of people being killed would be astronomic and not one true bomb had exploded. The cameras panned about taking in the pandemonium on the field and in the stands as people fell from the gas and the tumultuous pressure of the crowd. One man held a hand-painted sign “Sam Eddington! We’re Killin’ ‘Em!” in bright red letters outlined in black. Soon cameras that had roamed about seconds before stood motionless, pointing aimlessly wherever they had pointed when even the camera operators succumbed to the deadly, invisible gas. The announcer in the control room tried to switch between cameras around the stadium. First one view, then another, flashed for brief seconds on the screen, each showing the dead and the dying. The announcer was crying, trying in vain to describe what obviously needed no description. What even a seasoned reporter would have handled poorly, this retired football player blundered 116

Close Encounter through with unsophisticated phrases interspersed with incoherent sobs. Cal mentally switched from thinking of hundreds of dead to thousands. How many would die from the crush of the crowd and how many from the nerve gas only God might ever know. He hung his head and cried, more from shame than sorrow. Sorrow would find him again and again in the days ahead and extract its own share of painful tears. ∗∗∗ Stu dropped to earth and rolled over once before he bounced to his feet, heart pounding. He unbuckled the parachute and left it at a run. Nearly there, he took the revolver from his belt and thumbed the safety off. He burst through the empty branches and nearly ran into the pickup. The door opened and he leaped in without a word. The pickup drove off at a sedate pace. No speeding ticket or other traffic violation would stop them. They were just two Joes out for a drive. Stu looked over expecting to see Abu Hamza himself. Instead it was the man he called ‘banana’, Hasan al-Banna. “Put the gun away,” was all Hasan said. ∗∗∗ Cal wiped away the tears and wished he could wipe away the memories as easily. He knew the scenes he had watched unfold in the last few minutes would haunt him

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Holy War and all America for scores of years to come. Masada had new meaning for him now. The Jews’ rallying cry of “Remember Masada” would be echoed in America’s own “Remember Denver” and give new meaning to the phrase “Remember the Alamo.” “Blindfold the pitiful brat, tie him to the tree outside, and let’s get out of here,” Abu Hamza said, while clicking off the television. Imad ibn Buwayhid roughly grabbed Charlie to comply as the others picked up last minute items and headed for the door. Cal Dary sat in forced silence. The blasphemies he wanted to scream at them he forced himself to hold for the moment. Instead he swore to himself he would do everything in his power to stop the next attack. That is, if they didn’t get caught first. Surely they had made a mistake this time. Or was the FBI a bunch of lackluster, bungling agents as so many said in the wake of disasters such as Waco? No, no, that was the ATF. He was tired. Too tired to think straight. What was wrong with the FBI, anyway? Imad had finished not only blindfolding the boy but taping his mouth shut as well. He picked up Charlie and headed for the door. Cal was appalled but quickly thought how he shouldn’t be surprised. Their callousness was growing; he should be used to it by now. American standards of decency didn’t apply in the slightest to these men. “At least give him a blanket for God’s sake. He’ll freeze in the cold, you miserable…. “ Then decided he’d better shut up or lose an even bigger argument.

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Close Encounter “You are a man who needs to die, Calvin Dary. You do not recognize Allah or his servants nor his commands. You go and get a blanket, but if it takes longer than thirty seconds I will put a bullet through his eye.” “Your word during RamaDaan must mean more than that.” Again he used the Islamic pronunciation but didn’t count on the weight of the words to sway the man. He ran for the nearest bedroom and yanked blanket, sheet and all from the nearest bed. When he got outside the boy was being tied to a tree almost twenty yards from the house. He was sitting on the ground and the ropes were tied tightly around him and the tree. Cal covered the boy from neck to feet as much as possible, wishing he could put part of the blanket under the boy. “Leave him and get into the pickup.” Cal realized this was his chance as Charlie was easily within earshot. “Can I just give the boy a message for my wife and daughter that I love them and that I’m all right?” “No. Now shut up and get in the pickup.” Cal smiled inwardly. He knew Charlie had overheard and his message would be delivered. Teresa and Rebekah would know he was alive! Cal headed for the pickup and noticed the others were already gone, leaving only Imad, Abu Hamza, and himself. Their pattern of traveling was continuing. Why they all hadn’t left earlier he couldn’t understand. Surely the FBI would put two and two together quickly and locate Stu’s mountain retreat, even if it was registered in a fake name. The distance they traveled would be calculable from what 119

Holy War they already knew and what the boy would tell them. Why they had saved the boy was clearly beyond his comprehension, even though it must have been his arguments that had been the crucial factor. A religion that could horribly destroy thousands of infidels while saving the life of one small infidel boy, a boy clearly capable of sabotaging their mission, he would never understand. How could they claim that their Allah was the same as the Christian God? The God of the Old Testament was certainly bloody enough, but in the time of the New Testament, things had changed. There was no more sacrifice, no more high priest, no more calls to battle, Gentiles could be saved, forgiveness and mercy dominated. Yet in Islam, death and revenge was still the going thing. His death was just as sure as any that had gone before since the jihad, the holy terror, had begun. Cal continued thinking in silence. There may never be any answers. At least not for him. He knew he would never understand it. He once again swore to himself that his life as he had known it was over forever. He would interfere or escape just as soon as possible. But he must wait until his efforts counted for something. Until it would get the terrorists caught or kill enough of them to disrupt their plans. He mentally said goodbye to his wife and daughter. ∗∗∗ Elliot Grover jumped out of the helicopter before it had quite touched down. He ran toward the crowd gathered twenty or so yards from the still smoldering pile of ash and 120

Close Encounter debris that had been a building. Or was it two buildings? He couldn’t tell. The boy had been crying. He looked as if he were seven or eight. Poor little guy, Elliot thought, mom dead, useless dad gone who knows where, and these pigs leave him in the cold to die. Good thing the neighbors called in the fire. Elliot turned, looking for the neighbors’ house but could not sight it. He turned back to the boy. “You all right, son?” he asked, while touching the boy’s shoulder. This boy’s entire life had been changed forever. Of course he wasn’t all right. But, what do you say? Charlie shook his head. “We’ll get these guys, son. Don’t worry. And we’ll find your father for you, too.” “His name’s Charlie. He’s just over ten and one sharp cookie, sir.” It was an agent from the Denver office. “Thanks,” he said. He’s tiny for his age, Elliot thought, maybe we do have a chance if he is sharp. “If you can tell me a few things you’ll help us catch them, Charlie. Do you want to tell us some stuff?” “Sure. What do you want to know?” Elliot didn’t want to ask questions because then he would only get the answers to those questions. He just wanted the boy to talk. That way, he would probably get information he didn’t know enough about to even ask. “Ah, let’s see. I heard at least five different voices. Two of them were American and the rest were Chinese or something.” “That’s very good, Charlie. You are a sharp cookie.” 121

Holy War “They killed my mom,” the tears began again. Grover stooped next to the boy and took him by the shoulders, hugging him close. “I know they did Charlie. And they killed several thousand people in Denver, too. Did you like the Denver Broncos?” The sobs subsided slightly, “Yeah. Me and my dad both liked them. Especially Willem Turner, the quarterback.” He began to cry again. “I want my dad. Can you find my dad for me?” “We’ll find your dad, Charlie. I swear we will. Can you tell me anything else?” “They were driving a Winnebago.” “Whoa. That’s good news. Do you remember what color?” “It was a Cheyenne Model, light brown with a white top. It had a spare on the back but it sagged a little because the bar thing that attaches it to the back was broken.” “You noticed all that Charlie?” “Yeah, sure. My dad had one before he lost his job and had to sell it. That’s how I know about the spare, ours was broken just like that. My dad said it was a defect or something.” “Say, Charlie, you didn’t get the license plate, did you?” Someone snickered. Elliot glared at the gathering crowd of people. Not much left for this group to do. Specialists would have to be called in and the ashes sifted pound by painful pound. He gestured with his head away from the boy. One by one they got the message and walked off. “Huh?” Charlie asked. “I mean did you see the license number?” 122

Close Encounter “I’m sorry.” “Believe me, Charlie, you have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve already given us enough information to find them.” “It was from Nevada, though.” “That’s wonderful information, Charlie, your mother would be proud.” “My Mom’s not here.” And he began to cry again. Grover stood. The boy held on tightly to his waist. “I’ll see you later today, Charlie,” Elliot said, patting the boy’s back. These men will get you something to eat and maybe you can tell them some more.” He took his hat with FBI emblazoned in large white letters across the front and handed it to Charlie. “Here, you’ve earned this. Maybe you can come and work with us sometime.” The boy took it and tried to smile, but tears welled up in his eyes once again. “Who’s in charge here?” Elliot shouted. “Over here. Sam Estas.” It was the man who had told him about Charlie. They shook hands. “Elliot Grover. Take care of him. I’ll want to see him when I get back. Issue an APB for that Winnebago. It’s only been a couple of hours, so we’ve got them now. Notify any sighting unit not to approach without my approval. I’m airborne. You got our frequency?” “No, but I can get it without trouble. Get out of here and good hunting.” Elliot ran for the still running helicopter and jumped in, closing the door behind him. As the helicopter took off, Elliot waved to the boy who returned the wave, then adjusted the hat on his head. 123

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Chapter Nine The Message

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hey hadn’t been airborne ten minutes when the call came over the radio. “We’ve got ‘em headed east on I70. I can hardly believe they would be so stupid!” “Let’s go,” Elliot said to the pilot while picking up the microphone. “Have they spotted you?” he asked. “No. The highway patrol was sitting off the road clocking speeders. This guy went by right at sixty-five. The second highway patrol car was unmarked. They removed their hats and sped past for a look. It’s them, all right. Light brown, white top, Nevada license, the works. Looks like an Iraqi driving. We should hire that kid.” “I already did. Give me a mile marker.” When he got it he looked it up on his map. It took him a second to figure out they were in Kansas. “You didn’t tell me they were in Kansas, you idiot.” He said without sincerity. “Oops.”

Holy War “I want at least one explosives sniffer dog and I want a roadblock set up just west of exit 379. Don’t mess with these guys. I want the highway blocked on both sides of the road, three cars deep, and all the artillery in the state of Kansas. Who’s the lead highway patrolman?” “Gus Francis. I’ll patch you through.” “This is Special Agent Elliot Grover, Federal Bureau of Investigation. You clear on what’s happening?” he said when he had Gus on the radio. “Yes, but you’re obviously not. We don’t have enough time to get set up at 379. That’s approximately fifteen minutes from where they are right now. We’re better off at 357. It’s a bigger city with more police, it gives us more time, and the next exit is seven miles west of there so once they pass that we’ve got ‘em cornered.” Elliot thought for a brief second. “O.K. but I want three of the local sheriffs or whatever at 379 on the intersecting road in plain cars, just in case they get off. I won’t risk losing them, not for one second.” “They have a hostage.” “The hostage is expendable.” “His family probably doesn’t think so.” “No, they probably don’t, but the President of the United States, the Attorney General, the FBI director, and more than twelve thousand dead all do.” There was no answer. “Can’t this bucket of bolts go any faster?” Elliot queried. “Yes, if you strap a rocket to its backside.” They brought the helicopter within binocular range and stayed their distance. Elliot kept his eyes glued to the eye126

The Message pieces. He could see the roadblock over two miles away. Kansas was too stinking flat. The brake lights lit up on the Winnebago as the driver contemplated what to do. He probably hadn’t thought he’d be caught so quickly. “All right, let’s get behind them so they know there’s no place to go.” A burst of speed and a few moments, and they were just out of rifle range behind the motorhome. So far no gunshots had come from the vehicle. Just two blocks away from the roadblock, the Winnebago suddenly accelerated. One block away, it turned into the sloping berm and actually ran through it without overturning. Down into the ditch, through the barbed wire fence, and into the adjacent field the motorhome went, still accelerating. Elliot could see police and highway patrolmen running for their vehicles to pursue. “Get some men on that highway!” he shouted into the microphone as if shouting would help them. The Winnebago rocked left and right a few times in rapid succession, then bounced like a motorcycle going cross-country too fast. It angled through the field, through another fence and back onto asphalt on the intersecting highway. Elliot looked for the police cars and not one was in a position to stop the now rapidly fleeing Winnebago. “Fly past them and turn around. Take her down to near road level. Be ready to pull up.” In moments they were nearly on the roadway and at eye level with the driver. The Winnebago looked empty to Elliot. At least there was no one in the passenger seat. Just 127

Holy War when he thought the pilot had to pull up, the driver, who was clearly of eastern decent, turned the Winnebago back toward the west and into a light copse of small, leafless trees and brush. “I just don’t believe it!” Elliot exclaimed. “Where does he think he can go?” Several police cars came racing down the highway and turned into the tracks the Winnebago had left. The pilot pulled up and accelerated west. Elliot pushed the microphone switch down hard, “I want the westbound roadblock spread out on I-70 eastbound. I don’t want these guys to turn back onto that interstate. Get me units on the west side of this piece of dirt and on the south. Make it happen right now!” An empty creek was impassable so the Winnebago was forced to the north to a grouping of small trees. Smoke now coming from the underside could only spell doom for the engine. With police cars following, the Winnebago was now trapped. Elliot thumbed the microphone once again. “They’ll be stopping, we’ve got ‘em cornered. These guys are armed like the 101st Airborne. Keep your heads down.” Much to Elliot’s surprise, the Winnebago didn’t even slow down but plowed right into the small trees. The driver underestimated their effect and the front end collapsed into the fan, creating a cloud of steam from the water and coolant. His vision blurred by the steam, the driver careened into a larger tree and the Winnebago went up on two wheels and then over completely, skidding to a stop with the wheels still spinning. “Put us down. Put us down!” 128

The Message A half second after the helicopter hit dirt, Elliot was out on the ground, running in a half crouch toward the police car nearest the overturned Winnebago. He noticed his service revolver in his hand and didn’t remember taking it out of its holster. He put it back. There was an immediate danger of the terrorists escaping on foot. He had no bullhorn so he cupped his hands to his mouth. “Surround the vehicle,” he shouted in two directions. He could see men swiftly approaching the motorhome. The Winnebago was lying on its driver’s side with the back and part of the underside facing Elliot. He was contemplating which direction would be the safest when the passenger’s door suddenly opened. Arms extended upward and a man shouted in heavily accented English, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Elliot hated this part, even with a bulletproof vest. All the bad guys had to do was aim for the head or stomach and you were still just as dead. He rose and went for the driver, this time with weapon drawn. “Get out and jump down,” he said, careful to keep the underside facing him and the revolver aimed toward his intended victim. The man slid to the ground down the front of the motorhome with arms outstretched above him. First Elliot, then three other men approached the clearly frightened foreigner. “Face down! Spread ‘em!” Elliot shouted as the man dropped to the dirt. His hands were handcuffed behind him and he was carefully searched for weapons. “How many are left in the motorhome?” Elliot demanded. 129

Holy War “I am alone,” the man said. “Yeah, right,” said one of the three men with Elliot. Elliot turned around and shouted, “Three point approach, entry through the windshield.” The policemen spread out quickly, surrounding the motorhome with weapons drawn while one of the highway patrol finished kicking in the already broken windshield. The patrolman and Elliot ingressed into the motorhome over the broken bits of windshield. The motorhome creaked and rocked due to their movements. Because it lay on its side, various items from the interior of the motorhome hung down at odd angles, partially hiding whatever might be behind them. Elliot moved cautiously into the interior, expecting gunfire to erupt at any moment. He could hear the sniffer dog barking outside and someone trying to get him to hush. Movement! Up above something moved behind a curtain toward the ground below. His gun tracked the shadow until it came to rest on the ground side of the overturned motorhome. It was a plastic bag filled with booklets. The rest of the motorhome was empty. Where were the others? Where was Calvin Dary? And why had they left this one to fight it out with the FBI? Was he nothing more than a decoy? The FBI and police exited the motorhome. Elliot looked at an approaching group and realized it was the sniffer dog being brought over to smell the wreck for explosives. Elliot had no doubt that the dog would find something, but in this case all he would find would be residue of the explosives.

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The Message Elliot walked over to the handcuffed driver and asked Gus Francis, “What have we got?” “Looks like we got a Lebanese with a green card and a penchant for parked motorhomes with the keys lying on the front seat.” “You mean he’s not one of the terrorists? Why did he run?” Gus shrugged. “He stole the motorhome. Seems he’s been living in the park and sleeping under his coat and thought this might be a nice few nights if he could get it out of the city where the police wouldn’t find him.” The sniffer dog and trainer came out of the motorhome. Elliot heard the dog snort and turned toward the trainer, “Well?” he queried, his voice revealing that he expected the worst. The worst being that the Winnebago was the right one but that nothing remained of the explosives. “It’s the one all right. He alerted on almost everything. There’s been explosives by the ton in there.” ∗∗∗ In Oklahoma City, Stu Long drove their new step van past the memorial where once the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building had stood. It was four in the morning, dawn yet a couple of hours away. The subdued light cast by the illumination of the more than 160 chairs gave the impression of an art museum. How the chairs, placed in the shape of the Federal Building, were supposed to show the loss Stu didn’t understand. The Vietnam Memorial with a list of names made much more sense. 131

Holy War His eyes traveled to the reflecting pool. The pool was supposed to show a spirit of change. That one Stu could understand. The water sparkled in such a way as to appear to be covered with thousands of tiny lights dancing across the softly moving, serene surface. Thirty-seven days since it all started. Ten days to go before the finale. They were a long way from their destination and many sites were left in the trek across America. What message Abu Hamza intended to impart from attacking a memorial dedicated to hundreds of dead and many more injured in an attack by Americans on Americans was beyond Stu’s grasp. He mentally shrugged, resetting his mind to the task before him. This was the last day of Ramadan and the Moslems would come out of their forced slumber, as he and Mark called it. The month of praying and fasting had been spent hiding and waiting, and now it was time for their march across America and his five and a half million dollars. He had been saving his 100,000 every year in an offshore account, never touching so much as a penny. He itched to get his hands on that money. He was going to go to Australia, buy a house in a beautiful valley, and set up a small business to keep himself busy and in touch. The rest of his life was set. And besides, Australian women spoke English of a sort. Only an idiot would go to Brazil. They would strike tomorrow morning nearly at dawn, long before the city woke, but their message would be burned into the media and into the heart of America. At least that’s what Hamza kept insisting. How could they without witnesses? 132

The Message Stu turned toward the secluded house an hour west of Oklahoma City. They had been there far too long. He would not be sad to watch Mark Tildon’s house burn when they were finished with it, the same as his house had burned in Colorado. He drove by the pool on his way to the house. He was surprised to see Imad there in prayer. He considered the pool and small pool house a waste of money if he ever saw one. Contrary to what he had done with his money, Mark had lived it up. He had a 60,000-dollar Corvette, a 150,000-dollar house, and had thrown many expensive parties. He went into the house and waited for Abu Hamza to finish prayers. Abu would spend the last day of Ramadan in prayer and fasting, breaking it only for one trip into Oklahoma City to ensure that preparations were correct for the two attacks to take place tomorrow. Since Denver, they had spent their time in the remote location Mark had so capably picked for their last multi-day station. >From here they would travel for days in teams, at least one Iraqi with an American, always at night, sleeping in fields and constantly fighting the cold that seeped into their bones during the day when running the pickup trucks was forbidden. But the Iraqis had planned well and everything was in readiness. American officials claimed in the news reports that they were ready for anything. Stu personally doubted if they were ready for even one of their ‘mini-attacks’. Their little army had planted bombs at six small sites, all set to detonate by a timer in quick succession, tomorrow morning at 4 a.m.

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Holy War At last prayers were over and it was time to return to Oklahoma City to show Hamza the site and the attack plans using the real thing. They would be gone two and a half hours, then the packing would begin for the last time. ∗∗∗ The captain of the ship was Abdallah Jahr and the ship was the Fakir, or poor one. The ship had been bought from poor fishermen and a new crew put aboard for this one sailing. Abdallah stood near the bow and considered the plight of his crew, mostly non-seamen. The Atlantic seas were horrible, several of the men wishing for death rather than having to ride the giant swells any longer. The crew of handpicked Kharijis, all with loved ones lost in the Desert Storm war and its aftermath, made terrible sailors. They worked hard but hard work seldom substituted very well for skill. The ship had been on the high seas for many days and the men were overly tired. The storm far to the south had brought two days worth of bad weather and exhausting seas, but as he told the men just this morning, today was the last day. He sat smoking his cigarette, reveling in its flavor. Abdallah glanced at his watch; the rendezvous with the fishing vessel Angelica was now just an hour away. He went to his locker and retrieved the package that would destroy the ‘poor’ ship. Somehow, he thought, that is a most fitting name. He made his way to the engine room being very careful not to be observed as he placed the package next to a bulkhead. It was only important for the 134

The Message package to remain unobserved while the transfer of the bomb was taking place; afterward, it would not be important. The Iraqi maintenance crew had tested the ship and found that only in the forward section, above decks and around the lead blanket over the bomb was the radiation acceptable. Abdallah had a crate built to contain the precious cargo and prevent prying hands and eyes from learning too much. He was the only one privy to this information since there was no easy, quick way to provide heavier shielding for the bomb since the casing had been removed and still provide for quick maneuverability. Abdallah was careful to stay as far from the bomb as possible. The Fakir had been long enough on her voyage across the Atlantic for radiation sickness to affect the crew unless a minimum amount of precautions were taken, and this certainly had not happened. Nor could they be discovered to be suffering from radiation sickness. The crew was expendable but not until the bomb had been offloaded. Abdallah went back topside and began giving orders to prepare the bomb for movement to the fishing vessel, Angelica. She had sailed that day from Elizabeth City, North Carolina, rendezvoused with another fishing vessel to take on fish, and now they would take on the bomb. The Angelica pulled alongside, ready to accept the cargo. Abdallah watched the Angelica’s crane lower a hook to the waiting crate holding the bomb. After the hook was secured to the crate, Abdallah jumped on top to ride the crate across to the Angelica. The transfer went smoothly, 135

Holy War Abdallah riding the crated bomb, holding onto the cable with one hand and waving with the other. He was to ensure its security before coming back aboard the Fakir. His men waved back and cheered. He jumped off the bomb as it settled just above the deck of the Angelica and said, “Cast off.” He could hear the shouts of the men from the Fakir when they realized what was happening, accusing him of conspiracy with the enemy. He reached into his coat pocket and pressed the button that would sink his vessel. He heard nothing but the engines of the Fakir revving up to bring her around. They were going to ram them with the bomb unsecured. He should have waited! No, wait! The Fakir was much too close to do any damage. The Fakir wouldn’t have enough steam to do more than tap the Angelica. “Hurry!” Abdallah shouted to the Americans. The bomb shifted violently, causing it to sway back and forth in a manner that scared the already petrified Abdallah. They would never get it into the hold quickly enough. He glanced back to the Fakir to find it rapidly accelerating away from them. Was it listing? Or was that his imagination? Hope was suddenly born in his heart. Perhaps the Fakir would sink before she could come around and ram them. He heard the Angelica’s engines cough to life. They cannot move with the bomb exposed. Do they not know the bomb is unprotected? “You must not get underway before the bomb is secure!” he shouted. No one seemed to hear. “You will damage the bomb!” Abdallah shouted as the top of his lungs.

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The Message He turned back to the Fakir as she came about. She was now clearly listing to starboard. He could see men running on deck. To what purpose he could only guess. Then it dawned on him, the two lifeboats; they were going to escape. Still trying to accelerate now that she had come about, the water poured all the faster into the lumbering ship. “Hold!” he shouted again, raising his hand to signal that the bomb’s movement must be stopped. He quickly turned his head to make sure the Americans had heard this time. The crane stopped and the bomb swayed back and forth, but the danger was momentarily ended. Abdallah prayed to Allah for favor with the Fakir. He looked back to see that some of the Fakir’s men were clearly trying to launch the lifeboats. She now lay in the water at nearly a forty-five degree angle. The starboard lifeboat was in the water but still connected to the ship. He looked toward the port lifeboat. The angle of list was so great that the port lifeboat rested on the railing and could not be launched. Men had climbed into the starboard lifeboat but as the Fakir sank, it was pulled under. They hadn’t released the ropes holding it to the ship. Abdallah blew a long breath into the cold Atlantic air. It was over. The Fakir, its engines silent, was now under water all the way to the mainstay, and was barely moving toward them. He watched some of the American crew cross themselves in Catholic fashion. Their faces reflected horror and hostility. Silence settled on the Angelica’s deck like a blanket of dew. Abdallah hadn’t considered what reaction the Americans would have when the Fakir sank. The 137

Holy War Khariji Jihad must have no witnesses, not even Khariji, especially sick ones. The bomb must be delivered to those entrusted to use it. One drunken moment and one whispered hint of a nuclear device targeted against an American city and all could be lost.

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Chapter Ten The Heartland

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lliot and Jessica stood in front of his map once again. The room was a lot quieter since they had installed the partitions, but he still could hear the sounds of men and women working, trying to find some way to stop the killing. The waiting was interminable and stultifying; he had never felt so ineffective. The wait was longer this time than last. Twelve days with nothing of consequence. The terrorists were certain to be preparing another attack, but where? His eyes traced a circle moving slowly away from Denver. Colorado Springs? Cheyenne, Wyoming? Casper? Omaha, Nebraska? Kansas City? Little Rock, Arkansas? Oklahoma City? Dallas, Texas? Nothing popped out at him. Twelve days was enough time for them to set up just about anything they wanted. “Got any ideas, Jess?” he asked quietly. “No. And yes, about five thousand.”

Holy War “What?” “Well, nothing specific, but they could strike anywhere after twelve days, including Alaska or Hawaii.” “You’re my containment officer, you should know where they’re striking next.” “And you’re in charge here. Why don’t you come up with something?” He and Jessica always traded jibes when they worked together. But this time it didn’t seem funny. Thousands of Americans were dying because they hadn’t found a way to track the terrorists—yet. Elliot saw Jessica’s face change to a more serious expression. “What about the other organizations, El? They finding anything at all?” she said, without looking at him. “Anti-terrorism in this country is a joke. I know Congress and the President are scrambling to make it something real, but for now, we’re only set to defer terrorists not detect them.” “Yeah, I know. I was just hoping for something concrete from another group working the problem.” She edged closer to him and in a stage whisper asked, “What about the CIA?” He didn’t bother to lower his voice – criticism was good in the United States of America. “They’re the ones who should have detected this coming instead of letting it happen and then making us deal with it. They’re the ones with the best intelligence in the world.” Out of the corner of his eye, Elliot saw Curtis Long approaching. He was holding a thick sheaf of papers, clearly a report of some kind. Curtis cleared his throat for 140

The Heartland attention, then realized they were already looking at him. He handed the report over. “What’cha got, Curt?” he asked, without diverting his eyes from the clearly nervous man. “The results of the fingerprinting you wanted done in Denver. You were right. This guy’s fingerprints were found all over the place: his locker, kitchen counters, doors, and even one window.” “Give me the bottom line.” “It’s the same guy, all right. Stewart Long’s his name.” “What about his file at Goodyear? Gone, right? Or is it just the picture that’s missing?” “Just the picture. How’d you know?” “Think about it,” Elliot replied. “I got it. Remove the picture and we have to build a composite from friends and coworkers. That would slow us down, but only slightly, and the picture wouldn’t be exactly like Stewart Long.” “Good thinking.” Elliot picked up the papers and estimated that there were twenty pages in the stack. He began to skim the first page. “There is a little good news in there.” “Cough it up,” Elliot replied, looking up at Curt. “Turn to page 17.” Page 17 was a black and white picture. Several men were walking out of a doorway. One of them had his head turned about halfway to the right where the camera caught him speaking to one of the others. The Eagle blimp was clearly in view behind them but the man was slightly

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Holy War blurry. He was obviously not the principal object of focus. “Let me guess,” Elliot said, “Stewart Long.” “You got it.” Elliot smiled widely, “Get the computer working on a frontal view. You know what I mean, tell the computer geeks to make a view of this guy from the front and then get it out to every service known to man. I want him found.” “Yes, sir!” He turned to see who was closest. “Carla, get me a line to Jim Vernider.” “I think they’re moving east,” Jessica said. “What makes you think that?” He hoped she was onto something. “Woman’s intuition.” “Great. I’m fixing to talk to the director, I need something concrete, and all you give me is woman’s intuition.” “I feel it, El.” “I think you have indigestion.” “No, I mean it.” “Well then, where to?” “Here,” she said grabbing a piece of string. She tied it on the red pin marking Denver, Colorado, and then she moved it east and placed the other end on a blue pin she stuck in Washington, D.C. “Somewhere not too far from this line.” “That line is almost exactly on top of Interstate 70.” He was excited all of a sudden. Of course, they would be heading for Washington, where else? What had been eluding him was obvious to Jessica. Was it just excitement 142

The Heartland or did they really have something? Elliot could feel adrenaline pumping through his own arteries. “You’ve definitely hit the nail on the head,” he said, then shouted, “ Bill!” The man ran up and stood waiting. “Get me a list of every city within one hundred fifty miles of Interstate 70. Make that,” Elliot hesitated momentarily, “over population 40,000.” “That’s a tall order.” “Do it ASAP.” “Why 40,000?” Jessica asked after Bill had left to find a computer terminal. “San Luis Obispo has a little over 40,000. Seemed like a good number. Less than that might not attract them.” “You’re nuts. We don’t have one clue as to what attracts them. They didn’t hit San Luis Obispo, they hit the power station near San Luis Obispo.” Carla Stephens came up with a portable phone and saved Elliot from having to respond. “Mr. M. James Vernider,” she said. Elliot took the phone, “Jim, we got a break.” ∗∗∗ Mark Tildon heard the front gate chime and realized at once that whoever this was, they were going to be in trouble. Abu had warned him several times to keep his distance from people; he would be able to do anything he wanted when this was all over, but for the few years necessary, little to no contact with other people was 143

Holy War allowed. He hadn’t exactly followed orders. This was the worst of times for any of his friends to come calling. He walked quickly to the intercom and pushed the talk button. “Who is it?” “It’s Honey. Open this gate, you brute. Why’d you lock it, anyway?” Her southern accent had always turned him on. Now it frightened him. “I’m busy right now, Honey. Can you come back tomorrow night?” Tomorrow night they would be long gone and Honey could view the ruins of the house and wonder what had happened. “I’ve got it,” the deep voice of Imad said, over the intercom. Oh, no! Not him! Mark thought. It only took him a couple of minutes to reach the gate. Imad and Honey were no longer there but her car was still parked next to the gate. He heard a muffled scream coming from the pool house and ran in that direction. He ran around the pool to the pool house and pulled hard on the door. An apparently unconscious Honey lay on the card table, naked from the waist down. Imad’s pants were down and there was no doubt what he was doing. Mark grabbed the bigger man by the shoulders and yanked, hitting him hard in the face with a right cross. “She’s unconscious, you pig!” Imad grabbed for his pants but Mark hit him again in the side of the head with a left that sent him spinning away from the girl. Imad gave up on the pants, staggered over to Mark, and struck out with a left that narrowly missed the ducking Mark, who drove a fist into the pit of Imad’s stomach. Imad 144

The Heartland grabbed Mark in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his sides. The bigger man squeezed hard and threw him toward the couch about six feet away. Mark landed off balance and hit the end table and lamp with his arm, sending it crashing to the floor. Mark twisted back toward the man, but Imad had taken the time to pull his pants to mid-thigh and then, in a half crouch, ran into Mark and sent both hurtling into the wall and the end table, then onto the floor. Suddenly, a gunshot froze them both where they lay, with Imad on top of Mark and his pants halfway down. Mark thought they must make quite a sight that wouldn’t be hard to figure out. Mark twisted his head toward the doorway, expecting to see one of the other Iraqis standing there, gun in hand. What he saw instead was Abu Hamza flanked by Stu Long. Mark watched as Abu took in the situation, the girl lying unconscious on the table and Imad on top of Mark, his naked butt sticking up into the air. Death marched across Abu Hamza’s face. “Imad ibn Buwayhid! You have violated RamaDaan on its last and most important day. On a day when you should be in prayers in the Mosque, you desecrate our God with your impertinence. On the night of power just three days ago, you spoke to me of your newfound peace in what we accomplish and your desire to strike back at the country that has robbed and killed our people. Yet now you give Allah cause to be angry with you. Get up, you coward.” Imad struggled to his feet, pulling on his pants with shame outlined in every feature of his face. He zipped his pants and stood trembling in front of his leader. 145

Holy War “I return for binoculars and instead I find treachery. I expected something of this sort from Ahmed Hanifa, but not you.” He raised his gun and fired a single bullet into the forehead of Imad ibn Buwayhid without another word. Blood splattered the walls behind him, then Imad fell once again on top of Mark Tildon. Mark pushed him off in disgust and stood up. The gun came up again. “Do not let your anger overcome your good sense,” Stu said from behind him. “With Imad gone, we need Mark more than ever.” “I was trying to stop him,” Mark said, pleadingly. The gun dropped. Abu walked to where the girl lay unconscious. He pointed the gun between her eyes and calmly pulled the trigger. “Put Imad on top the girl,” Abu said. “We will burn them as they lie when we burn everything else, tomorrow.” Abu said to Mark, “Go to the house and tell the others what has transpired here, then return and move the woman’s car behind the house.” Then to Stu, “Fetch me my binoculars. And hurry. Our time runs out.” Mark glanced around the room, opened his mouth to say something, and then walked out without a word. ∗∗∗ In Dallas, Texas, one hundred and twenty-three people slept in a seven-story apartment building. It was four a.m. In the basement attached to two of the support legs, explosive devices. A single timer finished its count down 146

The Heartland and two flashes of light united for a brief moment before falling debris snuffed them out. In Little Rock, Arkansas, an overpass on Interstate 40 collapsed on the roadway beneath, killing two people in a single car. Rush hour would be especially long and laborious that day. In Fort Smith, Arkansas, the Piggly Wiggly Supermarket ignited from a firebomb placed behind a false ceiling. No one was inside, but the store was devastated. In both Dodge City, Kansas, and Jefferson City, Missouri, an explosion rocked the police department from a bomb placed on the roof. Three police officers died and one was wounded. Both buildings were totally destroyed. In Monroe, Louisiana, firebombs attached to five central pillars of a massive shopping mall exploded. The collapse of three large stores injured only one security officer. At the Oklahoma City airport, Cal Dary sat with Hasan al-Banna watching, for what, he could only guess. That something big was up was without question; it was the first time in weeks that his hands and feet had been tied. That it would consume more American lives, he was sure, but what he could do about it was–exactly nothing. Anger welled up in him again; each time he waited for more Americans to die, the taste of bitterness grew stronger in the back of his throat and the sense of frustration more overwhelming. They were facing west, sitting in the short-term parking area. The best he could ascertain, only one jet was moving in the early morning air. Cal could only see the top portion of the tail assembly sticking up above the terminal building, 147

Holy War but he could hear the jets screaming their desire to be off the ground as one taxied toward the runway. It was a white TWA bird. He looked west. Bright runway lights had come on in a blaze of defiance, seemingly screaming out their anger at the sun barely rising in the east. ∗∗∗ Mark Tildon got off his Harley Davidson motorcycle. It was the one thing he was going to miss. The house and pool were certainly nice, but he merely enjoyed those. He could live anywhere, and had for many years, but that motorcycle, there probably weren’t any like it in Switzerland. He had traveled there once while stationed in Germany. It was a beautiful country with beautiful women, just about central to Europe; Austria, Italy, Germany, Sicily, France, Luxembourg, Holland, and Belgium were all just hours away. To say nothing of Greece. He had always wanted to travel to Greece and see the ancient sites there. Five million would take him to all the places he had ever wanted to go and more. He heard a jet engine start and brought himself out of his reverie. He was standing behind a row of trees just off a highway, half a mile from the end of the runway at Oklahoma City’s airport. A nearby bush would serve as enough cover for the thirty or so minutes he would need. He parked his motorcycle behind it and then pocketed the key. Mark turned toward the site he had picked, walking briskly, unstrapping his Light Anti-Tank Weapon from his back as he walked. Trans World Airlines flight 467 to San 148

The Heartland Diego was moving away from the ramp as he settled into position. He had been careful to park the motorcycle south of his position. The runway the plane would use ran east to west, which meant the aircraft would pass north of his present position, well away from the motorcycle, his transportation to the rendezvous site. He was directly behind a bank of lights used for night approaches, well out of sight in the gloom preceding dawn. The wind blew down his partially open parka and he pulled the drawstring tighter around his waist and pushed his head further into the protection of its fur. Flight 467 rolled into take-off position. Mark envisioned the communication with the tower giving the captain permission to roll. Her jets raced up to full throttle and the whine reached Mark’s ears after the take-off roll had already started. He waited until the white bird had passed the point of no return, then raised the LAW to his shoulder and focused on the rapidly accelerating craft. A LAW was not the best of weapons, but it would accomplish this task. The TWA bird rose into the air and passed overhead just yards from Mark’s position. Moments after it passed overhead, Mark pulled the trigger. The expulsion of the rocket from the tube threw Mark backwards. He watched its rapid ascent toward the underside of the jet. He needed to get out of there, it wouldn’t take long for the police to find this spot, but he wanted to be sure the rocket had hit its target before returning to his motorcycle. Besides, the explosion was going to be spectacular. The rocket impacted the right wing a few yards from the fuselage. Not exactly what he had hoped for, but close 149

Holy War enough. The resultant explosion was truly dazzling. First the rocket exploded, then the fuel inside the left wing. The aircraft quivered momentarily in the sky as, no doubt, the pilots tried to control its descent. The bird began to fall, well to the south of where he had predicted. The impact was deafening as another thunderous explosion shifted the earth under Mark. Fire exploded away from the impact site in an unbelievable cloud of smoke, debris, and flame. “Five million dollars,” he repeated to himself, getting to his feet and running toward the motorcycle. ∗∗∗ As Mark Tildon lay waiting for the jet, Stu Long moved to the window of the office he had broken into. The LAW rocket launcher felt heavy on his shoulder. The memorial across from his position was just within maximum range of the weapon as he pointed it out the open window. They had planned well; this should be the easiest target of his life. He pulled the trigger and was surprised at the force of the recoil as the rocket exploded out of the tube, headed toward the reflecting pool where once the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building had stood. He dropped the empty LAW and watched the rocket streak toward the target. His heart dropped as the rocket went past the target and impacted the building behind. It exploded in a shower of fire against the concrete face of the building.

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Chapter Eleven St. Louis

M

ark Tildon ran up the embankment to the road behind where his motorcycle waited. He reached the roadway but the heat was almost unbearable. He raised his arm to cover his exposed face. He had seriously miscalculated. The field was a mass of flame all the way to his motorcycle–the trees, bushes, and his transportation to safety, all burned in a fiery glow as flames leapt toward the morning sky. ∗∗∗

Elliot Grover threw an ashtray across the room. “I said no smoking in this room!” he shouted. The ashtray careened off a wall, narrowly missing an agent, and landed on the floor. Silence ensued for several seconds. Elliot was getting very edgy.

Holy War Bill Grimes stood behind Elliot Grover and waited. The place had gone insane in the last fifteen minutes. Elliot turned around, nearly hitting Bill with his outswinging arm. “What is it?” Elliot asked in a voice as steady as he could manage. “Oklahoma City.” “Jessica!” he shouted for the still groggy containment officer. “Wait a sec, Bill,” he said. He walked over to the map where someone had placed red pins in each of the strike points. America was beginning to look like the map of Europe he remembered the boy using in the movie, Mask. Instead of places to see on a motorcycle, he was looking at places where death and destruction ruled with pain and sorrow. Jessica came up carrying two cups of coffee. Elliot wondered if she had heard in the temporary canteen, the metal ashtray hitting the wall, and promised himself he would settle down since it would be a very long day indeed. He took the coffee and said, “Go ahead, Bill, explain.” “Trans World Airlines flight 467 was hit by a rocket this morning almost exactly at dawn.” Elliot’s face went white. “How many?” he breathed. “Two hundred twelve known dead.” “Any survivors?” “Thirteen.” Then he added, “So far.” Elliot’s rage exploded within him like a living thing fighting for freedom. He began to shake and spilled his coffee. “I want pictures! I want witnesses. And I want them right now!” “Look at this,” Jessica said. 152

St. Louis “What?” Elliot almost shouted. “I was wrong. It looks as if they are using Interstate 40 instead of 70.” “Show me.” “Well, here,” she pointed to Oklahoma City, Dallas, Fort Smith, Jefferson City, and Little Rock. “All of these meet the criteria you gave Bill Grimes for Interstate 70.” “Yes, you’re right. But Interstate 40 ends in North Carolina, not near Washington, D.C.” “That’s true, but they could leave I-40 and head north on any number of roads, including secondary roads, from Arkansas all the way to North Carolina. By the way, part of Interstate 40 was destroyed this morning at four o’clock. They have to be east of there now, heading to wherever they’re going on the eastern seaboard.” Someone said, “Mr. Grover, Trudy Lewis on line three. She’s calling from the computer network room.” “Yeah?” he said into the microphone, not knowing who Trudy Lewis was or why she should be calling. “Mr. Grover, you gotta see this clip we just got over the Internet.” “Be right there.” He turned to Jessica. “Video clip in the computer network room.” They quickly walked to the network room where the lights were dimmed and Trudy Lewis was standing underneath an overhead video projector. “It’s only about twenty seconds long. It was taken from a security camera at the old quadrangle where the Murrah Federal Building used to be located.”

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Holy War Elliot and Jessica moved over so they were directly facing the screen. The image was taken by an automatic camera that moved in a pendulum motion, left to right, viewing the memorial from in front of one of the buildings surrounding the site. The camera slowly panned left until the reflecting pool was directly in front. If anything is going to happen in this twenty second long clip it’d better hurry, Elliot thought. Suddenly, a flash of light erupted from a building far behind the memorial, streaked past the pool and impacted somewhere out of the range of the camera lens. “Here it is in slow motion,” Trudy said, excitedly. Again the same film was shown, only this time slowed down during the rocket firing sequence. He watched the intended target as the rocket streaked past the memorial. Desecration of the memorial would only add insult to injury for the surviving families. Elliot was grateful those families who had already suffered so much didn’t have to witness an attack on the very thing that memorialized their loved ones. He hated the terrorists with a passion now more than ever. The message they were sending was clear. A rocket destroys the TWA flight and an identical rocket targets a memorial where, previously, terrorists had killed hundreds of Americans. He would stop them before they got to their next target site, wherever that was. The clip ended. “Can you give me a close up of the window the rocket was fired from?” he queried. “That’s coming up now,” Trudy replied, “but it’s a blow up of a single frame. O.K. here it comes.”

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St. Louis The image on screen faded and another image took shape, obviously enlarged. The picture was grainy and very poor quality, but the unmistakable form of Stewart Long could be clearly seen standing at the window facing the reflecting pool. “When was this shot taken?” he grimaced, realizing his unfortunate pun. “Six thirty-seven this morning.” “They’re not east of Little Rock, they’re in Oklahoma City!” Jessica followed Elliot as he rushed toward the door. “Jessica, I want Oklahoma City sealed. Every highway, road, street, airport, bus station, and bicycle path closed. And I mean every one of them! I want those police checking everything, including car trunks.” “It’s the beginning of rush hour there,” she said, glancing at the clock across from the entry door as they came into the main room. “It’s just after seven in Oklahoma City. We’ll kill rush hour traffic.” “I don’t care.” “I don’t care, either. I was just trying to tell you so you’d be ready when the brown stuff hits the oscillating fan.” ∗∗∗ Abu Hamza himself picked up a very agitated Stewart Long. “Why are you so nervous? Were you seen?” he asked as Stu jumped into the step van. Stu replied, “Huh? No, of course not.”

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Holy War “Why then, are you so nervous?” The American was cool most of the time. He only got out of control when something went wrong. Abu watched him as Stu thought for several seconds longer than necessary. Was this some kind of subterfuge? And if so, what was he attempting to hide? “I missed the target and hit the building behind it.” Stu had obviously decided to come clean. Abu considered this information. “It is acceptable.” Stu turned quickly toward the leader, nearly shouting. “I missed the target. It is not acceptable.” “The message will get to them, nonetheless.” “What message?” “A rocket clearly aimed at it, narrowly misses a memorial in honor of American dead at the hands of terrorists. Another rocket destroys an American flight at the same time indicating the two are related. The message is simple, ‘We will bring true terror to America and we have no respect for sites dear to American hearts.” They moved up the on-ramp to Interstate 40 and as soon as they got into the traffic, a glow appeared in the southern sky. “Mark was successful,” Abu said. Stu looked south, “Good. Our final trek will be made quickly. I told you these fools would not find us. Our plan is solid and simple.” “Hope gave way to faith long ago, my American friend,” he said as he clasped Stu’s shoulder and squeezed in a truly American gesture of friendship.

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St. Louis They drove to the rest area west of Oklahoma City where they were to meet Mark, but no motorcycle waited for them. “We should drive around,” Stu said unnecessarily. They methodically circled the lot, but still no motorcycle, only twenty or so trucks and a few automobiles. They carefully checked in between all of them and once again on the far side of the rest area, but Mark was not to be found. “He deserts us,” Abu said. “No. Something is wrong. He wouldn’t leave that money and he wouldn’t strike out on his own. With us he is safer for a number of reasons. We have to go back.” Abu considered the options. It was too early to abandon Mark Tildon, and he would never abandon him unless he knew of a certainty that he was dead. Wasn’t it an American who said, “Dead men tell no tales’? Abu moved back onto Interstate 40 going west, exited at the first exit and reentered going east. He turned off at the airport road and made his way to the dirt road that Mark was to take to the end of the runway. After half a mile they found him running toward them. Abu pulled the step van to a stop and Mark quickly jumped inside. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide with excitement. “Have any cars gone down this road?” Abu asked hurriedly. “Yes, several. But don’t worry, I dove into the ditch every time, long before they could see me.” “Is there a place to turn around down this road?” “No.” 157

Holy War Abu made a three-point turn and accelerated back toward the interstate. “Where is the motorcycle?” he asked as he made the maneuver. “The jet went off course and struck the ground too close to the motorcycle. It caught fire.” “It was the good will of Allah that caused us to plan to rid ourselves of the motorcycle at the rest area. What awaits us is uncertain, but that Allah is with us is not.” “I didn’t think you’d come back for me.” “You are one of us,” Abu replied. Entering once again the westbound traffic, Abu checked his speed to make sure he was under the speed limit. He checked his mirrors and found that the unmistakable form of a police vehicle had pulled onto the lane with him not two hundred meters back. His heart dropped to his stomach, as he saw that one, no, two more were entering the flow of traffic behind. He steeled himself and resisted the temptation to clear his throat. “We are being followed by at least three police cars,” he announced. The rear windows had been painted over with white paint to conceal the interior. Abu now regretted that necessity as the paint made it difficult for him to study the traffic behind. But the rear of the vehicle was completely full of explosives and food that had to be concealed. They were packed to move once again toward the east. “Prepare to fire out the side door,” he told Mark and Stu. “We have only revolvers,” Stu said as he moved toward the passenger door.

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St. Louis “There is a box of assault rifles at the back of the truck. With it is plenty of ammunition.” The two Americans scrambled over boxes and packages to find the weapons as Abu fought the urge to accelerate. Flashing lights erupted behind him and his heart sank once again. “You must hurry,” he said as he gave in and accelerated. The big step van increased its speed only slowly. The two men found the box and removed two submachine guns and ammo enough for a fire fight, two entire cans worth. They once again took positions in the front of the vehicle. Abu looked at his speedometer, eighty-five miles per hour and slowly climbing. “They’ve stopped behind us, Abu. Slow down,” Mark Tildon said. “They’re setting up a roadblock. Looks like we’re the last to leave,” Stu added. Abu slowed the vehicle to the speed limit and began to watch for would-be followers. There were none all the way to Mark’s retreat house. He honked his horn and the others came running from the main house. Abu rolled the window down and asked Hasan al-Banna, “Is all in readiness?” “Yes. The Americans have closed off Oklahoma City.” His reply revealed his shortness of breath. Was it the short run or nerves? “Are the girl and Imad drenched in gasoline?” Abu noticed that the two Americans had opened the side door

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Holy War and made their way to the pickups. It is not good that they always think for themselves, he thought. “Yes. As you ordered.” “Get Calvin Dary.” Moments later Hasan came back with a harried-looking Cal Dary. “Get him into the vehicle.” The door opened and Cal climbed inside. “Give me the transmitter and get in the step van,” Abu said to Hasan. Hasan handed Abu one of the black transmitter boxes and went around the vehicle. At least my men wait for direction, he thought. Hasan took the passenger seat and the other two Iraqis sat on the floor of the van. Abu waited for the two pick-ups to move into the roadway and noticed Cal Dary standing. “Sit down on the floor. It is your own fault that we drive this step van instead of our larger vehicle.” It angered him that Cal didn’t sit down at once but took his time to find an appropriate spot. “It is a good thing we changed vehicles after blindfolding the boy, or we would all be roasting under the hatred of Americans at this moment. After St. Louis we ride in comfort again, but for now, sit!” Abu drove the step van back onto the country road, calmly hit the button on the black box in his hand, and headed west. He threw the black box to Hasan, turned on the radio, and started humming with the song playing on the radio. He didn’t look back, but the sound of two explosions, one after the other, was enough to bring a smile to his features. ∗∗∗ 160

St. Louis They had been traveling for hours up Interstate 44 toward St. Louis. Missouri was boring. Mile after unbroken mile of relatively flat country and open countryside and ten hours on the road would have put Calvin Dary to sleep. Except for the nagging worry about where they were heading. And more importantly, to cause what injury? If their destination were St. Louis, what was there that would make a target? Almost anything, he guessed. These guys were proving to be nonselective. Police stations, bridges, dams, apartment buildings, an unpopulated power station, and even a simple roadway. He found it hard to believe the diversity as Abu told him about them all so he could sit and write about destruction of American dreams and help instill fear in American hearts. St. Louis had a stadium, or was it two? The Arch was in St. Louis, of course, but also any number of other targets. Was it Six Flags? Where would they put a bomb inside Six Flags? There were mostly children there. Could they even get a bomb through the gates? For all Cal knew, they had another American collaborator working at Six Flags. Would that spell death for one of these other Americans, or was his theory all wrong? After all, Stu had survived the Denver Stadium aftermath. Or was that out of necessity because they still had things for him to do? Wait, this was February and Six Flags was closed for the winter. Where, then, was the next target? Or were they just heading farther east before striking again? And another thing that had been haunting him was their ultimate destination, what was to be their final target? They couldn’t

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Holy War go on forever, and surely their plans included a final, great target. The endless questions and unknowns were giving him a headache. An argument suddenly erupted between the Iraqis. They had been speaking in Arabic and now were suddenly yelling. Cal understood only a few words, one he heard repeated several times: kaffara. It meant the atonement necessary for violation of some law. Cal wasn’t sure if he had ever known which one or if it applied to several, and it had permanently slipped his mind. That it was important to these men, there was no doubt. He wished he could remember more about the Muslim atonement. Cal remembered the book he had seen Stu reading earlier, the book about Moslem rites and observances. He would ask to read it to find out exactly what kaffara was. The argument continued for several minutes with Abu Hamza, the driver, continually turning around and gesticulating, sometimes with both arms. This was the argument over Charlie in Colorado revisited, it must be. Ramadan was over and the requirement to fast along with it. Why then had they been talking about atonement? What transgression were they worried about? Imad’s sin? Imad’s death? Cal’s mind went over the events of the last several weeks. It had been over a month since the terrorists had taken him. A month in which he had lost fifteen or twenty pounds, but other than that had suffered little. A cut over one eye, some small bruising, surely nothing compared to the suffering he had witnessed.

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St. Louis He began to think about the terrorists. It was strange that they had come to America when they did. They started their reign of terror with just a few days remaining before the beginning of their holiest month, RamaDaan. That month had only been broken three times by violence that Cal knew about. Once when Charlie’s mother had been murdered, once when Denver’s stadium had been nerve-gassed, and once when Imad was killed for breaking RamaDaan. That must be it; they were discussing Imad’s transgression. The murder of Charlie’s mother had been a necessity, at least in the eyes of the terrorists. An American, not one of the men observing RamaDaan, had attacked the stadium, so that probably wasn’t it either, and anyway, it had been planned. Imad had been killed for breaking RamaDaan itself. Of the three, only the last could be worrying them. In the Quran, adultery (or was it fornication?) was punishable by death, especially during a time of fasting and even more so during RamaDaan. Adultery was unacceptable, but wholesale murder was okay. He would never understand these people.

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Chapter Twelve St. Louis Deception

The step van suddenly swerved violently left, then right. Cal snapped his head around to see what was happening. He saw blood between Banu Hashim’s fingers, which were wrapped around his forearm. Hasan al-Banna’s arm moved rapidly, pushing a knife through the air, narrowly missing Banu Hashim’s hand holding his forearm. Ahmed Hanifa suddenly shouted one Moslem word that Cal knew. “Enough!” Abu Hamza reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. Cal didn’t know they had one. Abu punched violently at the keypad and held the phone to his ear. Still in Arabic he barked what could only be orders. Minutes later they pulled off the side of the road. Stu Long climbed into the driver’s seat and Hasan al-Banna exited the step van and pulled himself into the waiting pickup. Cal watched the pickup accelerate, throwing gravel and smoke as it sped onto the highway.

Holy War Slowly Stu pulled onto the highway behind the rapidly accelerating pickup, letting the truck pull away into the distance. “What happened here?” he queried after a few silent moments. “It is not your affair,” Abu Hamza said. “Drive to the next exit and go into the first gasoline station with one of those quick stops or whatever you call them. You might as well fill up with gasoline while we are there. Go inside and purchase a first aid kit for Banu while the gasoline pumps, and hurry, the Wal-Mart is only a few minutes from here.” After they stopped, Cal watched Stu start the gasoline pumping, then walk inside the 76 Station for the first aid kit. Cal used the time, while the Iraqis hid silently behind the seats, to muse about what he knew. Somehow he must get a message to the FBI. Did he know anything that would help except where they were at present? He knew that at first they had stopped at restaurants but after a few incidents, began to eat provisions they carried and never ate food from restaurants. They had extra food stashed at Stu’s, then at Mark’s. They stopped for gasoline only when an American was driving. Their targets had all been meticulously planned well in advance, and so far they had missed nothing of import during that planning. They were just southwest of St. Louis about twenty or thirty minutes, he guessed. He turned to look casually at the explosives and food in the back of the step van. Not much remained of the explosives, most of it having been used while they stayed in Oklahoma City. Cal had read about the bombings in the newspaper. There had been many killed and some spectacular damage. So why had they not taken 166

St. Louis Deception him to each site to witness the explosions? There had been several of them, too, all taking place about the same time as the attack on the memorial and the TWA flight. Why all at once? Was it some kind of signal? It was understandable that they had taken him to the TWA shooting; it was so much more spectacular than a rather uneventful attack on a deserted memorial. But what were they doing? Was there any reasoning at all to their attacks? Or was it truly just haphazard terror? The truth was that he knew only what the terrorists wanted him to know and that was not much, and certainly nothing of any import. He didn’t even know what Wal-Mart they were heading toward or what purpose it would serve when they arrived. Then he remembered Abu had said, ‘The Wal-Mart’ as if there were only one. He determined to work some more on Stu Long. If he ever got another chance. The door opened and Stu got in. He placed the first aid kit on the seat next to him and adjusted his seatbelt. Abu said, “We’re ten minutes from the Wal-Mart so don’t wait too long after we’re out of this station.” Stu started the step van, and drove off without so much as one backward glance. ∗∗∗ The attendant at the 76 Station waited until the stranger had left. He reached under the counter and pulled out a facsimile of the man the FBI said was their number one

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Holy War suspect and the key to stopping the foreign terrorists. He stared at it in horror. It was him! His hands shook as he called the number his supervisor had scribbled on the faxed image. “Ah, this is Horace Wells. I’m calling from Missouri. Is this the right number to report a terrorist?” ∗∗∗ “Just take it easy, Mr. Wells,” Elliot Grover said calmly into the telephone. It was important to keep a witness as calm as possible. He was probably going to live because the danger had already left his station. The terrorists didn’t know they had been identified. Not yet anyway. “Are you sure it was him?” “Yes. Yes, sir. It was him all right. Spittin’ image of the fax.” “What was he driving?” “Oh, ah, let me look; it’s a white and blue step van and it’s got Brownville Uniform Service in blue and white letters on the side. It’ll be easy to find.” “You mean it’s still on your lot?” Elliot couldn’t believe his luck. “Ah, yes, sir.” “Can you get me the license number without being obvious?” “He’s pulling out of the pump area now. Hold on a sec,” the man said.

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St. Louis Deception Elliot covered the mouthpiece. “Jenny, get the jet ready for St. Louis. Contact our guys there and have them put out an All Points Bulletin for a white and blue step van. Hold on and I’ll give you the license number. I want helicopters, ground units, and the National Guard, if that’s what it takes. I’m flying there now but won’t arrive for about two hours. Have a helicopter standing by and make sure it’s fully fueled. I don’t want anything stopping us this time.” Horace Wells came back on the line. “Used my binocs to get a good look at that plate, sir. They drove right off so I had to use my binocs. You got a pencil or somethin’?” “You bet, Mr. Wells. What’s that number?” “It’s an Oklahoma plate. Number of ADM 1506.” “Which way did he head, Mr. Wells?” he fought the temptation to ask whether he was heading east or not. It was important to let a witness give you the information in his or her own way. A lot of information could be lost by inadvertently leading a witness. The wait was interminable. “He’s headin’ toward St. Louie.” Sometimes it didn’t work. “Is that east or west from your location?” he queried softly. “Oh, you ain’t from here. That’d be east.” “Mr. Wells, I’m going to hand you over to a friend of mine who’s going to give you some instructions. That be O.K.?” Elliot had the urge to throw the telephone and run for the exit. He waved Bill Grimes over. “Tell him to hold on because there’s some police coming. I want him protected, and find out if he saw, heard, or smelled anything else.

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Holy War We’ve got them.” He slapped Bill on the back, then extended the phone. “Jessica!” he yelled, “let’s go. We’ve got the bastards!” Their jet wasn’t far. A lot closer here in Oklahoma City than in Los Angeles. He paused at the door and called to Jenny for a last instruction, “Have the center in Pittsburgh notified we’ll be setting up shop there.” “Pittsburgh?” she asked. “That’s right.” Before the door closed he heard her ask someone, “I thought he said they were going to St. Louis, Missouri. Why in hell is he going to Pittsburgh?” ∗∗∗ Calvin Dary sat in the second seat of a Durango truck. Cal knew the truck was new because that new smell was still strong. He was once again tied hand and foot. He watched as the men transferred the food and explosive cache along with a few personal items from the step van to the Durango truck. They were parked on the edge of a WalMart parking lot. Outside the dusk gathered around them as cars came into the parking lot and passed them, apparently uncaring what three men were doing moving boxes from one truck to another. The three were Stu, Abu Hamza, and the latest American, Red Tackert, who had driven the Durango they met in the parking lot. The others had shifted to the pickup trucks during an ingenious move just outside St. Louis. 170

St. Louis Deception Both pickups had slowly fallen behind them, then after just a couple of miles, the step van pulled over in the middle of the interstate and the Iraqis had gotten out, except for Abu Hamza. Cal knew the pickups were going to meet the Iraqis just seconds after the step van pulled back onto Interstate 44. Something was definitely up. Stu got in the driver’s seat and started the Durango while Red Tackert got in beside Cal. Abu Hamza went inside the now empty step van. He was there less than thirty seconds before he reappeared and got into the passenger side of the new truck. Was this new man a replacement for Imad? Or was one of the Americans about to die in similar fashion to John Wilkenson? He was certain that up until now the plan called for two Americans and only two Americans, but with Imad gone would that change? And another thing that didn’t make sense to him was that three trucks now had three American drivers. If they needed three American drivers, why had they been using two American and one Iraqi driver up until now? He had too many questions and not nearly enough answers. He looked over at the newcomer to see the man staring at him. “Calvin Dary,” he said to him, resisting the automatic reflex to extend his hand. The man turned away without a hint of acknowledgment. “This is Red Tackert,” Stu said from the front, “Now shut up or I’ll have him tape your mouth.” “Let’s go,” Abu said.

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Holy War Incredibly, they drove to the St. Louis Arch, parked, and waited while Stu and Red Tackert went inside, Red carrying a briefcase. Cal watched Abu remove another briefcase from the dwindling stack of briefcases in the back of the Durango and wondered why Abu was so careful to remove one from the middle of the stack rather than taking the top one. Once he got situated in the passenger seat, Abu placed the briefcase on his lap. From where they sat, the Arch was clearly in view. Cal knew that more Americans were about to die and contemplated what he could do about it, if anything. The Arch, even if it came down, would not kill many. The riverboat might be another matter. Cal began to calculate his chances of making a difference if he made a break for it, here and now. Could he evade Abu, or would a bullet find his back long before he could get away? He remembered the perfect shot fired into the head of Charlie’s mother. She had not even known what hit her. Abu was a marksman among other things, that was certain. If Cal could get away, he needed to put something between himself and Abu and he’d have to do that as quickly as possible. While they waited, Abu removed Cal’s bonds. The returning circulation was a feeling he knew and even welcomed. How quickly one grew accustomed to hardship. He rubbed his wrists to help the returning blood ease the pain. Much to his surprise Mark Tildon walked up to the passenger side door and Abu rolled the window down to talk to him. “Remember,” he said, handing the briefcase out the window, “when you hear about the Arch going, turn the 172

St. Louis Deception lock tumblers to 623 on both sides, the left one first, then the right. That gives you exactly fifteen minutes to get off the riverboat. If something happens and the Arch doesn’t go, at 7:30 p.m. sharp you set the tumblers to 623 and get off the boat. Dive into the water only as a last resort. The boat is scheduled to depart at 7:35 so that should leave you plenty of room for comfort.” “You got it,” Mark said, taking the briefcase and walking off quietly into the crowd heading toward the mighty Mississippi River and certain death for how many Americans? ∗∗∗ Red Tackert waited in line with screaming kids, parents with pasted on smiles, and bored looking grandparents. He tried not to think about what he was going to do in the next few minutes. He kept reminding himself over and over again that five million dollars would go a long way to making the rest of his life bearable. His hands itched from nerves and the constantly appearing sweat. Well, it wasn’t like he had not killed anyone before. During Desert Storm his tank had taken out many Iraqi tanks with no telling how many men. He had loaded every round that the commander told them to fire, so even if it was indirectly, he had killed before. It was different this time—Americans instead of the enemy. And he was working for the enemy. But it was his way of helping even the score. The five million dollars was ancillary. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

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Holy War He and Stu were at the front of the line watching the people ahead of them go down the small stairway and into the waiting elevators. Women and children were going up those elevators. At least in Iraq there had only been men, army men who were fighting against them and trying to kill them. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and glanced at Stu. Stu was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. Red tried to smile but regretted it immediately. It was more a scowl than a smile. And his lips cracked from being so dry. They went down the stairs and into the empty elevator on the far end. The doors closed and panic nearly overcame Red Tackert. His heart began to beat so loudly he feared Stu and the other people in the elevator would hear it and know how afraid he was. He had been in close quarters before, especially in the tank, but he had never reacted like this. He gripped the briefcase with both hands and looked down. To hell with the others. He no longer cared how they felt about him. He just wanted off this elevator. It finally stopped and he was the first one through the small door and into the relative coolness of the upper level. He moved slowly behind the other visitors as they too came out of the elevators and made their way to the viewing area in the very top of the Arch. He forced himself to breath deeply, drawing in the cold, damp air, trying to relax. Once inside, Red dialed in 623 on the left thumb wheels as instructed. He knew the bomb was now armed. He need only dial in 623 on the right thumb wheels to start the timer. He put his thumb over the wheels and tried to stop shaking. He looked left and right at the women and children 174

St. Louis Deception beside him. Most of them would die, as well as others coming up on the elevators after he had gone. >From behind him Stu leaned over his shoulder, “Set the wheels or I’ll shoot you in the back, you worthless piece of dog dung.” Red set the thumb wheels to 623 and quickly extracted a camera for Stu and a set of binoculars for himself. He resisted the temptation to examine the bomb hidden behind the folds of the briefcase and hurriedly shut it. They had less than thirty minutes. While Stu made a show of taking pictures, Red made his way to the trash can on the south side of the viewing area and pushed the briefcase inside. It barely fit. He moved trash around and on top of the briefcase, then went back to the viewing window to use the binoculars. No one seemed to notice what he had done. So far, so good. It seemed like twenty minutes later that Stu motioned for them to join the crowd leaving on the next set of elevators. He knew it had been less than ten, but his nerves were shot. He wanted to tell the people they were leaving behind that he was sorry. Ten minutes down to the ground floor would leave them ten minutes to get away. Plenty of time. The people riding up on the elevators and everyone they were leaving behind on top were as good as dead. He wanted to get the briefcase and throw it in the river, but the elevator had already started down and he knew there was no time for going back. Sometimes, life sucks, he thought.

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Chapter Thirteen Retribution

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al Dary sat waiting for the return of the three Americans, the St. Louis Arch glistening in the twilight and reflecting the city lights. He considered once again how his life had gone. The abduction and nearly five weeks with these terrorists had given him many occasions to contemplate his position in life. An average childhood, an average education, an average family, and an average home. But that’s where the average ended. He was out of high school three years before giving up his job hanging mufflers and exhaust pipe in a muffler shop. Then to college to earn a degree in English because it was the only thing he thought he had a chance at. He switched to journalism, thanks to a girlfriend who later eloped with his roommate. Cal hadn’t even known anything was going on. He finally graduated after five years, fifty pounds heavier and disillusioned with life.

Holy War He met Teresa at a party he was covering for that rag that earned him living expenses. After many on again, off again stints and eight years, they were married, but only after he swore he would make something of himself. He almost had before the abduction. She had worked tirelessly with him and provided many good lines for his columns. Together they had made Calvin Dary a nationally known columnist. But it was Cal alone who still pushed himself to be unusual, different, exciting. He rarely thought he was. Sitting here in the truck, under these particular circumstances, he knew he should have been happy just being Calvin. That’s what his readers wanted anyway. If I ever get out of this, I’m going to throw myself into my family like I threw myself at my work to prove I was somebody, he thought. Reality eased in and introduced itself to him again as he stared at the Arch and remembered where he was. He had been riding along with these terrorists like Joe American, putting up with their insults, accusations, and ridicule. Cal sat directly behind Abu Hamza. He shifted restlessly, letting one arm fall over the back of the seat. The tips of his fingers grazed something. He glanced back and saw yet another briefcase. Abu must have placed it there after getting the one ready for Red Tackert. It probably had a bomb like the others. If he managed to kill Abu Hamza, would that defeat the others? Would Teresa and Rebekah survive? Would he? He cursed himself for allowing thousands of Americans to die without a fight. He was the only one who could strike back. What was the combination? Six, two, three, that was 178

Retribution it. He remembered Abu tell both Mark and Red the same number. Now if the rest were the same. He was betting his life they were. Cal made sure he was facing the Arch as he sat sideways in the chair. He felt for the catch on the briefcase and determined that it was standing with its back toward him. That meant the numbers would be backward. He moved his hand to the right side and made sure the numbers were all on zero then counted each turn of each wheel until he had dialed in 623. The bomb inside the briefcase was armed. He needed to wait nearly thirty minutes before getting out and making a run for it. He doubted that Abu would leave the vehicle during that time. He took his eyes from the Arch and sought for some cover outside the Durango. He wasn’t far from plenty of cover out the driver’s side. Since Abu was sitting on the passenger’s side, he could slide across the seat, open the door, and make a run for it before Abu could pull his gun and get in a position to shoot, marksman or no marksman. He searched the dash but the truck was turned off so the clock was not visible. He didn’t wear a watch but he could see Abu’s wrist where a watch was partially visible. Six forty-five. He waited for the second hand to hit the twelve then dialed the last of the numbers on the opposite set of thumb wheels. There was now no turning back. The timer had started. At seven fifteen he would kick the window out

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Holy War and hope Abu was slow to react. If he figured it correctly, Mark was setting his bomb to go off between 7:30 and 7:35. ∗∗∗ Mark Tildon moved slowly through the riverboat casino carrying his briefcase. No gambling was allowed on the riverboat until they embarked at 7:35. That left plenty of time to find just the right machine, size up his target, or locate the right table. He browsed around the shops and watched the people making their way through the throngs. To his surprise he was stopped only twice to check the contents of his briefcase. It contained several thousand dollars in stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The explosives, of course, were cleverly hidden in the top. He had watched carefully as Abu Hamza had taken the briefcase marked with an X in red tape. Had he taken one of the other ones, the money would have been missing and he would have been arrested, he was sure. As it was, the guard at the ramp, and later the manager, had let him enter without a word when they had seen the color of his money. He wanted to be below the water line and near the outside of the boat when he planted his briefcase. He made his way below decks and into a bathroom where he entered a stall and sat down. He carefully locked the door, took out all the money, and shut the briefcase. Mark Tildon smiled at his success. It was over now. He would simply set the thumb wheels, crawl under the door and be on his way, long before the bomb exploded. He glanced at his wrist 180

Retribution watch then leaned back to wait the ten minutes before setting his little surprise behind the toilet. ∗∗∗ Stu Long walked up to the pretty new Chrysler Durango appreciating the beauty in the lines of the new four by four. It was a deep blue with pinstripes of sky blue down the sides and across the back and front. Stu noticed Cal Dary as he and Red approached. The look on Cal’s face was surprise mixed with something else. What? And why was he surprised? Had he still been expecting Abu to deliberately kill him and Red with the bomb they had just delivered? And what was the something else? Guilt? To Red, he said, “Hold on a minute.” He walked to the window and waited for Abu to face the front of the vehicle and lower the window. “What’s this guy been up to?” he queried, pointing at Cal. “Nothing,” Abu replied stiffly without looking at him. “What could he have done?” Abu asked, picking up his revolver with the silencer and waving it. “Shut up and get in the vehicle.” “I’m telling you the guy looked surprised when we came up, like he didn’t expect to see us come back so quickly.” “Maybe he was expecting you later, so what? Now, get in. We have to drive to the river so we can pick up Mark as soon as the commotion starts.” Stu moved to the driver’s side as Red got in the back with Cal. Stu paused at the door long enough to give Cal 181

Holy War one more look. The man was more composed, but there was still something wrong. He felt it as well as saw it. Stu got in and made himself comfortable while surreptitiously watching Calvin Dary in the rear view mirror. Stu checked his watch, “O.K., just a few seconds now.” Abu Hamza leaned forward in the seat to get a better view of the disaster he had unleashed this time. Stu studied the smile on the man’s face. He was truly enjoying these attacks. He made sure Dary was watching the Arch and turned his head as well. The top of the Arch suddenly erupted in light. For the first brief moment, pieces of the Arch could be seen coming down. Too bad most of the explosion had occurred toward the river on the far side, away from where they sat. Much to his surprise, the Arch didn’t fall down. He had expected to see the entire top come off and the thing to lean over like some dying animal. But all it did was spew glass and metal debris. From the back, Red Tackert said, “Look at the big pieces falling, isn’t that beautiful. What are they?” “Pieces of metal,” Stu said. “They’re not pieces of metal,” Calvin Dary said, “they’re people!” “No matter,” Abu added, “let’s go to the river.” Stu started the Durango while continuing to watch Cal in the back. It looked as if Cal was desperately trying to see the dash. What was there that could interest him now? Stu started the vehicle and glanced at the dash: the radio or the clock, he supposed. The radio was on but turned down so 182

Retribution far it couldn’t be heard. The time was 7:14. He shrugged, put the truck in gear, and started toward the side street closest to the riverboat area. He pulled onto the street, made three lefts and accelerated to thirty miles per hour. Suddenly Stu heard air rushing into the truck and looked into the rearview. Calvin Dary was gone. He slammed on the brakes, pulled as far right as he could, and jumped out when the truck stopped. As Stu rounded the rear of the Durango he saw Calvin Dary running, almost dragging his right leg, toward the sidewalk. By the time he and Red caught him, Cal had nearly reached the sidewalk, and a small crowd of people had stopped to watch the show. He took one of Cal’s arms while Red took the other. Cal must’ve broken his leg. “Sorry, folks,” he said to the gathering crowd, “our friend is just drunk and a little stupid.” ∗∗∗ Cal Dary was appalled to see that the dash clock still said 7:14. He had to get out in the next two minutes. But had the clock just turned over to 7:14, or was it nearly 7:15? He held his eyes glued to the clock as Stu pulled into the sparse traffic and made several left hand turns, then accelerated. How fast was he going? Not that it mattered; it was get out of the truck or die in the truck. The clock changed to 7:15 and Cal pulled up the door handle, clenched his teeth, wrapped his hands around his neck, his elbows together against his chest, and rolled into the street. He had seen that in a movie somewhere. 183

Holy War His shoulder struck the asphalt and the jar sent pain streaking up his arm and neck. Rolling over once trying to disperse the inertial energy contained within his body; his leg impacted the bumper of a parked car. This time the pain was excruciating. He knew he had to move to get away from the explosion of the truck, if nothing else. After the explosion someone would help him; until then he had to get something substantial between himself and the Durango, even if it was only another vehicle. He staggered to his feet amid the screeching of tires. He gasped for air and clawed his way down the side of the car he had struck. He nearly made it around the back before Stu and Red caught up to him and each grabbed an arm. What was wrong with that bomb? Surely there weren’t many seconds left. He heard Stu as if from a great distance, “Sorry, folks, our friend is just drunk and a little stupid.” They began to walk him back toward the Durango. “We can’t go there!” he managed to croak out over the pain in his leg and shoulder. Thank God it was the two Americans. Maybe if he still got Abu, his family would be all right and the other Iraqis would go home. “Take him!” Stu shouted and ran back to the Durango. Cal fought Red, but he was too weak, and Red too strong. He cursed his overweight and under exercised body. They were almost within touching distance of the blue Durango when Stu reached the passenger side. “He did something while you were alone with him. What did he do?” Abu climbed into the back and Stu opened the rear passenger door. Cal could see past the 184

Retribution fumbling Stu into the interior of the truck. The briefcases were in disarray. They’d never find the right one in time. Cal steeled himself for the imminent explosion. He watched as Abu and Stu went through the briefcases. They were looking for one dialed to 623. He hadn’t been as smart as he thought. They found it almost immediately. Stu threw the briefcase under the car beside them and ran to the driver’s side. Red pushed Cal into the truck, then across the seat to the opposite side. Red then climbed in after Cal. Cal looked out the window, trying to decide how they would kill him. Two doors slammed shut and the truck lurched back into motion. Still, there was no explosion. It must not have been a bomb. No, no, that didn’t make sense. Why else would they have thrown it out in such a hurry? Abu turned in the seat and looked at Cal while the truck danced down the bumpy back street toward the river, his watch in clear view. It just now read 7:15. Abu’s watch was slow a couple of minutes. “Hand cuff him to the seat,” Abu said. Whatever was coming for Calvin Dary, the FBI couldn’t be far behind the terrorists now. There must have been ten witnesses who got a good look at three men and the truck on the busy downtown street in St. Louis. Cal only hoped one of them had gotten a look at the dark figure in the front passenger side of that blue Durango. “Your wife will die tomorrow. One more mistake, and you and your daughter will also die.” Abu’s face was so red Cal expected to see the top of his head explode. He wanted to laugh so much he could only 185

Holy War barely contain himself. Behind them the briefcase exploded under the car where it had been thrown. Cal hoped the bystanders who had seen them had gone and had not been killed or injured when the bomb exploded. He remembered that Jesus never said a word to his accusers, so he too, kept his mouth shut. ∗∗∗ Mark Tildon watched his wristwatch until the ten minutes had expired. The last few minutes were the worst. Finally, it was time. He picked up the briefcase and dialed 623 on the left, arming the bomb. To set the timer, he dialed six, then two, then three. The bomb exploded instantly, with the briefcase sitting in his lap. ∗∗∗ Stu pulled up to wait at the appointed site. “We can’t stay, here,” he said, turning to Abu. “You’re right,” he replied, “go across the river and head toward the rendezvous site.” “What about Mark?” “He will have to get to the rendezvous some other way. If we stay here, we are sure to be captured, thanks to Mr. Reporter back there,” Abu said coldly. “Mark will probably be quickly linked to the explosion on the boat.”

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Retribution “Then he will have to quickly get off and quickly get to the rendezvous point. Now let’s go, before we sacrifice our own lives for his.” “We don’t do that here in America. We help our team.” Abu pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Stu’s forehead. “Your body will be easy to dump out of this truck. Now drive across the bridge to the rendezvous site, or you can wait for Mark Tildon while growing cold.” Stu started the truck and glanced at the inside rearview mirror. Cal Dary’s eyes met his with the most expressionless gaze he had ever seen. Was this guy right and he wrong? Why couldn’t they park in one of the multistory parking garages and wait. Five minutes would be nothing and they might pick up Mark. “Why not pull into a parking garage where no one will see us, and wait five minutes? If he’s not here when we pull out, then we can proceed over the bridge.” Abu was silent only a moment. “Five minutes is an eternity in this situation. The police, and probably whoever the FBI has in this city, are responding to three explosions all within a few blocks of one another. We will be trapped in minutes. Do not take the chance; cross the bridge and go to the rendezvous site. You can get in a pickup there and return.” “O.K.,” Stu acquiesced. They were not far from the rendezvous site when the announcer on the news station read a bulletin reporting the bombing. Stu’s eyes opened wide when he heard the announcer say, “The police have confirmed that the terrorist

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Holy War on the riverboat died when the bomb he was trying to plant exploded in his face.” Stu once again glanced at Cal in the rearview mirror. This time the expression on Cal Dary’s face was plain to see, ‘I told you so’.

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Chapter Fourteen Traitor?

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lliot Grover didn’t know what to do with himself. He couldn’t concentrate enough to read, the crossword puzzle was impossible, and the deck of cards beside him had the six of clubs missing. Elliot picked up the Newsweek magazine sitting next to him. He had leafed through every magazine in the aircraft at least twice. “St. Louis report,” George, the copilot said, as he extended two or three sheets of paper toward Elliot. I must be tired, he thought, I never heard the man coming. “We’re descending?” he asked, taking the papers. “We land in about ten minutes,” George replied, before turning around to return to the cockpit. What he read in the report didn’t even startle him. Three men opening the doors of the step van in a Wal-Mart parking lot had been killed when a bomb exploded. Seven

Holy War others had been injured. Forty-five minutes later the Arch had been bombed, eleven more people killed and ten others injured, two of whom were in critical condition and not expected to live. Another bomb had gone off ten minutes later on a casino riverboat, sinking it. Fortunately the riverboat was dockside where it just settled to the bottom and listed to port. Only two people had died, including the man carrying the bomb. About the same time, yet another bomb had gone off under a car on a side street near the Arch. This one was weird because there had been several witnesses. The witnesses all reported seeing a man dive out of a moving vehicle and be ‘rescued’ by two American friends. The two Americans had told the crowd their friend was drunk and stupid. Moments after the truck pulled away, disaster struck. The tally of dead and injured on that busy street was not yet complete. The step van was obviously booby-trapped and the Arch and riverboat were plants. But from the description, the man on the side street must have been Calvin Dary trying to escape. Why did he choose that particular time? It didn’t add up. The plane jarred as it landed. And why did the terrorists throw out a bomb after they retrieved Calvin Dary? Was it an attempt to kill the witnesses or just create a diversion so they could escape? “Can we get a helicopter into the Arch area?” “Yeah, sure, there’s plenty of room.” “Get one over here.” “Yes, sir.” Minutes later Elliot exited the helicopter. He waved off the pilot and waited for the air to calm a little before 190

Traitor? walking over to the police officer hurrying towards him. “You in charge here?” he asked. “Not now. You’re Elliot Grover from the FBI, aren’t you? Very glad to meet you, sir.” “Thanks,” Elliot said, holding out his badge. “Excuse me a second.” He turned to one of the FBI agents with him. “Get me a handheld so I can talk to the ‘copter pilot.” “I was told you’d be here. You can have it, Mr. Grover. Believe me, you can have this one.” Elliot knew he wasn’t talking about the radio. “Give me the quick and dirty.” “Bomb went off in the viewing area in the Arch, another one went off in that street over there,” he said, pointing to the south, “and one more in the Delta Queen, that’s east of here in the river about five blocks. All of them within minutes of each other.” “I know. It was bad.” “It wasn’t just bad, Mr. Grover. There are bodies and pieces of bodies all over the place.” “Can you tell me what you know outside of the explosions?” Elliot was finding it difficult to slow down. The terrorists were getting away again and Elliot was hamstrung by a lack of information. He was always one step behind these guys. “Nothing from here or the riverboat yet. Over there,” he pointed again, “there are witnesses you can talk to. I understand they have pieced together a pretty good description of the three guys and the vehicle they were in.”

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Holy War “Who should I see over there?” “Talk to Clarence Regien. Only call him Reggie.” “Thanks.” Elliot took off at a full run. ∗∗∗ Cal Dary listened to Abu Hamza’s tirade and waited for the inevitable punishment or death that was to come. The terrorists had been arguing long and hard about what could only be his fate. At least he had done something to try and fight against them. His wife and Rebekah would know he had not been a coward. Not this time. Once they had been bowling and four men had come in with guns. They quickly ran through the crowd of bowlers and had taken jewelry, watches, wallets, and purses. Not one person had tried to fight them. Cal remembered handing over his things without a word, hoping they wouldn’t shoot anyone. Teresa at least had the presence of mind to drop her wedding rings into her drink. He had been meek and later, ashamed. Six year-old Rebekah had turned to him after the thugs had gone and asked, “Couldn’t you have done something, Daddy?” After her question, he had thought about that situation over and over again. One man against four with guns would only get shot for trying to do something stupid. But Cal couldn’t escape Rebekah’s logic. Surely he could have done something. Hiding his wallet in his pants when the gunmen were on the other side of the bowling alley would have worked. Perhaps even putting his wedding ring in his shoe would have been something effective. If he was to die today, at least he had tried this time. 192

Traitor? He brought himself back to the present. There was the issue of what to do about the truck. It had been seen and no doubt the FBI had a good description by now. Well, if he was to die here by the side of the road near St. Louis, Missouri, then at least he would die knowing he had given the FBI a lead. The terrorists were doing a very uncharacteristic thing. They had gathered at a meeting spot in a wooded area. All of them had gathered. The wind blew right through the light jacket he had on, so Cal pulled up the collar and held the jacket tight against him. The wind was getting stronger and the dropping temperature signaled that a winter storm was no doubt moving in. Maybe the snow will hide my body, he thought. The radio announcer had said that the terrorist who planted the bomb on the riverboat was dead due to a defective bomb. Apparently it had gone off in his lap. Cal was certain it was not an accident but another deliberate act. He now had a much better picture of the terrorist’s modus operandi. They only allowed for Cal plus two Americans besides themselves. Any other American was dead after he had served his purpose and could be replaced. The argument was suddenly over. Cal knew he was in trouble when the Americans stayed behind and all of the Iraqis approached him. They encircled him with Abu Hamza standing in front. He glanced side to side and hoped he didn’t look as terrified as he felt. “Long before we came to America we planned our trip much like you Americans plan your vacations. We planned everything we would do and there was a reason for 193

Holy War everything. We planned to poison your water in payment for your poisoning of our minds. We planned to destroy your transportation because you destroyed much of ours. We would kill your people and will continue to do so until we feel the score is even. Many other things in our plans we haven’t yet accomplished, Mr. Reporter. You bombed our hotels in the name of war; that act will be repaid soon. But in our planning we found a man who hated the very idea of the modern Khariji. This man knew there were Kharijis alive, descended from the great Kharijis of the past, but without their will to maintain the right no matter the cost. A few of us gathered together and formed an alliance while our leaders waited with great anticipation and this man who hated us reported our first feeble efforts. We began to follow that man, Mr. Reporter, you and your family. We watched your wife shop, play bridge, workout, and even go to church religiously almost every Sunday. We watched your daughter at school, in your back yard, and occasionally we watched her in her bedroom. Mr. Reporter, we know everything we need to know about you and your rotten little family. Why didn’t you have more children? Lose the power? Or did your wife throw you out of her bed?” “You miserable excuse for a human being,” Cal finally said. “You’re worse than anything I ever wrote about or even considered. How dare you watch my daughter in her bedroom? She’s just a little girl, for God’s sake. If you touch her, I’ll kill you.” The ridiculousness of his comment didn’t sink in until much later.

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Traitor? Abu was not affected by the outburst, but smiled as he said, “Tomorrow your wife dies, Mr. Reporter, standing next to her pastor in the entryway of your church.” Calvin Dary leaped toward Abu who was suddenly his personal adversary. He was no longer a terrorist against America, but a very real danger to his own family. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him backward. He lost his balance and fell, pain stabbing up his injured leg. He was pulled to his feet and Abu walked over to face him. Cal looked down at the revolver in his hand. Abu was holding it by the barrel. “Your daughter will be next, and if you persist I will have one of your relatives killed every day. I think I will start with your favorite aunt. That would be Aunt Rose, wouldn’t it? You have more than enough relatives for these last few days, Calvin Dary. We know this because we have several very nice pictures of them from last Christmas.” Cal wished he could wipe the smile off the face of Abu Hamza. His anger was a living thing within him as he began to shake in rage. “You bastard, I hope you rot in hell!” The revolver caught him just above the eyebrow. A gush of blood ran down his face and burned his eye. Cal saw stars for the first time in his life. His stomach knotted into a cramped ball as a tingling sensation ran throughout his body. Cal gently shook his head trying to clear the fog creeping around the edges of his vision. As if from a distance, he heard Abu say, “Among other things, Mr. Reporter, we rented an apartment not far from your church. After we killed the appropriate resident, of 195

Holy War course. We had to empty just the right apartment so we could see into the church foyer. We did that months ago. I will enjoy sending the message to my friend who will kill your wife. He will fire a single bullet and be gone back to Iraq long before your famous FBI can react. Or should I have said infamous?” He laughed lightly, turned around and began walking slowly away. He stopped a short distance away. “Break his leg.” Cal heard shuffling noises behind him. “Not that one. That one’s already damaged, break the other.” Something heavy hit his good leg then the back of his head. Darkness came from somewhere unknown and consumed him. ∗∗∗ Abu Hamza watched Calvin Dary fall to the ground. “Put him in one of the pickups and handcuff him to the seat,” he said. “Stu, take the other pickup and drive Red into East St. Louis, not back to St. Louis itself. Drop him off at a dealership where he can buy another truck. Use your credit,” he said to the mute Red Tackert, “and buy us something suitable, but nothing fancy. Make it a new one but not another Durango. As a matter of fact, buy one of those converted vans we’ve seen so many of on the highways. That would do nicely. I will give you fifteen thousand dollars as a down payment but use your credit to purchase the rest. Drive back here and meet me on this spot. The rest will go on ahead.”

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Traitor? Stu added carefully, “If you’re trying not to attract attention, I suggest we cut the down payment to ten thousand or perhaps even five thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of cash and the FBI would be sure to hear about the transaction quickly. He turned toward Red Taggert. “You have enough buying power for that, don’t you?” “Yeah, sure. I have plenty.” “Good,” Abu put in. “Use your address in St. Louis and your current job. You won’t need them anymore, anyway. I will give you ten thousand for a down payment. The FBI will not be told about every middle income American buying a vehicle.” A compromise was a good thing. It would help keep the Americans quiet while maintaining his leadership. “Ahmed,” he said, “transfer everything to the back of the pick-up Cal Dary is in, then drive the Durango into the river. Pick a spot where it will go out into the river and sink out of sight.” Ahmed and Stu both got busy. Abu watched them for a moment. Time was their enemy now, they must hurry from this place. Stu waved to Ahmed, pointing to a place where the truck could be driven into the water. Abu climbed into the pickup with Cal. As Abu waited for the others, he tried to get warm. It would be a long time before Red Tackert returned with the new vehicle and he must wait in the cold. It would give him much needed time to think. He hated cold weather. Nothing could be farther from his home environment, even in winter. Now the heat from his anger must spark his thought processes. Calvin Dary’s escape attempt, while not a 197

Holy War surprise, had nevertheless caused him much anxiety. They must now restrain him and perhaps tape his mouth shut or drug him to keep him from another attempt. He was becoming more and more of a burden but he was still needed. The rest of the Iraqis returned. Ahmed Hanifa knocked on the window to get his attention. The three Iraqis stood together outside his door. This was not a good sign, they must be gathered here to question his judgment yet again. He was weary. The next few days couldn’t possibly pass fast enough to suit him. He opened the door and got out. “The reporter must die,” Ahmed Hanifa stated coldly. Abu took a deep breath. “You know Saddam insisted on an insider’s perspective. Saddam believes Americans trust Americans and very few others. I gave Saddam an oath that I would keep this man alive until the end. I promised him an American’s words to Americans about why their people die and how they die.” “That was before he caused us harm.” “He has caused us no harm,” Hamza replied wearily. “He almost did back there and we haven’t escaped yet,” Hasan al-Banna said. “And how do we know Dary hasn’t passed the FBI some message about us?” They were clearly telling him they were frightened. He must react. But how? “Calvin Dary stays alive for now. We are outside St. Louis. The truck they have a description of is lost in the river and won’t be found for hours or even days. By that time we will be long gone in our new vehicle. That one we 198

Traitor? have been careful not to pay cash for so as to attract no attention. They have no idea about the pickup trucks and no descriptions that can lead them to us except perhaps a vague description of me. Get over it. And besides, if Dary had passed a message to the FBI we would all be in an American jail right now.” He was angry, but needed these men to help him plant the last bomb in Washington. Or did he? He began to consider the idea of their expendability. “We heard about the step van being found in the WalMart parking lot,” Ahmed Hanifa said. “They must have a description of one of us.” “We knew they’d find the step van.” “Yeah, after the store was closed. They found it almost before we got to the Arch.” Abu was stunned. Hanifa was right. How had they found it so quickly? A step van parked in a busy parking lot should not have been cause for alarm. “Was it the FBI?” he asked. “Yes. The FBI.” He, too, was now worried. The FBI had a description of at least one of them. But how? “All right, you must be correct. How much gas do we have in the spare cans?” “About fifty gallons,” Banu Hashim said. He was in charge of material and equipment. Abu decided to use an American tactic. “How can we increase our chances of survival? I suggest we ditch one of the pickups after we get away from here and travel only at night. Who could be the one the FBI has a description of?” He waited for them to reason it out for themselves.

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Holy War “It must be one of the Americans,” Ahmed Hanifa finally said. “The description or do you think we have a traitor?” “No, if we had a traitor they would not have discovered the step van but we would be dead or arrested by now.” “I, too, believe that to be true,” he answered. Ahmed was probably correct. And since nothing untoward had happened up until now, it was probably the new American they just picked up. Someone had seen him at the Wal-Mart while he was waiting for them. No, no, that couldn’t be. There was no link between them. It must be Mark Tildon. And that little problem was already dispensed with. “I agree,” the usually quiet Banu Hashim said. “We must destroy one of the pickups, travel at night, and kill the gas station attendants when we stop for gas. With ten cans of gasoline and two full tanks, we should be able to travel 800 miles before we are forced to stop for gas again. I say let them track us by following the blood trail we leave behind.” Abu’s respect for the quiet man went up several notches.

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Chapter Fifteen The Evening and the Morning After

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alvin Dary had awakened at 8:30 with the computer on his lap. He was disoriented, pain shot up and down his leg where they had hit him in the thigh, but strangely enough, the most pain was still coming from his other knee. The bump on the back of his head was sore to the touch, but otherwise didn’t hurt. Then Cal remembered the cut over his eye. Suddenly he was desperate to see the damage. He had abrasions over his whole body, both legs were badly hurt, and he had been hit in the back of the head two times. But his thoughts centered on the condition of his face. He did not consider himself a vain person. Still, he hated the thought of an ugly scar on his face. What would Teresa think? He tried in vain to see the damage to his eye in the reflection of the window and then remembered with a jolt that turned his stomach over that they planned to kill his wife. He forced himself away from his pain and worry to

Holy War concentrate on the computer and his article as the truck noise droned around him. Darkness had enveloped them as they traveled. He couldn’t tell what time of day it was by looking at the clock in the dash. Was it night or morning? No, it must be night because by 8:30 in the morning it would be light. He could see snowflakes falling much harder than earlier; maybe they would get a really good blizzard, sufficient to slow them down enough for the FBI to finally catch up. How close was the FBI? Ahmed Hanifa, who was driving the truck, told him to get started on his piece for tomorrow’s edition. No doubt they would be holding a section on the front page for his article after hearing about the bombings in St. Louis. He began to type, every keystroke sending pain down his broken leg. He even grew to enjoy it, the pain reminding him of his hatred. He nurtured it and protected it against outside invasion. He would get even if it were the last thing he ever did. He now recognized that his only weapon was lying on his lap. What did he know that the terrorists didn’t? The terrorists read every word, but there must be a way to get a message past them. But how? The message about the Broncos hadn’t worked. Perhaps it had been too subtle. He began to think about codes, but couldn’t think of a single one. Hadn’t he heard of any in college? Wasn’t there something in one of his classes about algorithms generating random numbers and others generating random codes? Cal realized he was wasting time. He knew he would never be

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The Evening and the Morning After able to remember enough to use in planting a message in this article. They stopped hours later and Abu got in the driver’s seat to replace Ahmed Hanifa. Not one word passed between the two Abu’s. Something was wrong. A rift was another weapon he might be able to use against them. Abu Hamza took the printout without looking at him and read it while Ahmed Hanifa waited outside the pickup. Abu began to laugh. “You guessed correctly this time, Calvin Dary. We targeted the Arch because it is a symbol of America just as you targeted our symbols during Desert Storm.” Abu glanced back at the printout. “I really like these lines, ‘I sat in amazement and watched Americans fall to the ground, one of them in flames. Anger boiled in the cauldron that once had been my heart.’ Very dramatic.” His attitude about the whole thing was inhuman and sickening. Cal turned his head to look out the window. “Here,” Cal heard him say to Ahmed Hanifa, “take care of this, but send Stu Long to see me first.” The window went up on Abu’s side. “Get your computer put away. We’re moving to the van.” When Stu Long arrived, they climbed into the new truck. The long trek began again, but not many minutes elapsed before they stopped on the side of the road. Cal could see at least one of the pickups just up the road. Where was the other? And why was even one of the pickups in sight? Something was up. He looked around. No power station this time. They were not far from a building with a single

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Holy War light on. Only one vehicle was in the rather large parking lot, but it was now late on Saturday night. The letters on the building were not easy to see but he could just make them out in the light from the moon. It was a milk plant. He couldn’t believe their attention to detail. We bombed a chemical plant they claimed was only a milk plant so they destroy a real milk plant in payment. He promised himself he would think of a good line for that one for the next article. Moving shadows in the parking lot told him he didn’t have long to wait. They stopped near the vehicle momentarily, then moved on to the building. Let’s see, they planted something on, in or under the car and cut the telephone wires to the building. Whoever is inside is as good as dead. Gunfire erupted from behind him. Through the rearview window he could see car lights swerve, enter the ditch on the opposite side of the road and then extinguish. A few moments later two gunshots sounded and he knew the driver and possibly a passenger were dead. He looked back toward the milk plant but could see nothing moving. The pickup in front of them started up and moved off rapidly as lights behind them announced the location of the second pickup. It passed them quickly and moved rapidly out of sight in front of them. Remarkably, there had been no explosion at the plant. Then they too, pulled back onto the road, but moved slowly, watching for lights coming up behind them. A few minutes later, Abu said, “Look in the rearview mirror. I don’t want you to miss anything.”

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The Evening and the Morning After He leaned forward to get the best possible view. “What have you done?” “After we killed the occupants, we opened a few gas valves, then we set a small bomb with a timer. It should make a nice show.” He didn’t have long to wait. Suddenly the night lit up in silence, a huge fireball rising into the cold night air, pushing aside the first snowflakes of the storm like a man pushes away debris on his pants before standing. Then the sound and shock waves hit them and Cal felt the torment that America was under. That was good, he thought, I’ll use that in the article. Americans have to know I feel their pain as well. He got out the computer and once again started his next article as Abu drove down the road heading to the next site, the next murder, the next torture. He felt tears welling up but angrily pushed them back once again. He would not let this man see the tears, even if this time they were angry, frustrated ones. *** Rebekah Dary looked particularly cute in her red dress. Brent Richards wondered how his own daughter was doing this morning without him. His family always went to Sunday School and then church on Sunday morning. It was one of his daughter’s favorite times of the week. She and Rebekah were close in age but Rebekah’s hair was much brighter red than his daughter’s. Was it his imagination or were there a lot more red-haired people than there were 205

Holy War twenty years ago? He could only remember one in his high school, Betsy something or other. He thought her last name was Mallory but couldn’t quite remember. It had been too many years. She had been a stunner, though, with that long red hair. Brent brought himself back to the present and the task at hand. Why Teresa Dary wanted to venture out each Sunday wasn’t clear to him. The risk didn’t have to be taken. She and her daughter were protected in the FBI safe house. Everyone had been very careful to keep them that way, right down to mail delivery that occurred only twice a week, and then FBI agents would pick it up at her old house and bring it to her using a circuitous route. They could have had the mail delivered to the safe house but Anson had ordered no interruption in service. If terrorists were watching the Dary house, sooner or later someone would make a mistake. Maybe going to church on Sunday was some sort of relief to her; some sense of normality. Brent thought about how dangerous it was to be here and shook his head. They had been lucky the last two weeks since she began to insist on this one luxury. “No one would bomb a church,” she had said, finally convincing Anson Hicks to allow them to go, but only once a week, and always in daylight. This was her third week. The service was over and Brent stood to go. Other agents were in the main doorway, still others were guarding the rear doors, and he and two others were inside, one pew back from mother and daughter. He stretched his legs, trying to get out the kinks from such a long sitting spell and made sure the others were on the alert. 206

The Evening and the Morning After Teresa was talking to someone from the pew in front of her and Rebekah was looking around for her friends. It was the same every Sunday. Everybody in the church wanted to talk to the pair, especially Teresa. Thank God Anson had ordered the reporters off the premises. At least they didn’t have to put up with them in addition to the other problems they had with security. The news people in this country needed a lesson in security. We throw them off the lot and they congregate across the street. And that, just to watch a woman and her daughter go to Sunday School and church. Surely that can’t be newsworthy. Isn’t anything else happening this morning? Couldn’t they find someone but him to bug on such a beautiful day? He thought about a joke he had heard about lawyers and changed it to news people. After all, the principle applied to these people as well. “What is the difference between a reporter and a catfish? One of them is a bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking, scavenger and the other is a fish.” Finally, he took Teresa by the elbow and whispered, “We should be going.” She took the hint and hugged the person she had been talking to and began the walk toward the foyer. Teresa was holding Rebekah’s hand on the other side so he motioned the other two agents to bring up the rear while he escorted Teresa outside. The sun had finally come out in full during the service. Perhaps it would be nice enough when he got home for him and Christina to go to the park for awhile. In the foyer, he motioned the two agents at the doors to clear a path to the car waiting for them at the curb. He made 207

Holy War sure the car door was opened and the two agents that had been in the foyer were moving people back, then said into his microphone, “All right, Betty and Rick, come on around, one on each side. You know the drill.” They got as far as the front doors before the pastor stopped them for his characteristic farewell. Brent let go her arm as the pastor hugged her and whispered whatever he whispered every week that made her cry. She gripped him hard, then let go and stood back to wipe at her eyes. Suddenly she collapsed backward into Brent. He was totally taken off guard but managed to grab her before they both fell to the floor. She was a dead weight on top of him, and belatedly he realized that something was very wrong. “Cover!” he managed to shout as he extricated himself from his precarious position. Everyone had fled the foyer. Rebekah was nowhere in sight, people outside were either running or falling onto the ground, and the reporters were trying to find a place to hide. Brent realized the camera operators were still behind their equipment, filming the scene from across both streets facing the church. When no additional fire was seen, Brent turned back to find an unconscious Teresa Dary lying in a pool of blood. She had been hit once in the upper chest. Somewhere he could hear the unmistakable voice of Rebekah Dary screaming, “Not my mommy, not my mommy, too!” ***

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The Evening and the Morning After “Black? Black? This man’s writing is not just black, it is the total absence of light!” It was totally galling. The terrorists had actually gotten to Teresa Dary and they had injured Calvin Dary. That insult was in addition to Elliot being absolutely paralyzed. He couldn’t do anything. Every lead fizzled and died long before it sparked into a flame. “Listen to this,” he continued. “‘The senseless brutal murdering is unconscionable. It is one thing for Mr. Smith to break into my house while I am away, rape and shoot my wife, then rape and shoot my daughter. The sound of the last shot still echoes as I enter my house, therefore I find and kill Mr. Smith. That is considered right in the eyes of most Americans. Mr. Smith pays a price for his evil against my family and myself. Who cares about the law? But for five terrorists to come to America and wantonly kill innocent victims across the breadth of America is unconscionable. It is without reason and sense. Then, as I sit here typing these words, the brutality of racial hatred suddenly becomes clear to me. We white Anglo-Saxon Protestants have been doing the same thing as these terrorists for over two hundred years. Oh sure, we call it something else, we cover it over and sugarcoat it, but brutal torture and inhumane treatment can’t be called by any nice word. We WASPs have killed and tortured the American Indian, the black, the Hispanic, and others. The Nazis have hated the Jews, the blacks hate the Koreans, and many other examples come to mind. The bottom line is that what is embodied in these terrorists resides inside us all. Wake up America! Oh, my God, Teresa, if you read this, I am so sorry and I love you so much. Please forgive me!’” 209

Holy War “Can you believe this guy, Jess?” “I feel sorry for him. He’s a pawn in a game he doesn’t even understand much less be able to play. He’s hurting so much and we can’t help him. Can you imagine being with those scum while they kill your countrymen and even shoot your wife, and you’re powerless to do anything about it?” “Yeah, I know what you mean; believe me I’ve thought about it. Have you gotten this piece to the daughter?” Elliot asked. “Come on El, give the girl a break,” she exclaimed. “Her mother just got shot. What do you want out of her? Blood?” “Settle down, Jess. I lost my head there for a moment. I was just thinking how Calvin must be trying to get a message through. Look at this verbiage. It’s clear they’re not restricting him very much.” “I know. I’ve thought about that as well. They only care about reporting their great victories. Anything else is free gratis.” “I think that’s ‘anything is gratis’. Gratis means for free.” “You know what I mean. Quit trying to goad me into an argument.” He paused for a few moments, trying to make his decision. “How’d they slip through this time, Jess?” “They were gone before we reacted. Again.” He inhaled deeply to relax a little. Jessica’s hunch had been right. She didn’t have the right Interstate, but she was apparently right concerning the direction and probably their ultimate target. The terrorists were definitely heading east

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The Evening and the Morning After and where else would east lead them but to the seat of American governmental power? “You were right, Jess. They’re definitely heading east and probably to Washington, D.C. What do you think we ought to do?” “Are you sure they’re heading toward Washington?” “You mean because the milk plant was south of Interstate 70 quite a ways?” He pushed on without waiting for a comment. “Maybe they’re heading back to Interstate 40 or maybe they’re keeping to back roads now. I know one thing, we’ve got to find that Durango.” “They’re definitely heading east, but my instinct says these guys are going someplace else before they go to Washington.” “Great. Where?” After a pause he added, “And what in hell for?” “I’ve been thinking, El, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. If you were a terrorist with unlimited resources and you were brave enough to plan a terrorist campaign across America ending with Washington, D.C., what would you plan to take out in Washington once you got there?” “Good question. Certainly not the Washington monument.” “No they’re going to strike at something much more crucial.” “What? The Vietnam Memorial?” “No. I think they’re going to strike at the White House or the Congress. Maybe even the Supreme Court.” “Of course! Jessica, I can’t believe I’ve been so naïve. Bill! Get us on an airplane going to Washington.” 211

Holy War Bill was coming toward them as Elliot made his demand, “Here, take this first,” he said. “What is it?” Elliot asked. “Seems like some guy fishing from a boat caught a four thousand pounder.” Elliot considered the information. Too much had transpired since the last time he and Bill had talked. If Bill expected him to catch on to that little hint, he didn’t have a clue. “I give up. What are you talking about this time?” “A fisherman out of Illinois hooked something really big near the eastern bank of the Mississippi River. When he got over the object to retrieve his gear, he realized it was a big, blue Durango fish.” Elliot ignored the feeble attempt at humor. “Call off the APB on that Durango, right after you get a plane ready to get us out of here,”

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Chapter Sixteen North Carolina

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orning found Calvin Dary finally alone with Stu Long. His legs were killing him. If only he could move around a little, even just stand on the one semi-good leg, it would make him feel better. But there was no chance of that right now. Red Tackert was probably heading for the morning newspapers, and the Iraqis were praying. He heard their deep voices penetrating the truck’s windows as their chants and prayers echoed in the cold. What was more, they were praying in the brisk morning air without the benefit of coats or even sweaters. These Kharijis were farther to the right than he had ever thought. Their ability to ignore their own bodies carried right over into their ability to ignore the God-given rights of others. They were using the Desert Storm and its aftermath to justify all this wanton death and destruction. The truth was that all war was ridiculous. In essence, war was one group saying to another, ‘you’ll do what

Holy War I want because I’m bigger than you and I can make you’. In the case of Desert Storm, America and her allies had felt justified since Saddam Hussein had used force to capture another country. But did we have to kill so many? True, we stopped well short of Baghdad, but we didn’t stop until well over a hundred thousand lay dead in the sand. Now these terrorists were using the same philosophy on us. When was it going to stop? They weren’t controlled by reason. But, for that matter, were we? Or was it just whatever was expedient at the moment. Was the American military a credible international police force or just a bunch of bullies no different from these men? He brought himself back to the present. “Stu, could I please borrow your book about Moslems?” “Still trying to learn something to use against them?” he replied, sarcastically. “No, it’s nothing like that.” “Take a hike.” Stu snickered at the impossibility of Cal doing that in his present condition. Cal knew he was getting nowhere. Stu was probably angry about his attempt to kill them. But he was only trying to kill the Iraqis. Wait a minute, did that mean these Americans didn’t deserve to die, also? And what made him judge and jury all of a sudden? He had justified it by telling himself it was the only way to escape. But was he truly justified? Was murder ever justified? He shook himself mentally once again. He had given up talking to Stu about the murder of John Wilkenson and Mark Tildon. For surely Mark had been put out of the way

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North Carolina just as John Wilkenson had. “I want to find out more about Ramadan.” “You want to create confusion so you can kill us or escape. Preferably both.” His logic was flawed but Cal didn’t want to argue with the man. “Why did Abu Hamza kill Imad? What was so wrong with him raping a woman? Sure, we think it’s dead wrong and we have laws against it, but these,” he started to say terrorists but realized quickly enough he was talking to one, “these Iraqis don’t.” “Yeah, he told Imad to go find one to screw that first night.” He reached around behind him and rifled through a black bag behind the driver’s seat. “Here,” he said, tossing the book to Cal, “but hurry. The second they stand up that book is back in my bag.” “O.K.” Cal replied, glad to have it in his hands. He looked in the index and found what he wanted, then flipped quickly to the indicated page. ‘One must atone for his sin of copulation during the fast of Ramadan. This atonement or kaffara consists of giving sixty days provision to the poor, fasting sixty days, or freeing a slave.’ Unwilling to give up the book so quickly, he turned a few pages, reading their contents in an effort to find other tidbits he could use in an argument. Another argument with Abu Hamza might end his life. He would be careful not to anger him again. America needed Calvin Dary and she needed him to get information to the FBI so these killers could be caught or stopped altogether.

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Holy War The tone of the praying changed. Cal turned back to the page he was holding with his fingers. “Here it is,” he said to Stu Long. He read the two sentences that explained what the cost was for having sex during the fast, but that didn’t explain why Abu had killed Imad ibn Buwayhid. Was it righteous indignation? “I didn’t know that,” Stu said. “I didn’t either. But I do know he’s going to kill you.” “Shut up. I knew you’d get to that sooner or later, Dary. Can’t you understand, I’ve been with them the longest and they haven’t done me in yet. Don’t you ever talk to me about it again. They’re finishing anyway. Give me the book.” Cal ran the window down part way and listened. He could clearly hear the Fattiha being spoken by Abu Hamza while the others listened. In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate. Praise be to God, the Lord of the Worlds, The Merciful One, the Compassionate One, Master of the Day of Doom. Thee alone we serve, to Thee alone we cry for help. Guide us in the straight path The path of them Thou hast blessed. Not of those with whom Thou art angry Nor of those who go astray. The lines, ‘Master of the Day of Doom’, ‘Not of those with whom Thou art angry’, and ‘Nor of those who go astray’, he quoted with a stronger voice. Cal brought the 216

North Carolina window back up. “That’s why he killed Imad. He went astray and Allah was angry with him. Abu Hamza thinks he’s Allah’s instrument.” “Wow. Now will you shut up?” Stu said in a deadpan voice. Cal watched each of the Iraqis take their position inside one of the remaining two vehicles. He thought about the one line quoted that didn’t apply to Imad ibn Buwayhid but to America, ‘Master of the Day of Doom’. That was clearly their rallying cry here in America. These were the days of America’s doom. The sound of an approaching truck sent the Iraqis in the pickup scurrying for cover and an offensive position. The missing third pickup drove into their makeshift camp bringing Red Tackert with the morning editions. Red got into the truck to a different atmosphere than usual. Usually, no one was interested in the papers except Stu and Abu Hamza. This time everyone was all eyes and ears. Red passed the Los Angeles Times to Abu in the front passenger seat. The headlines were plain, ‘TERROR IN MID-AMERICA’. Abu read with interest the articles about the attacks in central USA and even snickered several times. Cal noticed that everyone else in the truck was watching him. What was up? Had Stan done something to his article? And if he had how did they know what it was? Or was it something else entirely? Was it Teresa already? “Here, Mr. Reporter,” Abu finally said, “try this on for size.”

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Holy War The rustle of guns being pulled from various places sounded in the cramped interior of the truck. Cal gritted his teeth and took the paper. The headlines and supporting articles detailed pretty much what he already knew. There were different opinions about how to stop the terror and details about what the law enforcement agencies were up to, but nothing so earth shattering as to require guns. He turned the paper over. The subheading on the lower half of the paper leaped off the page, “DARY’S WIFE SHOT.” Blood drained from his face and upper body, seemingly going all the way to his feet. Tears streamed out of his eyes as he fought to read whether she lived or not. He wiped at the tears with one hand while holding the paper with the other. Blurred letters were hard to read but he managed to find the line that said she was pronounced dead at the hospital. His rage exploded in him like one of their bombs. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed while leaping from the chair toward Abu Hamza. The handcuffs on his feet tripped him as he dove toward his tormentor. Strain as he might he couldn’t quite reach the chair where Abu sat. “You worthless piece of horse shit! I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I ever do!” From somewhere a heavy instrument brought him the relief of oblivion. *** Shelby Betz read the data sheets with pleasure. They were closer to finding the identities of the Iraqis terrorists. Already, they had one of them. Ahmed Hanifa was his 218

North Carolina current name, but he had been born Habib Mahmoud. He reached into the folder and extracted a picture of a Moslem in a city street. It could be any Moslem in any eastern city. They all dressed with such flowing robes and covered heads. Their mustaches and harsh features required a penetrating look to discern individual features. Links to the other terrorists had not been found. Yet. This one was careful. Had been careful for a long time. But links existed and he, Shelby Betz, would find them. So far, no one in Iraq suspected that the CIA had identified anyone. They must be very careful, but his informants were being paid huge sums of money, more than ever before. He would catch them, and he would make certain the President got none of the rewards. Betz pushed his page button, “Get me the President.” He leaned back in his leather chair and rehearsed one last time his speech to the President for when they uncovered the first terrorist. This would be fun. A light indicated that the President was about to pick up his end of the telephone. Shelby Betz picked up his receiver and waited. “Mr. President, we have made a small inroad.” “What kind of ‘small inroad’?” the President replied in a surly voice. “We have the identity of one of the terrorists now plaguing our country.” “Have you presented the material to law enforcement agencies?” “Of course, Mr. President, along with a very good image of him.” “How did you go about it?” 219

Holy War “May I remind the President that this is an open telephone line?” “Yes, of course.” The voice was now much milder. “How long before we have the rest of the information we need?” “You mean the rest of the terrorists’ identities or the leader’s identity?” He loved playing these word games with the President. The President was so inept at them. Invariably he lost his temper and exploded with some banality or other to end the conversation. He could hear the slowly exhaled breath, “Both, of course.” “I should think within the week, perhaps even tomorrow for the former, and next week for the latter.” “Good. What is your expectation?” He toyed with the idea of adding yet another quip but decided the target was too easy. “If what we have seen in the reports is accurate, and I have every reason to believe they are, these people are traveling carefully. Carefully in the aspect of not exposing their identities. They must be allowing the American traitors with them to pick up food, gasoline, and other essentials. With the identity of one of the traitors now known, it should be relatively easy to find them. “Additionally, after reading the dossiers on Mr. Dary, I believe him to be quite capable. I expect him to sow malcontent within their organization and try yet again to pass information to us. In the light of Mr. Dary’s foiled attempt to escape in St. Louis, coupled with his wife’s fruitless death, the terrorist thugs have only unwittingly 220

North Carolina given impetus to Mr. Dary’s urge to retaliate. I should think in the next two days, events will unfold in a dramatic and rapid fashion.” “Thank you, Shelby. You sound confident as usual.” “As usual, Mr. President, I have good information.” “What makes you say he will try again? Has he tried once to communicate with us that I have been uninformed about?” “Not that we know of, Mr. President. I was surmising that he has tried and failed due to interference from the terrorists before the article fell into our hands. I have no doubt that he will attempt to pass some information to us in his articles.” “Is he a linguist or a mathematician?” “No, sir,” Shelby Betz tried to give the ‘sir’ just the right articulation so as to give the impression he was using a lower case ‘s’. “Then, why?” “He is a true American, Mr. President. Have you read his articles concerning patriotism, communism, Khariji influence, or what the American flag really stands for?” He knew the President had not. This President was more concerned with personal affairs than national ones. “No, I can’t say that I have.” “I’ll send them over. They make quite interesting reading. Be sure you are alone, Mr. President, when you read them. They will bring many moments of contemplation to you, and you should be alone to properly regard their unique implications.” “Thanks, Shelby.” 221

Holy War “My privilege, Mr. President.” Shelby Betz hung up with a very satisfied smile spreading across his features. *** The Angelica pulled into harbor after several days out to sea. A very unusual excursion for a boat such as the Angelica, but suspicion had been diverted by a small rumor floated around concerning a rich man wishing to sail for a few days to relax and watch the fishing. The Angelica was full and riding low in the water as she pulled into the small harbor. They had deliberately waited until well after sunset to dock. Abdallah Jahr, of the recently deceased ship Fakir, would stay below decks so as to be unseen until after the fish were offloaded. The familiar sound of a shoreline brought a smile to his lips. He would soon collect his reward and be on his way to spend the rest of his life in peace and wealth. Abdallah paced back and forth in the cramped quarters, wanting desperately to be on deck helping, watching, or just doing something besides waiting for the sound of docking to finish. At last they were stable. Men came and went amidst loud talking and boisterous laughter to create confusion about who left and who stayed aboard that night while the fish were offloaded. No passerby would remember much of tonight except the sound of rejoicing at a good load and the promise of large bonuses.

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North Carolina The captain of the Angelica, Chuck Biddas, came down the steps and simply nodded. The lines of concern were still evident on his face as he turned to go back topside. No doubt they would remain until tomorrow after midnight when the bomb was offloaded along with his unwanted guest. Abdullah removed the waist pouch and checked the contents before he went topside. He knew the fifty thousand dollars would buy the silence of Biddas as well as that of his crew. Of course, this was insurance should Abu Hamza not make the trip across America. Abdallah hoped Abu was successful because he was not certain he had the will to carry out plan ‘B’. Abdallah was more Khariji on the outside than he was on the inside. If everything went according to plan, three days from now the silence of the crew wouldn’t matter, even if every one of them was spilling their guts to the FBI. American power would be in ruins, he would be safely tucked away in a life of luxury, and the other Kharijis would be safely back at their respective homes. He made it topside and watched the fish unloaded and hauled away. Abdallah felt an urge to go to the hold and make sure the bomb hadn’t disappeared somehow, but knew that was foolishness. He lit another cigarette and leaned back as casually as he could. Belatedly, he remembered that he needed to check the other preparations. He walked topside, threw his cigarette overboard and headed down the gangplank. “Where are you going?” Chuck asked, quickly, in a gruff voice.

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Holy War “To my truck,” he said, while holding out his waist pouch. “I’ll be right back.” He went down the gangplank and into the nearby parking lot. He expected to find a blue Ford pickup under a light pole, parked there just for him by someone he did not know. There was only one light working in the entire parking lot and under it was the big beautiful truck. Abdallah walked to it and reached under the passenger side front wheel well, pulled out a magnetic box and removed a lone key. He dropped the box and went to the driver’s side where he opened the door and checked the seat for the necessary material. Several very heavy rubberized blankets full of leaden material lay on the passenger side of the cab. He pushed the driver’s seat forward and checked behind the seat. Sure enough, the beautiful reassuring form of a briefcase waited for him there. He pulled it out, pushed the seat back, and placed the briefcase on the front seat. He opened it with relish and pulled out a revolver with a silencer attached. He checked the clip to make sure it was full, chambered a round, and checked that the safety was on. He placed the weapon in his belt under his jacket, then zipped it up halfway. He leafed through the bills on the bottom of the briefcase but didn’t bother to count them. Abdallah fought against the desire to just get in the pickup and drive off. He had everything he needed, but his Khariji training surfaced and forced him to carefully lock the truck and return to the fishing boat. In any case, only a little over a day remained before he would be in the truck heading north and west. 224

North Carolina He started back toward the boat, concentrating on what he would eat when he was at last finished tomorrow night. He’d had his fill of ship drool; that was sure. How about one of those famous thick American steaks? His last night in America, and what a night that would be.

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Chapter Seventeen Discovery

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hey stopped alongside the roadway just inside North Carolina. No one got out, which gave Calvin Dary his first surprise of the day. He had been trying to figure out how many of the infamous forty-seven days were left. It was only a very few, he had finally decided. Cal looked around trying to discover the reason they had stopped. Where was the next target? A used car parts facility was just to their right but that didn’t have much attraction and couldn’t possibly be a target. He knew they were close to a large city but didn’t know which one. What he did know was they had been traveling a little longer than usual and sleeping less. They even chanced driving during dusk and dawn to get in a few extra hours. The constant driving and sitting were killing his leg. He tried to roll up the trouser leg but was unable to do more than raise it to the knee and that action alone caused excruciating pain. The knee was swollen and he began to

Holy War worry about losing the leg even if he were ever given his freedom. His heart was heavy. It was his fault and no one else’s that Teresa lay dead in a morgue somewhere. He wouldn’t even see the burial. How was Rebekah? Who was taking care of her? What would she do? Where would she go? The questions were endless. His rage grew in him, and he fought to control it. He was going to get even with these terrorists even if he had to kill himself to do it. Red Tackert and Ahmed Hanifa suddenly appeared out of the darkness and entered the truck. “Did you remove the spark plug wires and the license plate?” Abu Hamza queried. “Yes, and set the timer for 7:30 in the morning.” “Excellent.” The seldom-used walkie-talkie came to life. Cal thought it sounded like Banu Hashim. “Only the attendant saw us and he didn’t appear interested. We’re waiting down the street, watching the station. Hasan al-Banna cut the telephone cord prior to relieving himself. All is well.” Abu pressed the transmit switch on his unit, “Good,” he said simply. Cal knew another attack was imminent. The site must be close; they were within walkie-talkie distance. Once again he was powerless to do anything. Even given the opportunity, what could he do? There were no police, no telephone, and he was all but crippled, not to mention tied up. Anger gripped his heart once again. Stu pulled into the gasoline station and Red Tackert got out. Cal watched as Red filled the truck and the spare 228

Discovery gasoline cans. He turned to watch Stu as he moved up and down the aisles inside the station, apparently looking for something, a bored traveler waiting for his friend to finish, trying to find something to eat or drink. Red replaced the nozzle on the gasoline pump. Stu exited the store when he saw Abu get out of the truck. On his way back to the truck, he passed Abu without a word. Stu picked up the gasoline hose and cut it with his pocketknife. He turned on the pump and threw the hose on the ground, then came around the truck and got into the driver’s seat. A single scream echoed from the station. One more American life lost. Abu Hamza returned to the waiting truck smiling. He got in and said, “Pull ahead a little while we wait.” Stu did as he was told and Cal swiveled in his seat to watch what was sure to be a fire followed by an explosion. Didn’t they fear discovery? True, it was late at night and they were approximately in the middle of nowhere. Probably closing time for the station and most people were in bed, but not everybody. And where were the police? Didn’t they ever come out here? “Pull onto the highway,” Abu Hamza said. Stu complied once again and Abu got out, took aim at the station, and fired a single round. Much to Cal’s surprise that single shot caused an explosion. He watched as the store as well as the service area turned into a blaze. Abu got in and motioned Stu to drive. Cal looked out the window for the other pickup but it was already gone. Probably long gone. 229

Holy War As they pulled off, another explosion sounded behind them. The night was suddenly awake with the sounds of death and destruction. Their presence would be known and the net that was surely encircling them must be getting tighter. *** Elliot Grover, Bill Grimes, and Jessica Yarrow sat in a small room nearly surrounded by plate glass. The air was thick with tension, the chalkboard covered with erasures, and the single table in the room littered with various pieces of paper and numerous empty coffee cups. Elliot was trying to think. What had he left undone? How could he catch these guys? “It’s the waiting that gets to me,” Elliot said after a long pause. “Do you think Jim Vernider will convince the Secret Service to close off the White House?” Jessica asked in a very tired voice. She sat slumped in her chair, her hair in complete disarray and coffee stains on her blouse. Bill said, “Why would they do that? That guy probably has enough protection by now to keep a thousand terrorists away from him and his family. “I don’t think we have to worry about the Secret Service. Those fanatics will want to close off the whole eastern seaboard. I’m more worried about the President wanting to keep up appearances and glad hand everybody and their brother.”

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Discovery Bill looked up, “What about the Congress and the Court?” He couldn’t have asked a more difficult question. “The problem is, Bill,” Elliot said, “just how many people do we try to protect in this city?” Jess added, “Our job is containment, not protection. How can we stop these guys? That’s a much more pressing issue.” A hush fell in the outer room just then. Elliot, Bill, and Jessica all stared through the windows at the crowd of people outside. They were all quiet and looking toward the elevators at a tall figure walking toward them wearing a hat, flanked by three men in dark suits, protection. A hand reached up and removed the hat, revealing dark hair. “Must be Jim Vernider,” Elliot stated, matter-of-factly. The man under the hair came into view; it was M. James Vernider. Jessica sat up straighter and brushed at her blouse, then gave up when she realized it was impossible. He stopped just inside the door and made a show of leaving it open, continuing to hold the door handle. Bill Grimes nodded at Elliot, stood up, and left the room without another word. The three bodyguards spread out in the adjacent room. They looked about nervously at the presence of so much glass. Jim Vernider made an easy target inside what everyone affectionately called the fish bowl. Jim Vernider stared at Jessica who hadn’t budged. After a very pregnant pause, he looked back at Elliot Grover. “Do you trust her one hundred percent with the life of the President of the United States?” he asked, pontifically. 231

Holy War Elliot hated this kind of mumbo jumbo, eyes-only crap. “I don’t even trust you one hundred percent with the life of the President of the United States,” he replied. Jim removed his coat and shut the door. “All right,” he said. He opened a soft-sided case and pulled out a red folder. He walked over to Elliot and handed it to him, made an effort to find a suitable chair, then sat facing him. Elliot picked up the folder and read the classification markings on the outside. He hadn’t seen anything like it before. He opened the folder and began reading. When he finished, he quietly handed it to his containment officer. “Where did you get this?” he exclaimed. “The CIA gives you a report detailing how a stolen Russian nuclear bomb finds its way into Iraq, disappears, and now is suspected of being on its way into the United States. Are you trying to tell me the terrorists have a nuclear bomb and they’re going to use it against Washington?” “They believe, and we believe as well, that the target is this city. Probably the White House and Congress, but wherever a bomb like this goes off, millions die.” Elliot thought about a nuclear device detonating over an American city. The terror America had experienced the last few weeks was nothing in comparison. “Do you believe this report?” “Yes. Here’s why.” He removed another folder from the case, this one yellow. “Read this next,” he said in a dry voice. Elliot opened the yellow folder and a picture of a Moslem fell onto his lap. He picked it up and took a long

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Discovery look. “Is this one of them?” he asked unnecessarily, feeling stupid to have asked. “Yes, the only one our intelligence sources have identified so far.” “How’d they do that if this guy has been in the States for six weeks?” “I don’t know how they do what they do. I’m just glad they’re good at it.” Elliot read the second report. This one detailed the events leading up to the discovery of the man who had disappeared from Iraq for a few days almost a year ago and then again six weeks ago. The first disappearance coincided with the theft of a Russian nuclear bomb from a site near Groznyy where everyone was murdered. There was absolutely no evidence found in his house or place of business that linked him with either event. But there was enough circumstantial evidence to convince most people that there had been a cover up. Besides, even the best intelligence sources couldn’t locate him today. So where was he? The explanation his family and friends gave was followed up, but the man couldn’t be located. Everyone else he had associated with in the past had been investigated and suspicion of any of them, for the most part, had been allayed. So who were the others with him here in the States creating such havoc? “Why haven’t I heard anything about a stolen nuclear bomb?” “The Russians only admitted today they had lost one.” “So what were they planning to do, wait for a million people to die, then apologize?” He realized he was 233

Holy War practically screaming. He thought about apologizing to his boss, then decided to let it go. It had been a long six weeks and he was very tired. “Projections show it could be more like four million people, and the Ruskies claim they’ve been killing themselves trying to track it down. I don’t buy it, but the President does and that’s supposed to make it all right.” “Who’s the leader of this gang of murderers?” Elliot asked. “Don’t know,” Jim replied solidly. “Who’s funding them?” Elliot queried. “Don’t know that either. May I suggest we leave all these unanswered questions and get to the heart of the matter?” “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Elliot said, looking at Jessica for more support. Her face was unreadable. She saw him studying her and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. Thanks for the support, he thought. “If they have a nuke, we can only assume they now have it within the confines of the continental United States and are in the process of getting it to its target as we speak.” “What makes you so sure?” Elliot asked, then realized the stupidity of his question. “I mean,” he amended, “why would they carry it across the United States? Why take the chance they’d be found out before they delivered their supreme warning, message, threat, demonstration, whatever?” “There’s more than one group, for one thing. These madmen that have Dary are only one of many groups operating in the United States.” Elliot started to say 234

Discovery something, but Jim held up a hand. “There’s the problem of passing Dary’s facsimiles that we haven’t gotten on top of yet. The problem of changing vehicles, which they must be doing more often than once a week to have survived this long. The problem of how they eat without being seen. The problem of how they get gasoline was answered for us last night, but how about before that? Did every American the terrorists happened upon go suddenly blind and stupid, or is there something operating here that we haven’t suspected? I could go on, but why don’t we stop and smell the coffee?” “How do we keep a nuke out and let the government continue to grind?” Elliot asked. “What if the bomb is already in Washington,” Jessica inserted quietly, without looking up. Both men stared at her. “She’s right,” Jim said. “We have to get our act together on a large scale, but that problem is not for us. The National Guard will be called up and emergency plans put into action that we thought we’d never have to use. What I want you two to do is get in touch with this man,” he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a card. “He’s expecting you. When you arrive there, stay out of his way. You’re there to gather information on these killers, that’s all. Keep your eyes and ears open. I want one of you to stay with him at all times.” M. James Vernider stood and picked up his coat, then turned back to them. “I suggest you get your families to Aunt Alice’s until this blows over. No pun intended.” He went out the door and back toward the elevators. His three bodyguards rejoined him just as the elevator door opened.

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Holy War Elliot motioned for Bill to rejoin them. Elliot glared at Jessica. “Thanks for your interest in National defense. Why didn’t you help me out there when I was making a fool of myself yelling and asking stupid questions?” Jessica gave him a cool look. “Next time, tell me to get the hell out,” she said. *** The next morning found them well over half way through North Carolina still heading east. Where were they going? Cal couldn’t figure it out. As far as he knew, there was nothing east of where they were that had any importance. Except maybe the ocean. Were the terrorists going to strike another small town? Was this his last day to be alive? Should he make every effort to kill these scum today? And how would he do that, anyway? He looked around at the men sleeping in various odd positions in the truck, each holding onto their single blanket and trying to catch enough sleep to make it through another day. He hated them all, especially the Americans. Why had they done this? Was money enough to make them betray their country? He thought of others before them who had forsaken this same country for probably less than what these guys would get, if they survived. The reality was that most Americans didn’t think the same way he did about patriotism. Flags didn’t fly like they used to on the Fourth of July, and Veteran’s Day wasn’t the same, either. There was a time when all that meant something. He remembered an article he had written several years ago about the flag. 236

Discovery Each of its colors symbolized some aspect of American life. White was the purity of American heart. She was the vanguard of freedom and her heart stood behind all those who were oppressed. The blue represented open skies, freedom and the ability to go and do whatever one wished. And the red was the blood of everyone who had ever died for the freedoms each American holds dear. If none of that was important, then America had lost her fervor. He must’ve succumbed to sleep. He awoke to the sound of a starting engine. Day was still full, but they were moving early. He spent the next several hours lazily watching road signs, trying to figure where they were heading next, but nothing came to him. Would they turn north or south at the ocean? Night came almost unnoticed. They traveled in silence. He watched the speedometer kept religiously under the speed limit. They could not risk a ticket; to be stopped for a minor infraction would identify them. Even if they killed the policeman who stopped them, the call in of their license plate would be all that was necessary. Suddenly, Calvin Dary sat up as far as his fetters allowed. That was it! He need only pass their license plate to someone and the FBI could do the rest. His only instrument was his article for the Los Angeles Times. He would never be permitted to put that in the text in any way he could think of, and since he had already exhausted his energies trying to come up with a way to encrypt any kind of information, he felt lost. Despair grabbed him. He needed one of the Hardy boys or Nancy Drew. They always came up with a simple way out of any disastrous situation. 237

Holy War Wait! He thought. That book Rebekah and I read together. It was one of those Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys combinations where one group was captured by the bad guys but managed to pass a message to the others. It was a simple code, yet complex enough to get by watchful eyes, especially eyes that didn’t read Nancy Drew mysteries. He set about to come up with a message. He would have to memorize it. To put it in the computer even in its embryonic form would be suicide. What was their license number anyway? He realized he didn’t know and despair once again reached for his throat. Cal willfully struggled against defeat. There absolutely had to be a way to read a simple license number.

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Chapter Eighteen The Bomb

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alvin Dary sat in the truck with Stu Long and Ahmed Hanifa. Cal desperately needed to get outside and look at the truck’s license plate. Even then his scheme would only work if Rebekah caught the single clue he planned to leave in the narrative. “I have to take a leak,” he said to the glaring man across from him. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Dary.” Stu got out and came around to Cal’s door and got in beside him. He unlocked the handcuffs on his feet and untied his hands. Incredible pain flowed into his hands with the returning full circulation. Cal hurt more than he thought it possible for a human to hurt. His leg was so swollen at the knee it was pushing against the trouser material and was impossible to bend. He rubbed at his sore wrists and resisted the desire to raise the other trouser leg to see how huge the

Holy War bruise was today. Among other things, he must have broken a blood vessel when he rolled into that vehicle in St. Louis. “You’ll have to get out and get yourself to wherever you’re going, I’m not helping you. So help me, if you so much as think about running I’ll put a bullet in one of your legs. And keep your mouth shut.” Stu was clearly nervous; he looked around again and again to see if anyone was coming. They were parked in what could only be described as a sand dune near the ocean. Tall, brown plants of some kind waved in the gentle breeze that was blowing in the midnight air. If a car came, they’d hear it a long time before they even saw the lights, and they could see lights for blocks. It was O.K. that Stu was nervous, so was he. Cal knew that Red Tackert and Hasan al-Banna were dropping Abu Hamza at a site somewhere to pick up a package. Probably more explosives. The explosives in the van were now almost depleted, and Abu had told him that after the pickup they were heading “up the coast” to “make another show for Cal and the American people”. You bet he was nervous. Cal swiveled in his seat until his bad leg was sticking out the opened doorway, then inched forward, holding onto the seat’s handrails as he eased himself out the door. He finally got his one semi-good leg on the ground, then leaned against the side of the van as he hobbled toward the back. The others inside laughed at his plight. “Where are you going?” Stu asked gruffly. “To the back to at least have some privacy. Shoot me or let me go. I don’t care which.” More laughter followed.

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The Bomb Stu said nothing more so Cal swallowed and made his way to the back. He held onto the side of the van with one hand while he unzipped with the other. It was hard without the aid of both hands. He shifted his weight onto the good leg and leaned far enough forward to see the license plate. OIST920 it read in black letters on a heavy paper background. He was glad the numbers were all clearly visible. He finished and went back to his designated area of suffering. A very bored Stu Long retied his hands and rehandcuffed one of his feet. Cal stuck the worst leg forward so all Stu had to handcuff was the better of the two. Now Cal had to build the narrative in his mind while using the code from the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mystery. The first number in the narrative told the receiver which word to start with. The first letter of that word was used, then one word was skipped and the first letter of the next word used, then two words skipped, the first letter of the next word then three words skipped, and so on until the message was finished. A simple code at best, but probably well enough hidden to get past these thugs who probably hadn’t even heard of Nancy Drew or the Hardy boys, much less read one of the books. Wait a minute, how did you cut off the message? He couldn’t remember at first. How had they ended the code? He tried to remember sitting in Rebekah’s room going over the code on a notepad with her. What had been the word he showed her? Oh, yes, it was the letter ‘x’ or ‘z’ used in a word. Which was it? It couldn’t be ‘x’ since that was used in too many words. It had to be the letter ‘z’; that’s right because the word had been zoo in the Nancy Drew story. 241

Holy War He must avoid its use during the message portion of the narrative. That would be simple. Thank God the license didn’t have a ‘z’ in it. Now the only question that remained was how to alert Rebekah and possibly the FBI to the code’s existence. He began to put thoughts together and finally settled on the first couple of sentences. He decided it was easy to devise narrative that met the requirements of the code. He need only add Nancy Drew or the Hardy boys somewhere in the narrative and wait for the good guys to come to his rescue, and hopefully the terrorists’ demise. Now if only none of the terrorists saw the code which he now thought to be so transparent. *** Abu Hamza got out of the pickup and carefully instructed the two men on their evening’s work, the placement of nine sets of explosives on three hotels just up the coast from Elizabeth City in Virginia Beach, Virginia. They were then to proceed inland through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel and stop at a park not far from Fort Eustis, Virginia. There Abu and the other vehicle would rendezvous with them, and the last segment of their great journey would begin, a drive into Washington, D.C. Abu picked up his briefcase, shut the door and watched the others drive away before turning for the dock where his most prized possession awaited him. His reward would be great. He sighed a long, slow breath of air that expelled his anxiety and the fears of the past several months. The hard 242

The Bomb part was behind them. Now all that remained was a single drive into Washington with a bomb about the size of a large breadbox in the back of a pickup truck. He was told that once the shielding was removed the bomb was small enough to fit into an average backpack. He would drive the truck to Pennsylvania Boulevard himself and park it within sight of the White House. His smile was broad as he walked down the wooden decking of the dock and inhaled the unique aromas of the ocean and fishing boats. The captain of the vessel met him topside. “Name’s Chuck Biddas. Welcome aboard,” he said, extending his hand. Abu was disgusted but shook with all the vigor of an American and smiled as broadly as the other man, only with a completely different set of motives. This man was dirty with fish smells. It revolted him. “Abu Hamza,” he replied. They went below deck to the carefully collected group of fishermen and one very pleased looking Abdallah Jahr. Abu had told them to gather the men so he could personally thank them all and hand them their money. This would be, of course, in addition to the money Abdallah had already paid them. The captain had wanted money up front; that was no problem. So it had been arranged. Money was provided on both ends of the trip that Abdallah Jahr had taken just in case something went awry. It hadn’t. Allah was indeed with them. The place stank. Odors of fish, humans living too close for too long a time, and cooking smells, all permeated the atmosphere and almost gagged him. “Allah be praised,” he said to no one in particular. The place was small. Too small

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Holy War for them all. He must make this quick, but not before putting them at ease. The men sat excitedly awaiting the money. The captain of the ship was smart enough to be nervous, his eyes darting from Abdallah to Abu. Yet, greed was plain to see in every face as he glanced around the room. “First a toast to success,” Abu said. There were echoes of agreement all around. “Hold on a second,” the captain said. Chuck Biddas disappeared for a moment and brought back a bottle of very old scotch. Glasses appeared on the table and Chuck poured a shot for everyone including Abu Hamza. Abu didn’t drink, but was the first to have his drink handed to him. “To success!” Abdallah shouted. Abu made a pretense of taking a small sip but never let the liquid touch his tongue. While holding the glass so as to cover the contents, he sat the glass in the sink, but not before deftly pouring its contents in the drain. “Another!” one of the men shouted. “Not for me. I must drive tonight and shouldn’t be stopped for drinking and driving.” He laughed when no one else did, and this brought a resounding response from the men around the table in the cramped quarters below decks. Another round was poured as Abu turned for his briefcase and placed it on the counter behind him, not completely out of sight. This must be handled with finesse. He reached into the briefcase and extracted a large stack of hundred dollar bills.

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The Bomb “First, to my countryman for a job well done,” he said. “Add this to what pittance you found in the truck and be well, my friend. The rest has been wired to your newly acquired account per your instructions. I trust that at your earliest convenience you will insure this has happened.” This time the laughter that followed his comments came more naturally. Good. Now was the time to strike. He turned back to the briefcase and carefully gripped his revolver, thumbed the safety, and turned to the men once again. Without hesitation he fired a round into the captain first, then each of the men. The last one was struggling to escape, but in the close quarters he hardly had time to move before death claimed every one of them. He walked around the table and methodically put another bullet in each head right at the temple. Once he had to replace the clip, but he doggedly continued without pause, not even to look toward Abdallah. Abdallah was trying to press himself into the wall behind him as Abu finished. Abu studied him. “There must be no witnesses,” he said calmly. “Come, we must get the bomb. Can it be removed without a hoist?” “No, ah, no, it is too deep in the fish hold. But I know how to use the hoist on deck.” Abu noticed the quaver in his voice. He too had expected a shot in the head. They went back topside and quickly hoisted the bomb out of the hold and onto the deck. “Take the wooden crate off so I can carry it conveniently,” Abu said. Abu watched Abdallah as he got the bomb ready. “The radiation is great with the casing and protective shielding removed,” Abdallah said. 245

Holy War “It is no matter. We will not travel long with it among us. And besides, it will be covered with protective blankets. I do not want to be so sick I cannot get the bomb positioned and detonated.” His smile was broad and sincere as he looked at the quizzical Abdallah Jahr. For the first time, he questioned this man’s motives. He had always disliked him, but had never before questioned what drove him. He was Khariji trained and Khariji investigated. Those who survived the training must also survive the investigation. Neither was painless. The bomb came out from the interior of the opened box and, much to his amazement, it was very small. Smaller than a backpack, for sure. He walked over to the clearly agitated Abdallah. “Let me have it,” he said as he picked up the bomb with both hands. It was light enough to carry with one hand, although he wouldn’t be able to do so for long. “Do you have a bag we can put it in?” he asked. “No, there were no instructions to bring one,” the other answered nervously. “Relax. Of a truth, I do not care whether you live or die tonight. But for what you have done for the Kharijis, I give you your freedom. Now, help me to the truck with this, then you may be on your way.” “Of course.” Without difficulty and without being seen, they carried the bomb between them to the waiting truck. Abu toyed with the idea of burning the boat, but couldn’t decide which was better, burning it or just waiting for someone to discover the carnage. In any case, it was highly unlikely that

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The Bomb the bodies would be found until morning. And by morning, Washington, D.C. would already be gone. They loaded the bomb into the back of the pickup and covered it with four leadlined blankets. It wouldn’t roll and it wouldn’t permeate the atmosphere with too much radiation. Someone would have to be looking for the device to find it, and they’d have to be searching every vehicle going into and coming out of Washington with a Geiger counter. So far the Americans had proven to be no match for them, so why would they be now? Abu turned to Abdallah, “Give me the keys,” he said. “But I thought the truck was for me,” Abdullah replied, and then his face paled. “So far you have two great advantages, money and life. Give me the keys or you will lose both of them. I suggest you go well west of Washington on your trek to Canada.” “Can you at least give me a ride to a car dealer?” Abu just stared at him. Silently, Abdallah opened the door to the pickup, extracted a bag and a briefcase, and handed the keys to Abu. Abu watched him zip up his coat against the northeasterly that was beginning to blow in from the ocean and the cold that followed it. Abdallah put the extra money into the briefcase and began to walk through the parking lot to the road beyond without looking back, and thankfully, without another word.

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Holy War Abu started the pickup and began driving toward the first of two rendezvous points that night. He couldn’t resist humming a tune. He turned on the radio and pulled out onto the highway. *** Calvin Dary watched Abu Hamza drive up in yet another pickup truck. At first he didn’t recognize the truck or the driver. Abu was smiling. He always smiled when Americans had just died or were about to die. Stu Long drove the van and Hasan al-Banna drove the new pickup. Abu Hamza joined Stu and Cal in the van and they pulled off through the sand dunes onto the highway that headed north. Cal watched Abu on the trip north into Virginia while trying to ignore the growing pain in his leg. The man was suddenly heavily withdrawn in deep thought. What was he thinking about? There was one show to be seen, he had said, probably in the next few hours, and one more after that. Cal knew that much at least, but were there more? Too much longer and his leg might not make it. Amputation was getting to be a very likely possibility. He pulled up his pant leg again, then ripped it at the seam to get it up above the knee. He glanced up to see what the others were doing and whether or not they were likely to interfere. Stu and Ahmed watched in silence while Abu was obviously lost in thought, so Cal continued the examination. The knee was so swollen it had been pressing hard against the material of his pants. He tried to see the skin in the brief flashes provided by the outside lights as 248

The Bomb they passed but found it difficult. He wasn’t sure, but as he pulled his pant leg down, he thought he saw the beginnings of a red line running up his thigh. When he was small he had cut himself on the very same leg while playing with his best friend, Pete. He hadn’t told anyone because they were out in the woods near old man Huston’s place where they both had been forbidden to go. Four days later the cut was so sore he had begun to walk stiff legged, and his mother had called him over to examine the leg. She had cleaned it up and put on an Ace bandage. The next day his father had detected the red line going up the leg. Dad had told him then that if the red line ever got to his heart he would die. If that were true, he wondered if he’d have time to die of blood poisoning or would a bullet cease his brain functions long before the blood poisoning ever had a chance.

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Chapter Nineteen The Beginning of the End

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lliot Grover and Jessica Yarrow stood in a small room with no windows. There were only five people present. The man whose name was on the business card was John Wilson. His ‘technician’ was Dennis Johnson, and a woman whose job they hadn’t figured out yet was Betty Boop. There had never been three names more obviously fake. At first Elliot had to give up on the John Wilson, but when he did, Dennis Johnson became Dennis the Menace fairly quickly. Once that happened, of course, John Wilson was Dennis’ next door neighbor, Mr. Wilson. If there was a connection between those two and Betty Boop, Elliot just didn’t get it. Or were they simply using cartoon character names? Elliot and Jessica had come in, been introduced, and asked to stay out of the way. The room was full of equipment: computers, monitors, printers, telephones, and

Holy War some things Elliot had never seen the likes of before. All three of the cartoon people were absorbed in what they were doing. After about an hour of intense work, Betty Boop handed Mr. Wilson a telephone. “For you,” she said simply. He took the phone, listened a moment, then said, “O.K.,” and put the phone back down on its cradle. A few moments later a knock sounded on the door. Mr. Wilson looked over the door to a monitor. It showed a man standing in the entryway. He then peered through a peephole in the door and finally opened it for a lone man in a business suit. The entryway was a small room with two very heavy doors, one at each end. When they had entered the room earlier, Mr. Wilson had dialed a combination on a locking mechanism. They had entered hurriedly and Wilson had dialed another code into a panel set near the outer door to silence an alarm. The man in the suit had gotten through the first door with the door combination and an alarm code, but apparently hadn’t known the second combination. Mr. Wilson pointed toward Elliot and Jessica sitting at the small table in the far corner, then resumed his business at the panels. The man walked toward them carrying a folder. “You’re Elliot Grover and Jessica Yarrow?” In the long list of very stupid questions Elliot thought this had to be right up there at the top. That is, until he was also asked for identification. Elliot pulled out his wallet and showed the man his driver’s license. “The rules for anyone entering this room are these,” the man began without introducing himself, “you cannot 252

The Beginning of the End acknowledge this room’s existence. After leaving today, you cannot mention anything you see or hear in this room to anyone at any time, no matter who they are, unless it is to one of the three people in this room or myself. If you feel you must speak to one or more of us after today, you must return to this room or one identical to it. If you so much as whisper one word, you will be arrested and placed in the highest security prison in the country, whose existence is a complete secret. You cannot tell spouse, family, or even your priest. Are there any questions?” “We already heard a speech very much like this one from our security people,” Elliot said. “That was practice, now you’re getting the real one. Are there any questions?” They shook their heads after looking at one another. “Good. You cannot discuss anything you hear, see, smell, feel, or taste in this room. You cannot speak to anyone at any time no matter who they are unless it is to one of the three people in this room or myself. If you do so, you will be placed in the highest security prison in the country, whose existence you have heard about only once before. You cannot tell spouse, family, or even your priest. Are there any questions?” “No,” they said, nearly in unison. The man placed the folder on the table, opened it up, and took out two single pieces of paper. “Sign here, after you’ve read the entire sheet,” he said, pointing to the papers. Elliot read carefully. It repeated what the man in the business suit had said, word for word. The only additional 253

Holy War things were Elliot’s name, address, job description, height, weight, and other information about his person. He signed. After the security man left, Elliot felt the atmosphere in the room grow tense. Something had happened while they were absorbed in their ‘briefing’. Both men were in front of an array of machines that looked more like computer readouts than anything else. Betty Boop was examining printouts from one of the printers. Mr. Wilson walked over to Elliot and Jessica. “Now that you’ve been through your security briefing, one of you should go home. I’ve been instructed to allow you to watch and gather information on a non-interference basis only. You cannot take notes nor can you reveal the source of any information you gather in this room.” He pointed to the telephone on the table. “That telephone is cleared for unclassified use only. You can conduct your business with the FBI or anyone else you wish on that phone. However, if any of us is talking or one of the other phones ring, you must hang up immediately and call back, so that nothing said here may be heard by others. Any questions?” “Yeah,” Elliot said, “can you give us a hint as to what it is you’re doing so we know just why we’ve been put here and what we’re supposed to be watching?” “Only briefly. This is a single funnel point used in times of emergency where data that has been gathered elsewhere is transmitted. In short, we are a team that correlates and analyzes information funneled to us from many sources. We glean whatever we can and pass that information along to our superiors elsewhere.” “What kind of information?” Jessica asked. 254

The Beginning of the End “I can only tell you that the sources of our information are of a national intelligence nature and cannot be discussed. Of course, if you ever tell anyone so much as that, you will spend whatever is left of your lives in that very special prison. Don’t take it lightly, I personally know one man who is there right now.” “But what kind of information are you processing?” Jessica pressed. “For one thing we use very close up photos of various people and places around the globe. I can show you what one agent in Paris read this morning in the paper as she sat at her breakfast table. I can show you agents in the field or automobiles following our people. I can connect you with the FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, DMA, and several other agencies, some whose very names are secret and whose personnel don’t exist. We even use the weather report, but we don’t put much faith in that one. We’ll catch your terrorists, Mr. Grover. We most certainly will catch them.” “Well, if you’re so good, why haven’t you caught them before now?” The man was good. He didn’t even flinch. “We are an organization whose particular talents are used only for very short spans of time and for situations outside the United States of America. For this particular task, we’ve had to turn our data gathering sources inward rather than outward. You may not believe this, but it is actually illegal for us to gather data inside the United States. So far we’ve had very little information to go on. As time progresses we gather more and more data. For instance, we think they are in Virginia heading toward Washington right now.” 255

Holy War “How do you know that little tidbit of information?” “At two o’clock this morning, Angelica Biddas notified the police in Elizabeth City, North Carolina that her husband didn’t come home as usual. It hadn’t been twentyfour hours but it’s a small town and these guys knew Chuck Biddas, so they went to check out his fishing boat. When they got there, they discovered five bodies and a very important empty box. Or what was left of the box. We would have ignored the box and turned the site over to local authorities, but when we made the routine report to our controller we were told to check out the box with a Geiger counter. It was highly radioactive. We now know how the nuclear device the Russians so conveniently lost wound up in the United States.” Elliot jumped up, “We must cordon off Washington!” “The National Guard, the Air Force and the US Army have been called in by the President to cordon off the entire city. No one comes in and only people we are certain of will leave.” “That’s an unbelievably huge task. Are you sure every exit can be adequately guarded?” “The number of personnel being assigned is more than enough, Mr. Grover. And the President and certain other officials of Government have been evacuated. We are telling the American people in a few minutes about the cordon but not about the President leaving.” “This all happened since two this morning? That’s remarkable.” “We learn rapidly.” “Just why are we here, John?” 256

The Beginning of the End “I already told you that.” “No, I mean why do you need the FBI?” “Our organization doesn’t have the personnel resources within the United States to react to the information we may gather. Yours does.” *** Calvin Dary sat half a mile from a high rise hotel on the beach in Virginia Beach. It was low tide, and a full moon hung over the eastern horizon providing plenty of light. He need only look to know what their target was tonight. He wondered how many people slept in that hotel. Was it more or less than usual for this time of year? It was February, a long time from the vacation season. But still, men, women, and children slept in rooms they thought were safe. Cal had a knot in his stomach that felt like someone had shoved a brick down his throat while he slept. He was as responsible for his wife’s death as if he had held the gun. The men sitting in the van with him were just as responsible for the deaths in the hotel in front of them, even though they were not the ones who planted the bombs. That was a very good corollary. How could he ever tell Rebekah it was his fault her mother was killed? He considered whether it was possible for him to warn the people in the hotel. He was handcuffed at the ankle to the seat he sat on and his hands were tied once again behind his back. He was powerless. Even if he shouted, no one was close enough to hear.

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Holy War Suddenly Abu opened the van door and stepped into the night. Cal swiveled in his chair as far as he could to watch as Abu moved toward the rear of the van. Cal looked down the beach in the direction Abu was slowly walking. The moon shining over the water illuminated the beach, making it almost as bright as late dusk. He could clearly see a man coming toward them walking his dog. The dog began to bark. Oh! No! Cal thought. “Look out!” he shouted. “Shut up!” someone in the truck hissed. Abu pulled out his silenced revolver and two flashes followed. First the man, then the dog, fell to the sandy beach. Abu walked over quickly and two additional flashes lit up the early morning darkness. There would be no witnesses. Abu returned to the van and told the Iraqis to move the bodies up the beach toward the dunes. “Watch the hotel, Mr. Dary. Your people took away our ability to relax and enjoy life. Now it is our turn.” A few minutes later a huge flash of light lit up the night, illuminating the beach and the ocean. The light was followed immediately by the sound of a thunderous explosion. Cal glanced toward the nearest hotel, but was surprised to find that another hotel farther up the beach was toppling toward the beach and the water beyond. His heart sank to his stomach. He watched as dust and debris filled the night air from the falling multi-storied building. Another flash of light lit up the night sky, only this one was closer and had more to illuminate as the serene beach was now a cloud of dust and falling debris. Cal could clearly see people running from 258

The Beginning of the End the wreckage that had been the first hotel as the second hotel began its rapid plunge to the earth. Before the debris and people from the second finished falling, the hotel nearest them also erupted in fire and collapsed toward the ocean as a third explosion added to the hysteria. It was clear the terrorists had deliberately caused the hotels to fall into the water. What pure, unadulterated terror for the people trapped inside the upper stories. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the fear those people felt as they lay in the water amid the debris. Then he wondered how many had survived the long fall into the water far below. “Let’s go,” Abu said. This was Calvin’s chance. He took out the computer he had been given and began to type. He entered his first rough draft as best he could remember. Next he reorganized it slightly, but found the exercise of inserting the code quite easy. He simply entered what he would have written anyway, then added a modifier or changed the placement of nouns and verbs until the message was clear to anyone possessing the code. “One night in a place so innocent no one thinks the worst, far from noisome cries of the needlessly dying in Las Vegas, the echo of repeating nightmares and screams of the terrified woke an eastern seaboard neighborhood. Relaxation was once a respite for troubled Americans. That is, until bloodthirsty Khariji terrorists came to wake a sleeping America to the horrible realities of Holy Terror. On this quiet and serene night with a full moon watching three obnoxious but zealous Khariji terrorists, hundreds of Americans lost their lives and their loves. So far the 259

Holy War terrorists had traveled the width of America with impunity. Perhaps the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew could do better than American law enforcement agencies.” Looking back over it, he knew it was horrible writing. But it didn’t matter, he was tired and his brain was frozen. His heart had no room for anything except anger, and the pain in his body was so intense he could barely concentrate. They would just have to forgive him. It was too late for the morning edition, but he hurried to finish anyway. By the time they got to Richmond he had the copy finished and approved. Thankfully, Abu only laughed when he read it and passed it to Stu to transmit to wherever it was going this time. He knew from experience that Stan would get it soon enough. Calvin Dary tried to settle back in the seat and ignore the throbbing in his hands, the ache in his feet and the intense agony that used to be his knee. They waited for Stu to return and watched the sun rise on the 47th day. Abu turned on the radio to catch the early news and to hear the announcer speak of his power. Much to his surprise, the top news story wasn’t about death on the beach in Virginia, the President, in an unprecedented move, had called up the National Guard to assist the Army and Air Force in cordoning off Washington, D.C. Abu sat bolt upright in his seat and began cursing in his native tongue and kicking the dash in front of him. After a while he calmed down enough for Cal to hear the news bulletin being repeated once again. No one knew why the action had been taken, but everyone had an opinion. The fact is that the success of the terrorists had been the very

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The Beginning of the End thing that defeated them. Law enforcement agencies were finally taking extraordinary measures. Abu was clearly thinking about the immediate future. What he had to do in Washington was still a mystery to Cal. That it was to be his grand finale was beyond doubt. Cal had questioned the stop in North Carolina, but the package in the back of the new pickup had provided an answer. Cal guessed it to be some chemical or biological agent Abu wanted to unleash on the seat of American governmental power. Nothing else made sense. Stu returned from sending the article. He walked lazily toward them but his facial expression changed radically when he entered the vehicle. Abu Hamza was still fuming and everybody else was cowering from his rage. They had no choice but to discuss alternatives. A small airport outside Richmond would serve to get them over the city by air, but Stu insisted there were restricted areas over the city and they would be shot down long before they got close enough to drop the bomb. Abu asked, “How close would we be likely to get before American aircraft would intercept us?” Stu answered after a slight pause. “If you go into Washington, National, not Dulles, on a flight plan that went from Richmond to National, you could declare some emergency or other and fly over the airfield going north, and then veer right onto the front lawn of the White House. It’s been done before. Even if you didn’t land you could certainly fly over the White House before the Air Force could get fighters up to intercept.

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Holy War “That’s more than good enough,” Abu said. “Is there any other way you can think of to get us into Washington? Perhaps using a back road or a waterway?” “There are back roads, but if there is a cordon around Washington you can bet there’s no way in, even on the water.” “Too bad. We had not considered a flight into Washington. A flight will do nicely however, perhaps even better than parking a truck perhaps blocks away.” Red Tackert said, “They can’t cover every road and waterway, not all at once.” I say we truck it in on a small back street somewhere, get it inside the mile or so we need, then get the hell out.” As their discussion continued, Cal was thinking furiously. He knew real fear. Blocks away from the White House could only mean a nuclear device. What else could explode blocks away and still destroy the White House? Could that be what rested under the blankets in the back of that pickup? Wasn’t it too small?

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Chapter Twenty The Code

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ebekah wiped her tears and stared at the paper for the hundredth time. So far she had gotten nowhere with the new article except to have read it through once. She kept thinking about her father and mother. Dad had always read to her or she to him in the past, and since her dad had been abducted, she had actually looked forward to those times when her mother would come up to read the latest article that her dad had written. They discussed what he wrote and what it might mean and they also talked about when Dad got away or was rescued. Now that seemed so remote, maybe even impossible. Now she hated all Moslems. Her grandmother had told her that only a few of them were bad, just like a few Americans were bad, but logic didn’t have anything to do with this. She hated them for what they’d done, first to her father, and then to her mother, and that was that. They were

Holy War bad. After all, hadn’t Dad been writing for a long time about the bad things they were doing? One of the FBI agents came in to check on her. It was her friend, Millie. “Good afternoon, Rebekah.” She hated being called Becky and almost all of the FBI agents called her Becky, trying to be friendly. But not Millie, she was always careful to call her Rebekah. She liked that. Millie’s shift started at noon, and for eight hours Rebekah felt like someone cared that her whole world had been shattered. “They told me you haven’t eaten all day. Oh goodness,” she exclaimed, “your eyes look like you’ve been crying all day.” “That’s because I have,” she blurted out before starting to cry once again. “Come here, sweetie,” Millie said, holding out her arms. She held Rebekah close to her, while sitting on the bed, and let the girl cry. She offered no words of encouragement because there might not be any. That was something else Rebekah liked about Millie. Millie didn’t lie or even exaggerate anything. Millie was her friend and friends don’t lie to one another. Rebekah finally wept it all out and excused herself to go to the bathroom to clean up. She looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the girl that stared back at her. Her hair was unkempt, the eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and the bags under the eyes looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She hadn’t slept all that well. The nightmares were getting worse. She would wake and call for her mother, 264

The Code then realize her mother was no longer there and cry herself back to sleep, only to have another nightmare. It was an endless cycle. “Is there anything you want to do?” Millie asked when Rebekah came out. “Would you please brush my hair for me? I look a fright.” “Sure.” Rebekah handed her the brush she had brought from the bathroom. Rebekah stood in front of her as Millie combed her long, deep red hair. Her head was tender but Millie was careful to be as gentle as possible. Too bad Millie couldn’t be her big sister. She always wanted a sister. “You probably should eat something and then take a nap. Did you sleep much last night?” “No, hardly at all. My nightmares kept waking me up.” “Dream about your father again?” “Yes, this time they had him tied between two horses and were getting ready to tear him apart.” “That’s ghastly, Rebekah!” “I know. It keeps getting worse.” “Where did you hear about something like that, anyway?” “Dad brought home a book once when he was doing some research. It was a book on torture.” Millie made a face. “You shouldn’t read things like that and neither should your father. Would it help if I stayed in the room with you while you slept?” “Maybe.”

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Holy War Millie walked over to the telephone and dialed a number. “Can you send up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a glass of chocolate milk? Thanks.” “Grandma wouldn’t appreciate you feeding me pb&j on an empty stomach,” Rebekah said lightly, but she didn’t really mean it. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” They both grinned. “Have you read the article today? It’s really strange. It’s a lot different from his usual. We were hoping you could find something in it for us.” “I haven’t found anything so far. But you’re right. This piece is nothing like Dad writes. It doesn’t even sound like him,” Rebekah replied. “Has anybody read it with you, yet?” “No. I wouldn’t let anybody help me except you.” “That’s all right, Rebekah. Don’t worry about it. I read it, though, and I agree with you that this may be something special. Of course, maybe those people with your father changed some of the words, but we still think this is the one we’ve been waiting for. Why don’t you get your copy and let’s take a look together?” “O.K.,” Rebekah said. She went to the nightstand and picked up a few sheets of white paper held together by a paper clip. “Here,” she said, holding out the papers, “why don’t you read it to me? That might help me visualize it.” Millie began, “One night in a place so innocent no one thinks the worst, far from noisome cries of the needlessly dying in Las Vegas, the echo of repeating nightmares and screams of the terrified woke an eastern seaboard neighborhood. Relaxation was once a respite for troubled 266

The Code Americans. That is until bloodthirsty Khariji terrorists came to wake a sleeping America to the horrible realities of Holy Terror. On this quiet and serene night with a full moon watching three obnoxious but zealous Khariji terrorists, hundreds of Americans lost their lives and their loves. So far, the terrorists had traveled the width of America with impunity. Perhaps the Hardy boys or Nancy Drew could do better than American law enforcement agencies.” “Wait. I didn’t understand why Dad used ‘impunity’. Who gave the terrorists permission? Did Dad really mean that?” “We haven’t caught them, so it’s almost like we gave them permission. But what he is really saying is that no one has been able to catch them or punish them. “Rebekah, why do you think he put in Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys?” “I don’t know. I have all their books. Some of them are really old. Older than my dad even. Maybe because we read them together almost every night. About two or three a month or so, depending on how tired I was and how many nights Dad came home in time to see me to sleep.” “Did any of them ever talk about terrorists?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Not too many had Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys together,” said Millie. “I used to read them myself. Hold on. I’ll be right back. I’m going to have someone go to your house and get all the books. That O.K.?” Rebekah nodded. After Millie left, Rebekah picked up the papers. She began to read once again but kept getting a mental image of her dad being torn apart by two wild 267

Holy War horses. What were the terrorists doing to her dad? Were they going to kill him, too? Would she be all alone? She missed her dad. She wanted to make him proud. She decided to play with the Lego set the FBI had brought from her house. It was one of her favorite things to do when she was upset. Her dream house would be grand, set in a secluded beach with palm trees and white sand. She loved the beach. Of course, making a house from blocks wasn’t anything like her dream house was really going to be. About the time she ran out of blocks, and long before her house had taken a decent shape, Rebekah remembered something. Suddenly it was as if one of the terrorist bombs went off inside her head. In one of the Nancy Drew mysteries, Nancy tried to get a message out to her friends using a code. There had been a bunch of rules she didn’t understand completely. Of course, she was younger then. Dad had told her at the time that it was really pretty simple. What were the rules? Rebekah did remember that the first number inside told which word to start with and you used the first letters only of each word. That way you couldn’t see the message if you were somebody else looking for it. She looked again at the article. The first word was ‘one’. That must mean start with the first word. She turned the paper over and wrote an ‘O’ down. Rebekah couldn’t remember which word to go to next so she gave up and went back to her bed. Perhaps if she lay down, closed her eyes and relaxed, she could think of the answer. She began thinking about getting back to school. She had been out of school a long time, since before Christmas, 268

The Code and she missed it. She had to study every day instead, but since Mom got shot she couldn’t focus. She was so afraid she’d be without Mom and Dad for the rest of her life. Even if she got adopted, her new ‘parents’ wouldn’t be the same as her real ones. Would she even go to the same school? And that would mean all new friends and teachers and neighbors, too. She felt the tears welling up inside her. Rebekah got up and went to the closet that held all her things that the FBI had brought over. Not one book. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t anyone in the FBI read? Maybe when the books arrived, Rebekah could find the passage in the Nancy Drew book that explained the code. Wait a second. Which book even had the code? She had scores of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books. She could skip around from one to another and not ever find the right passage unless she read every book. That was it! Skip! You had to skip words in the sequence. First one, then two, then three and so on. Rebekah took a separate sheet of paper and began decoding the now easy-to-find message. She had written down nine letters when Millie opened the door and came inside the bedroom. “I’ve got it!” Rebekah exclaimed. “Just give me a minute to finish up.” Millie watched Rebekah count out the last few words, then copy the letters onto the bottom half of the paper. Rebekah tore the paper in half and handed Millie one while looking intently at the other. It read ‘OISTNINETWOO’. “That doesn’t say anything,” she said.

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Holy War “No, it doesn’t. But don’t give up. Let’s look for patterns. I’m going to call downstairs and tell them the good news.” Rebekah knew Millie was calling for help decoding the message. Rebekah had found the message, and she was determined to figure it out before the FBI could get started. “Maybe backwards,” she said, when Millie hung up the phone. She wrote ‘OOWTENINTSIO’. “No, that doesn’t say anything, either.” “Did your father ever teach you anything you thought was crazy or weird that might go with this?” “Huh? No, I don’t think so.” Rebekah said. Millie was interrupting. “It’s supposed to be words not just a bunch of letters.” Rebekah turned it upside down and sideways but couldn’t see any pattern anywhere. “What would Dad be trying to tell me in twelve letters, anyway?” she finally queried. “I can’t think of anything with twelve letters or numbers,” Millie responded. A knock on the door announced that the FBI agents from downstairs had arrived. Millie got up and answered the door. Rebekah heard a few whispered words, then Millie returned without her copy of the code. “You can clearly see nine and two inside there, but there is no correlation to anything else inside the letters,” Rebekah said. “Maybe all the letters stand for numbers?” Rebekah said, “Let me read it out loud. Close your eyes, Millie, that always helps me concentrate.” “O, I, S, T, NINE, TWO, O,” Rebekah read slowly. 270

The Code “Wait a minute,” Millie said, first taking the paper, then handing it back and standing beside Rebekah. “Let’s see,” her finger traced over the letters once again. “That would be seven letters if the last ‘O’ were a number. That’s a license plate number!” The telephone rang. Millie hugged Rebekah. “You’re awesome!” she exclaimed, then nearly ran for the door. Rebekah picked up the telephone, “Hello?” “Hi, Rebekah. It’s Anson Hicks. Let me talk to Millie, we’ve broken the code, thanks to you.” “Yeah, we know, it’s a license number. Millie already left.” *** The ringing of the telephone on the desk made Elliot jump. He picked it up, “Grover, here.” “It’s Anson Hicks. We’ve received a message from Calvin Dary in his latest article. It’s a license plate number, OIST920. Don’t know from which state yet. I told the boys in Washington to feed the information to you first, then disseminate it throughout the agency.” “We finally get a break. That license number will be from one of the states the terrorists have traveled. Thanks Anson. You guys were quick to find the message.” “No. Rebekah Dary found the code and even knew it was a license plate before we did.” “You’re kidding?” “No. The kid is great. I told her to look me up in ten or eleven.” 271

Holy War “Good work, Anson.” He hung up, but before he could get his hand away from the phone it rang again. “Grover,” he said, looking over at Mr. Wilson. “It’s Pete Carson. Fourteen license numbers match the Dary number. Eleven from states the scum haven’t been in that we know of. One of the other three is a Corvette, and of the remaining two, one was purchased in the last few days by a guy who put down a lot of cash money in hundred dollar bills.” “That’s him, Pete. Put out an APB in Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and D.C. Use extreme caution and do not approach. Notify FBI only.” “Got it. How do you know where they are? Why not other states as well. Just because the latest hits were in Virginia, that’s no sign that’s where they are. Remember Kansas, Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas all went up together, but the terrorists were in Oklahoma.” “Trust me.” “All right, you’re the boss. You got a fax machine where you are now?” “Don’t know. Why?” “We’ve got a picture of the guy who bought the van. It’s a dark green 1998 GMC Illinois conversion van. Spare in back of the van with a black cover and Johnson’s Conversions printed in red. Both sides have hand-painted wildlife featuring a deer. The guy’s ugly as sin and looks just as stupid.”

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The Code “You can bet he’s anything but stupid. Tell you what, send it to my office and tell them to courier it over here. I don’t have time to find a fax.” “Yes, sir.” “And thanks, Pete.” Elliot hung up the telephone and said, “John, we’ve got a lead.” “Give it to me,” he said, without even looking up. “Dark green, 1998, GMC, conversion van. It’s from Illinois, got a spare on the back that’s labeled ‘Johnson’s Conversions’. License number is,” he turned the paper around in his hand, “‘OIST920’. Let’s go get ‘em.” “We’ll do what we can. Believe it or not, now it’s more likely to be the state troopers or a local sheriff that gets lucky. But we’re on it. Betty, you copy?” “I’m on it.”

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Chapter Twenty-One Cordon

M

anassas, Virginia was a beautiful little town. Cal remembered traveling there with some electrical contractor on a story in his early years. Must’ve been ten or twelve years ago. Those had been the hard days. Traveling on a shoestring budget, staying in flea infested hotels, eating light or not at all. He hadn’t missed that kind of life at all, until now. He’d give anything to go back to those days, just to get away from the pain of Teresa’s death. He’d be glad to stay there the rest of his life. What was he going to say to Rebekah? Or would he even live long enough to see her? They stopped on the side of the road right in a residential district. Cal looked around. He couldn’t remember exactly, but the house of the electrical contractor he’d had lunch with that day must’ve been somewhere around here. He heard Abu Hamza press the key on the walkie-talkie. “In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate. Praise

Holy War be to God, the Lord of the Worlds, the Merciful One, the Compassionate One, Master of the Day of Doom. Thee alone we serve, to Thee alone we cry for help. Guide us in the straight path. The path of them Thou hast blessed. Not of those with whom Thou art angry nor of those who go astray. Allahu Akbar!” It was an eerie thing, Abu speaking to the other Kharijis who were nowhere in sight. They were no doubt listening a few blocks away at some prearranged site. It was over for them now, but not for Cal and the two Americans. Cal sat with Abu and Stu Long in the van, but where was Red Tackert? “Allahu Akbar!” was the simple reply, but the sound of rejoicing was clearly heard in the background. The rest of the Kharijis must be traveling to Canada and safety. Then probably an airplane ride home. Stu and Red were obviously still very much in the picture until the single bomb they carried was delivered. But how would they do it? The best question might be, could they do it? Where was the cordon exactly? Cal knew the American government had emergency plans but he didn’t know who carried them out or what they involved. Would they cordon the interior of the city or stretch it out to the periphery? The beltway would serve fairly well, but that encompassed a huge area with at least hundreds of roads, waterways, and air lanes. There was no way they’d be able to keep determined terrorists out. Cal knew they were now close to D.C.; what would be their new plan? He remembered Red saying they needed to be within a mile or so and that was definitely within the 276

Cordon beltway. He hoped whatever street they picked was one that had a blockade and that the National Guard was alert enough to pick them up. They pulled up the street a couple of blocks and into a driveway. A sign out front advertised the house for sale, and there were no curtains hanging in any window. Cal was only moderately surprised to see Red Tackert drive up behind them and come to Abu’s side of the van. “All right, I checked it out just like you said. There’s a very real possibility of getting in through the southeast side of the city. I went all the way to Pennsylvania Boulevard before turning around. If I’d have wanted to, I could have set the timer and taken a taxi out of the city. There’s a lot of mayhem going on with people trying to get out and troops trying to get into position. There’s no telling how many have been killed, but I bet it’s over a thousand. I had people climbing on the hood trying to get a ride out. It’s pandemonium in there; absolutely perfect for us to get through on one of the side streets. People are shouting about chemical and bacterial agents. Car wrecks are everywhere you look and people are running over one another trying to get out of the city.” “Check the bomb. It must not be damaged,” Abu said. “Don’t sweat it. Nobody even got near the back. Just on the hood and one guy through the side window. I knocked him out, then threw him on the street. Your bomb is as safe as Muhammad on the first day of power.” “All right, we’ll follow. You got your walkie-talkie?” “Yeah, sure,” Red replied.

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Holy War “Stu,” Abu said as Red walked back to the truck, “get the bomb out of the pickup and into the back, here.” The bomb. Cal thought it even sounded sinister. People panicking in Washington. He never thought he’d see the day. They must be going into Washington to park the van, the bomb, and one very useless Calvin Dary somewhere near the White House. If only I could just say goodbye to Rebekah. With everything going on right now, all I can think of is Rebekah. I have neglected her too much. I’ll never neglect her again. The two men moved the bomb into the van and covered it with heavy blankets that might have been taken from an X-ray laboratory in a hospital. Stu got back in and pulled the van into the street. Daylight was full upon them now. Surely someone had seen them. It probably didn’t matter now, anyway. They were simply too close to be caught. They were literally minutes away from destroying millions of people and the heart of a nation. “Stay well back, but insure that you are not caught even if Red is,” Abu said, then moved to the back of the van. He pulled back the blankets and attached a switch to the clearly labeled wires coming out of the bomb. Next he connected the last two bomb wires to an adapter for power. He went back to his seat, plugged the power wires into the cigarette lighter, and placed the switch on the floor between the seats. “Mr. Reporter, seldom in my life have I met a man I detest more than you. You have been a large boil on the butt of this operation from the very first day. Let me tell 278

Cordon you a few things before we get to the drop site. Make certain you put all of them in the last article you write for me.” Did that mean he might survive? His heart began to beat wildly. “It was my original intention to park this van on Pennsylvania Boulevard or one of the other streets within a few blocks of the White House. The beauty of the whole thing was that you were to be inside the van, hands and feet cuffed, mouth taped, and conscious. Do you know what lies there in the back?” “It’s a nuclear device of some type.” “Exactly. Not very big as those things go, but big enough to make our point. I had intended to get into Washington undetected and just let the American people know we could pretty much do what we wanted as their government died. But panic in the streets serves very nicely also. “Unfortunately, the law requires one of three things in return for Imad ibn Buwayhid breaking the fast of RamaDaan. You may or may not know that a kaffara is owed when the fast of RamaDaan is broken by sexual intercourse. The atonement must consist of fasting sixty days, giving sixty days worth of food to the poor, or freeing one slave. I do not have sixty days left to fast. And in this country on this day, where would I find poor to provide with food? I don’t even own a slave back home, Mr. Reporter, but I do own you. My reward will be great if I pay what I owe through my association with Imad, and also

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Holy War what I owe for causing his death during RamaDaan, by letting you go free. “We will go into Washington, park on a street six blocks from the drop site and let you out. Stu then will catch a taxi, a bus, or simply steal a car and get out of the danger zone. If you can get away in your present state, fine. If you cannot, fine. I will still have met the requirements of kaffara.” The city in panic meant there wouldn’t be any taxicabs, buses, or any other form of transportation. It was obvious what he had in mind for Stu and for himself. “What are you going to do?” Cal hoped to gain information so that if he escaped the FBI would know something concrete. “I will be the greatest martyr since Joan of Arc. My people will rally around my name in every war for centuries. I plan to push the button that destroys Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America. *** Jessica came through the door looking quite a bit better than she had at three a.m. before she went home to get some much needed rest. Now it was Elliot’s turn to rest. “You look positively awful,” she said in way of greeting. “Thanks. You look better than when you left, but then anything would have been an improvement over that.” “Thank you very much. What’s going on?” “Oh, you probably haven’t heard. We’ve got a positive ID on the van they’re in now and suspect they’re in 280

Cordon northern Virginia. With the blockade in place, the likelihood of them getting in is smaller but still a real possibility. We have three ID’s now, one Moslem, Stewart Long, and Raymond Tackert, a.k.a. Red. Their photos are everywhere in the hands of police, mounties, marshals, Highway Patrol, Army, Navy, Air Force, National Guard, you name it. It’ll happen on your watch, Jess. I wish to God I didn’t need sleep, but there’s no telling how long it’ll be and I’m barely upright.” “You’ve come a long way, baby. Good work.” “Let’s see, it’s three now, so in a couple of hours Mr.Wilson and the gang will be replaced with the night shift. Our log is there on the table with the details of the vehicle and people. Read it so you’re aware of what’s gone on before something else takes place, and be sure to call me the minute it does.” “Get out of here, you’re looking worse by the minute.” “OK. See ya.” Jessica Yarrow read the material and memorized the three faces, just in case. She called the office and checked in, then began to pace until Betty gave her the eye. She sat back down and decided to take some notes on what had happened, in case something they hadn’t put together yet jumped out at her. Nothing did. The phone rang on her table, “Hello,” she said excitedly. “It’s Sampson, ma’am. Agent Grover there?” “No. My shift. What do you have?” “We just made an arrest, ma’am.” “Where are you? No, never mind, where are you taking him?” 281

Holy War “HQ.” “I’ll be right there.” She hung up. John said, “I suggest you have him brought into this building. We’ll clear you and give you a room.” “What will that accomplish? We have everything we need at FBI headquarters.” “You won’t have this room. I take it you made a single arrest? What about the others? What will happen if we spot the van or one of the other terrorists? We cannot safely pass data from this room except on one phone and then only when no one else is talking.” Jessica didn’t hesitate. Later she would look back and question her judgment, even though time would prove her right. What had made her choose what she did? She took out a business card and wrote a name on the back. “This name is a classified code word. Ask for this person and then talk to whoever comes on the line. Tell them what you need. But I disagree with you, I’m going to the FBI building. Can you let me out?” “Your decision.” He took the card and let her out through both heavy doors. She ran down the hall to the elevators, barely stopping at security to turn in her badge. *** The walkie-talkie coughed into life, “Keep the communication channel open. I want to know what’s happening,” the unmistakable voice of Abu Hamza said.

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Cordon Red Tackert picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “O.K., I can see the beltway from here, it’s about a half mile ahead.” “Good. How is your fuel? I forgot to ask.” “About a quarter of a tank. More than enough for what we have in mind. Man, can you see the throng of people from where you are?” “Yes, it is beautiful, is it not?” “There’s a steady stream of cars leaving the city and another stream of idiots trying to get in. I guess they’re trying to get family and friends out since public transportation is gnarled up beyond belief.” A bus pulled out in front of him and Red laid on his horn in anger. The fool waved out the window. Was he trying to say “Ha, ha, I got you,” or “Thanks for being stupid and letting me in?” Either way the fool deserved a swift kick in the butt. “Now there’s a bus in front of me, but there’s still a couple of blocks before we get to the beltway overpass. The road turns northwest there, but we’re in the city and only a couple of miles from the drop point, if my memory isn’t as screwed up as this city.” “Good. Keep talking.” The traffic slowed down, then stopped. “We’re at a standstill right now,” said Red. “If you’re not too far behind, now’s the time to pull over and wait. You’re the guy with the important stuff.” “Keep the talk generic, Red.” “Sure. Now we’re moving again, but real slow. It’s start and stop.” “Can you see what’s ahead?” 283

Holy War “No, all I see is the south end of a big bus that smells like rotten eggs.” “Why has the traffic stopped?” “Are you kidding me? There’s a million people trying to get out and half that many trying to get into D.C. on roads that don’t carry enough traffic on a normal day. The interstate coming into D.C. from the south has fourteen lanes and all of them are clogged everyday.” “Have you seen a blockade?” “I’m not close enough yet to find out. Wait, here comes a cop. Looks like they have a blockade set up around the corner and he’s walking down the line checking vehicles and people. I’ll get right back to you.” “Hey, got a driver’s license?” the policeman asked. “Sure, what’s the problem?” Red asked as he fished for his wallet. He didn’t want to ask too much because he wasn’t certain what had been announced over the radio and TV. “Looking for a bomb and a bunch of crazies out to wipe out D.C.” The policeman was a cop from the city. Nothing to worry about yet. “Here ya go,” Red handed over his driver’s license. The policeman looked over the license carefully, front and back, before returning it. He looked into the empty truck bed and then to the seat next to Red, but they were both empty. The walkie-talkie, he had stuffed between his rear end and the seat. Red smiled. “O.K., you’re free to go,” the policeman said. The bus had pulled up and was about half a block in front of Red, almost to the barricade itself. 284

Cordon “This one’s good to go, Harry!” the policeman shouted to someone toward the barricade. Red couldn’t figure out which person in the crowd ahead was Harry. The policeman was satisfied with whatever answer Harry gave and walked to the car behind Red. He and the truck had passed the visual inspection. So far so good. Red pulled up as far as he could and pushed the transmit switch, “No problem here. But there is a cordon on this street. I’ll pull around the block and try another one over a few blocks. They’re looking for a bomb.” “What are the chances of finding another street which isn’t blocked off?” Abu asked. “Don’t know until we try. Do you want to get into the city, or not?” Red was getting angry with this guy. Was he a terrorist or a wimp? “Try one more street, then we will wait until tomorrow when the traffic is less. We will ram through the cordon if we have to tomorrow and drive until we’re caught, then just push the button which detonates the bomb.” “That’s more like it.” Another policeman appeared from the passenger side of the bus. Red watched him walk slowly down the street apparently unconcerned about one Red Tackert. Where was he going? Red looked up into the rearview mirror to see what the first policeman was doing. He was walking back toward the barricade and was just about to the rear of his pickup. The second policeman got to the passenger door of Red’s truck, pulled his gun and broke the window out with it. He pushed the gun through the broken window and said, 285

Holy War “Kill the engine and get out of the truck nice and slow. If you move one inch from where we think you ought to be, we’ll shoot.” The driver’s door opened and the first policeman said, “Easy does it, Mr. Tackert,” as at least a score of police and National Guard ran up to the truck. Red looked down at the walkie-talkie. “Touch it and you die,” one of them said.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Plan B

C

alvin Dary had no idea why Abu Hamza wanted to die with the bomb. He thought he should understand his perspective after forty-seven days with him. Didn’t he have a wife, children, parents, anybody he cared for or who cared for him? Cal couldn’t imagine dying and leaving his daughter and family to give his life for some obscure purpose. Even now, with pain in his leg and blood poisoning from a nasty cut, his wife dead, and his daughter probably tormented beyond what years of therapy would ever correct, he wanted to live, to love, to be a part of something tangible. Martyrdom didn’t happen because you wanted it. It happened because you didn’t want it. He put his hand on his leg attempting to alleviate some of the distress, but the lightest touch now brought agony.

Holy War “Why haven’t we heard from Red?” Abu asked. Stu didn’t answer. They still sat on the side of the road about a mile behind Red Tackert. Red had made it to the barricade and even through a police check, something they would never do. The police would see the blankets and uncover the bomb and that would be that. Red would have to find them a side street that had no barricade set up, yet. “Quiet!” Stu said rapidly, then turned up the radio. “We repeat, a terrorist was arrested just minutes ago by Washington police. Witnesses report that a white male was searched by police and taken into custody apparently without resistance. An officer checking his ID recognized the face, but waved him through, then signaled to other officers to take him after he passed the barricade. The police literally walked up to him and arrested him without incident. How many more remain is unknown. The police are certain the bomb is not within Washington proper. We urge you to remain as calm as possible.” “Turn around, let’s go back to Manassas,” Abu said. Stu pulled out into the traffic amidst blaring horns and shouted obscenities. He pulled directly across traffic and into a southbound lane. They traveled in silence until the traffic thinned. Cal noticed the easing of tension in both men. “Let’s try your approach, Stu,” Abu said. “I told you Red’s idea wouldn’t work,” he answered smugly. “I will have to remove the bomb, place it on the aircraft, and rewire it to the power system on board.”

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Plan B “How are you going to do that with the pilot watching?” asked Stu. “I have been trained in the operation of small American planes. I can fly several types of them. I will not need a pilot.” “You guys thought of everything.” “Not really. Initially it was to improve my cover as a computer dealer. Many of them fly. In fact we were able to put my license to good use in months past, flying a select one or two businessmen from one place to another to attend shows of various kinds. It was to be a conversation piece to help me fit in, but it turned into quite a boon for us. Take me to an airport near here and let’s get on with it,” Abu said. He didn’t even look at Cal Dary as he began to disconnect his precious bomb and stow the wiring in his black bag. Cal absently wondered how much radiation he was getting from that package Abu worked around it like it was a hunk of plastic. Wouldn’t that be something? He’d be set free only to die from radiation poisoning. Even that would be worth it right now, if he could just last long enough to hold Rebekah in his arms and tell her he was sorry for all the pain he had caused her and her mother. Would she even forgive him? From the front Stu said, “What if they’re watching the airports close to Washington?” “What if they’re watching all the airports?” Abu replied. “Let’s stop and call one so we won’t have to find out after we arrive.”

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Holy War “I have a bad feeling about going into one of the local airports and getting caught. I know they’re watching for us to leave the country. An airport farther from Washington is better. Less heat for one thing,” said Stu. There was a short pause. “Very well, that is probably good advice. There is the Richmond airport not far south of here. Call there and arrange for a small aircraft. Tell the company there’ll be only one passenger with baggage. I want to travel alone and am willing to pay anything they want for the service.” “We need to be more careful than that,” Stu replied. “I’ll take care of it.” A few minutes later they pulled into a service station where a phone hung from a pole near the road. Stu reached out and brought the phone to his ear. He pushed buttons, waited, and then said, “They’re so ashamed of their long distance charges they put on a computerized voice to tell you how much money to deposit. Maybe the bomb will go off and take out the phone company as well.” He pushed money into the slot, then waited. “Name’s Ben Townsend. I need to charter a flight from Richmond to Washington, National, for myself plus one piece of baggage.” Cal listened while Stu finished the arrangements. Stu settled on fifteen hundred dollars and the plane to be ready in an hour and a half to take off the instant ‘Ben’ arrived. The ordeal indeed was almost over. They drove in silence. Abu placed the bomb in the bag and replaced the heavy blankets on top. Stu seemed

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Plan B oblivious except for changing the volume on the AM radio station he had set for news. They drove into the small airport and then directly up to the gate where the aircraft waited. Stu went inside for a very few minutes and came back again. It was afternoon and time was running out for Washington, D.C. Cal kicked with his good leg, trying to test the strength of the handcuffs, but it was no use. Abu turned in the seat and smiled. “I would have it another way than this, Calvin Dary. You represent everything that is wrong with Americans. Your God is weak and your motives for serving Him are misplaced. You are egotistical but too consumed with yourself to see that you’re even weaker than the God you profess to serve. You carry on with your lives as if no one else’s life mattered. You sicken me, and everyone that is truly righteous is sickened by your lack of compassion for others, especially for religions different from your own.” Cal considered whether he should respond or not. He couldn’t believe Abu felt justified in what he was saying. America had shown herself ready and able to help all those in need around the world for decades. She had even helped her supposed enemies. Take the Berlin blockade and the Russians in the twenties after a particularly bad winter. There had been countless natural disasters whose victims had been given food, clothing, and medical aid. In Desert Storm, American leaders had stopped the United Nations long before they entered Baghdad over the advice of the military. That had been a mistake but still a humanitarian

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Holy War gesture. There was no desire in America to kill thousands more just to take Saddam Hussein. Cal thought about religion and what little he knew of Moslem beliefs about the family. His anger swelled within him – forget the consequences. “America has before and will continue to aid any country in the world during disaster. We didn’t invade Iraq until Kuwait was forcibly taken and then we stopped our armies long before they should have stopped. America herself was founded on religious freedom and that freedom still blossoms in this country. There are over a thousand religious groups in America including Moslems. We haven’t always been fair in the treatment of others like Indians and blacks, but we’re learning. We treat our women like humans and actually talk to them and share ideas with them. Women run many organizations and companies in our country and we’re better off because of them. In your country women rank below sheep and are forbidden to talk without being spoken to first. Your family unit is a joke and…” Stu opened the door and handed Abu some papers. “You Americans are spoiled by your riches and your apparent worldly wisdom. You elected yourselves the policemen and intend to bend the rest of the world to your will. Well, no more, Mr. Reporter.” He got up and pulled his bag behind him out the door. “If it were up to me, Calvin Dary, I would shoot you in the head and leave you to be found by your daughter. I hope your leg has to be amputated.” To Stu he said, “Keep him in the van for at least an hour and a half.”

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Plan B Cal responded, “And if it were up to me you’d see the errors of your ways and repent for the rest of your life in a maximum security prison. I hope your heart…” Abu slammed the door before Cal could finish. Abu walked through the gate and into the waiting Cessna without looking back. Stu started the van as soon as the Cessna pulled out into the taxiway. “Can we go?” Cal asked. “I do not have the same compulsion Abu Hamza has. I think you should have gone with him. Screw the requirements of Ramadan and all that Moslem bullshit. Now sit back and shut up. I have to keep you in this van for at least an hour and a half so you don’t blow the whistle on Abu, but after that I intend to be on my way to the rest of my wonderful life.” “Where are you going to drop me?” Cal asked carefully. “I will drop you wherever we are when the time comes. If the time comes. You are no longer Abu’s problem, but mine.” *** Elliot Grover stood before a very drugged up Red Tackert. Red’s head rested on the back of the chair he was tied to and his eyes were closed. Elliot was disgusted. Law enforcement shouldn’t have to resort to this sort of thing. Of course, there was the fact that this man was at least partially responsible for thousands of Americans losing their lives and if the bomb got through the cordon 293

Holy War somehow, perhaps even millions. But there was something about this kind of thing that made him sick to his stomach. After all, you should be able to tell the good guys from the bad guys by their tactics. Elliot had been ordered to drug Tackert. Considering the number of lives at stake, Elliot would probably have drugged him anyway. He didn’t have a choice. He needed information as quickly as possible. But did the end justify the means? America had gone against Iraq to remove them from Kuwait because that was right. Now Iraqis were killing infidels because the Iraqis thought that was right. Thousands had died on both sides, but who was correct? Elliot finally decided the question and the answer didn’t matter. Millions of Americans were about to die if he didn’t get answers to his questions. Nothing else held any importance. Red groaned and opened his eyes. “Is he ready?” Elliot asked. “Yes, he’s ready,” said one of the two doctors in the room. “Clear the room, please. The recorder and Jessica stay. Everyone else get out.” Red Tackert started to laugh. It started as a giggle and quickly grew into a raucous barroom bellow. Tears flowed out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. “What are you laughing about?” Elliot asked, pulling over a chair just out of reach of the man. “I worked four years getting ready for this,” Red slurred, “and all I do is set off a few bombs and then get caught a

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Plan B few hours before flying out of this pathetic two-bit country.” Elliot looked at Jessica Yarrow, “You ready?” he asked her. She nodded in reply and pulled a chair of her own over near the still laughing man. “Yeah, I’m ready,” Red said, “what do you want to know?” “I want to know where the others are?” she asked in a smooth steady voice. Elliot was impressed. He wanted to rip the guy’s throat out and she talked as if she wanted to go to bed with him. “Why? So you can get your precious Calvin Dary out of harm’s way?” “Believe it or not, he’s the least of our worries.” That’s it, thought Elliot, keep him from knowing anything about your reasoning. Let him guess. “You’re a day late and a dollar short, lady. Just like you been all along the way. Three of the four are on their way to places unknown and the fourth is trying to get that bomb as close as possible to the President. If he can’t get very close or if he’s caught, he’ll just set it off wherever he is. Either way, you lose, bitch.” “Where are the other three going?” Doesn’t matter, thought Elliot, We’ll worry about them later. Get back to the guys with the bomb. “Don’t know. And I don’t know deliberately. I was never told in case you guys got lucky. They’re on their way out and you won’t be able to stop them.”

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Holy War “What was your plan for getting the bomb into Washington?” “We were trying that, lady. Just drive it in under your noses and take out the government. You got lucky or we’d have made it.” “Who’s your leader?” “Abu Hamza. A really nice guy, too.” He started to laugh again. “What is his real name?” “That is his real name.” “Who was with him when you were arrested?” “Your precious Calvin Dary and Stu Long.” “Where were they when you were arrested?” “About a mile behind me on the same street and you pigs didn’t have the smarts to pick them up.” “What were they to do if you got picked up?” “You guys being so stupid, we didn’t think you’d catch us.” “You must have had an alternate plan, as smart as you’ve been. What was it?” “We were going to go a little farther east and try again on another street that wasn’t blocked by your idiot police, then drive near the White House. Abu was going to go up in a blaze of glory and Stu and I were leaving as rapidly as possible in different vehicles.” “Where do you think they’ll try again to drive into the city?” “Don’t know if they’ll try that or not.” Elliot looked at Jessica. She was staring back. He shrugged. 296

Plan B “Why not?” “Cause that big shot Stu wanted to fly it in. He wanted to fly into an airport, declare an emergency, then fly out again and head to the White House. Like you guys would just let him do that.” He started to laugh again. Elliot got up and walked out. He went to the viewing room, picked up the phone and placed a call to M. James Vernider. While he waited for Vernider to come on line, he said, “Get word to every airport within two hundred miles of this place and don’t let anything take off. Find out what has left each airport in the last two hours and where they’re headed. If anything is heading this way, find out who and why. I want everything tracked…” Jim Vernider came on line. “Hold on a sec, Jim… and I want an Army unit at every one of them with rockets or missiles or whatever it takes, to shoot down anything suspicious. Put two between Dulles and National and the White House and place one on every side of the White House. And tell everyone that whatever we do, these terrorists can’t see it coming. “Sorry, Jim. We’ve got information from Red Tackert that the bomb might be flown in, a kind of Plan B.” “Keep me posted every five minutes. Where are we now?” Elliot absentmindedly watched Jessica through the one way mirror as he talked. “He’s still talking. So far we have next to nothing. Apparently three of the four remaining terrorists have left the country or are in the process of doing so. They must be going north since Canada is so close. We probably should put out the word and maybe try to set up a few roadblocks. 297

Holy War “The leader is apparently set on suicide, and Calvin Dary is still alive.” “Don’t hem this guy in, El. Find him and call in the Air Force, the Army, or whatever you need to kill him instantly. Don’t worry about hostages, worry about a million dead or maimed if that madman detonates a nuke over Washington.” “Yes, sir.” The connection died. He turned around to find Jessica coming in. “Get anything else?” he asked. “No. Just a description of the truck taking the three out, and a lot more laughter.”

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Chapter Twenty-Three The Three

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he three men, Hasan al-Banna, Banu Hashim, and Ahmed Hanifa traveled in silence. They listened intently to every radio station carrying news as they traveled west of Washington, D.C. and then north toward Canada. The trip was slow due to a constant barrage of snow and the slippery roads, and made slower by the intolerable waiting. Ahmed Hanifa wondered if no news was necessarily bad news. Would the Americans broadcast the destruction of Washington? Wouldn’t that be an admission of failure on the part of all law enforcement agencies that they couldn’t stop a handful of terrorists? But they’d have to admit it sooner or later. He began to think of their own safety. Ahmed Hanifa said, “We should stop and get rid of the truck.”

Holy War Banu Hashim answered quickly, “You are as weak as Abu Hamza warned us you would be.” Anger seethed in the heart of Ahmed Hanifa. He had taken the name because the man was highly respected, not because he was weak. Being strong didn’t mean being stupid. He swallowed his pride and some of his anger. For now their destinies were irrevocably linked. “I tell you, with Red Tackert caught, his interrogation will be short and bloody.” “You do not know these weak Americans,” Hasan alBanna said. “They will be unable to draw much out of the man. The promise of the money being given to his sick mother will not be much incentive.” “He need only tell them our license number and what color and type of truck we drive. These Americans are not as weak and stupid as you think.” It was stupid to underestimate an enemy. “I tell you they will not beat him or torture him. They will give him coffee and ask politely for the information.” “And I tell you that somehow you’ve forgotten how relentlessly they came against the world’s third greatest army during Desert Storm. They were relentless, smart, sly, and capable.” “That was because of the Israelis and the British. I tell you again, do not give them too much credit.” Banu Hashim spoke up, “I agree with Ahmed. We have the money Abu Hamza gave us, there is no reason why we should not take necessary precautions.” “This truck is not in any of our names. We have no authority in this country to sell it. We would have to park it 300

The Three somewhere and walk to a dealership. How obvious it would be to see three Moslems walking in bad weather to buy a truck with cash,” Hasan added mockingly. “We must do something,” Ahmed tried once again. “There is the possibility of stopping a vehicle, killing the occupants, hiding them in this truck, and then taking their vehicle,” Hasan added. “That is a very real possibility. We should stop at the next turnout.” *** Elliot Grover turned to the dispatcher who had been introduced as Bill. The room was overcrowded with anxious people “Not yet,” Bill answered. “Make it happen. Get each local sheriff to dedicate at least half of his force to patrol the local highways near his town. That way we have a good shot at catching these guys before they get out of the state.” “They’ll just trade trucks, take a bus, take a small aircraft flown by another sympathetic American, steal another truck or car, or do something else we haven’t thought of yet.” Elliot turned on the man with anger plain on his face, “Are you suggesting we give up? Are you saying we should let these bastards go out of our country without any attempt to catch them or punish them for crimes against the nation? Why don’t we find them and escort them to the nearest border with our thanks?” 301

Holy War “I didn’t mean…” “I don’t care what you meant. Who do you work for?” “The FBI. I’m special agent William Carson.” Elliot quickly scanned the room and found someone he knew. “Tell Anson Hicks to get him out of here and reassigned. Agent Yarrow, may I have a word with you?” “Sure.” They stepped out into the hall together. “I wanted to hit that son of a bitch so bad… Look at me,” he said, holding out his hands. They were shaking. “Look at this.” “Why didn’t you hit him? I don’t think a person in the room would have testified against you.” “Did Tackert give you a license number?” “No, he couldn’t remember seeing it.” “Would he under hypnosis?” “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll take care of it.” “No, I’ll take care of that one. Can you get that description out on the wire? And have one of those bright boy computer geeks figure out what is the maximum radius for those three in a truck going no greater than the speed limit. Then…” “Never mind, I got it,” Jess smiled at him, then walked off hurriedly.

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The Three Elliot walked back into the viewing room and said, “Get me M. James Vernider on the phone and a hypnotist ASAP.” *** Abu Hamza got into the plane with some difficulty and finally got seated in one of the two seats directly behind the pilot. He placed the bag at his feet and looked up to see the pilot watching him. Abu smiled. “They going to let me get to the Pentagon with all the rigmarole going on?” he asked while continuing to smile his best ‘innocent’ smile. Someone shut the door from the outside. “I don’t know if they will or not.” The pilot began to taxi. “To tell you the truth, I was hoping they’d stop this flight before the weather got any worse. I don’t want to spend another night in Washington.” Abu remembered the American penchant for apologies. “I am very sorry to bring you out in this.” “Yeah. No problem. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s a job.” Abu let the man get airborne before he picked up the conversation. He wanted the man at ease and he wanted him to fly at least out of the immediate area. He leaned his head back but the chair’s headrest was too low to do any good. He sat up straight and considered his best course of action. Adrenaline pumped in his veins until he wished it back down. He was shaking in excitement. That had not happened since the days of his childhood. 303

Holy War The pilot turned toward him. “We’re being asked to find out why you’re going to Washington, Mr. Townsend. That is your name, isn’t it?” “Why? Oh, is it the terrorists’ thing?” “I suppose it must be, sir.” “I’m heading to the Pentagon for a demonstration of a new fuse from my company. It’s the best fuse in the business. Latest of the technological marvels.” “All right. I’ll pass that along.” The pilot paused. “Were your parents immigrants to the United States?” “No. Why do you ask?” Abu was suddenly suspicious. How had the pilot guessed so quickly? His English was good but was hard to explain without parents immigrating to America. He had responded too fast but the pilot had caught him off guard. Abu was quiet while the pilot communicated with the tower at Richmond, which gave Abu time to decide what to do next. There really wasn’t much choice. He reached down to his bag and carefully unzipped the pocket with his revolver in it and took it out. Abu waited for the pilot to hang up the microphone then stood up as far as he could in the cramped quarters and chambered a round. When the gun clicked, the pilot turned around. The bullet caught him just above the eye and blood sprayed the windshield and controls. Abu struggled with the body to get it into the passenger seat. He strapped himself in and grabbed the controls, then forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath and pushed himself back into the seat cushion.

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The Three He nosed the aircraft over as far as he could, listening to the engine as the pitch of its noise increased. He turned the aircraft due east and leveled off at what he hoped was below the radar horizon. How long did he have before the Air Force found him? He pushed the throttle as far against the stops as he could and realized he was holding his breath. He unstrapped himself and began the preparations to connect the bomb to an electrical source and move the detonation switch to the front where he could reach it. *** They waited impatiently at the turnout for the first vehicle to park; they couldn’t afford to be selective. It was a bad day for viewing anything except lightly falling snow, dreary and gray. Banu Hashim watched as a car drove in with an old couple in the back and a young couple up front. A family heading to a winter retreat? “What about these?” Hasan asked no one in particular. “There are four of them.” “Four without guns and no means to obtain help. We have been here for twenty minutes and of the three cars passing, only this one stopped.” “He’s right. We may not get another chance soon,” said Ahmed Hanifa. The male driver got out, emptied a trash bag into the already overflowing garbage can, glanced at them huddled down in their seats, and got back in the car. The car backed up and slowly drove past them and onto the highway. 305

Holy War Banu Hashim started the truck and pulled out quickly. “Oh, great!” Ahmed said loudly, “now we chase after them.” “The man saw us,” Banu replied. “What did he see?” Ahmed queried. “Three men resting in a turnout. Nothing more.” “Your cowardice betrays you yet again, Ahmed,” Hasan said, matter-of-factly. “I will show you cowardice and pay you for your insults.” Ahmed reached under his jacket and plunged his dagger into Hasan’s thigh, missing the bone and going deep into the fleshy part of the outer muscle. Hasan bellowed and hit Ahmed in the face with his elbow. “Hold!” shouted Banu Hashim; “You will kill us all!” Ahmed brought the dagger back for another plunge, this time to the other’s abdomen. “You who are so quick with the blade, feel the prick again!” Banu leaned over Hasan and grabbed the arm holding the dagger. “The road!” shouted Hasan. The truck swerved to the left, then to the right, as Banu fought to regain control. He lost it on a patch of ice and the truck careened wildly, skidding off the road, crashing through the snow and with a thud, into a large tree. Banu got out holding his ribs. “You diseased camel! You broke my ribs.” Hasan al-Banna staggered out on the driver’s side, blood streaming from the gaping wound in his leg. Banu leaned Hasan against a tree and looked at the wound. “It is ugly. An artery or a vein has been severed.” He took off his 306

The Three jacket, then his shirt. The undershirt would be better but it might also bring infection. He shrugged and tore the shirt. He did not feel like taking off his entire upper clothing and exposing his flesh. The shirt would have to do. He tore the back out and one of the arms. He folded the back into a square and pressed that against the wound. “Here, hold this,” he said. Hasan pressed the bandage into the wound as Banu tied the shirtsleeve around the center. “Is that too tight?” he asked. “Who’s to know?” Hasan replied, gritting his teeth. Hasan fought to get to his feet as Banu returned to the steaming truck smashed against the tree to see what had happened to Ahmed. The former sat rigidly in the passenger seat of the truck. Banu examined him through the opened driver’s door. He was just coming around. The windshield was broken where his head must have impacted it. “You should have worn your seat belt,” he said. It required all of his self-control not to say more. Ahmed should not have caused the accident. Banu reached in and helped Ahmed, groaning, out of the truck, then pushed him back against the front fender. “Here, stay there while I figure out what to do.” Hasan staggered over to them. “Watch him.” Banu said. “Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but I will kill you one day,” Hasan said coldly. “We need each other, especially now,” Banu said. He walked up the incline to the road and watched for an approaching vehicle. The sound of something coming was loud in the quiet of the remote site. It was a tractor-trailer 307

Holy War rig. He waved both arms above his head, ignoring the flaming pain in his side. There was no time. It was now or never. The truck slowed to a stop and the driver got out. “That your truck?” he asked, nodding toward the wreck just down the embankment. “Yes, we’ve had quite a bad one, I’m afraid. My friends are badly hurt. Can you help us?” The driver peered down at the two men beside the truck. “Yeah, let me call in on the radio and get you some help.” He turned to walk back to his truck. Banu took out his revolver, chambered a round and fired into the trucker’s back. The man fell in front of his truck and Banu walked over quickly to put another in his head. He grabbed the man by the legs and pulled him to the side of the road. His ribs were a burning fury in his side as he dropped the body close to the edge of the road. “Come on!” he yelled at the other two. He kicked the dead man until he rolled off the road, out of sight. His two friends scrambled up the embankment leaning on each other. Banu shook his head, one moment they were trying to kill one another and the next they are helping each other up the hillside like brothers. *** Charles Grinley pulled into town and found the sheriff’s office. “Stay here,” he said to the others, “I’ll be right back.”

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The Three The deputy sitting at the desk was a fat man, riffling through papers. “I think we just saw the terrorists,” Charles said. The policeman behind the desk didn’t even look up. For a full fifteen seconds, he didn’t answer. “Well, let’s see, that would make it four sightings in town just today. So, what’s your story?” “I know it’s hard to believe, but I think we saw them out by mile marker one hundred forty-one near the turnout.” “Well, why don’t you tell me all about it,” the deputy said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. “They were all three in a pickup truck, sitting there hunkered down as if they were waiting for someone and not wanting to be recognized.” The deputy sat forward suddenly. “What kind of a truck,” he asked as he rifled his desk, looking for something obviously important. At least I have his attention now, Charles thought. “It was a Ford F150 and the license plate was California BFV1438.” The deputy peered at the paper he had clutched in his hand and picked up the phone. “Have a seat, Mister…” “Charles Grinley,” he replied as he sat. “Could you wait? I have to call the FBI and may need some more information.” “Sure. Just let me tell my family.” He got up to go to the car. He heard the deputy say, “Hello. This is Frank Dukato. That’s Deputy Frank Dukato

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Holy War of the county sheriff’s office. May I talk to a, uh, Agent Yarrow?” Charles went to the car and told his parents and wife he’d be a few more minutes and asked his wife to go to the gas station and fill up so they wouldn’t lose any more time. They should already have been there, and he didn’t relish driving in this weather especially in the dark with the icy conditions. It was exciting though, helping the police. He returned to find the deputy waiting for him. “Were they heading north or south?” he asked. “I told you. They were sitting in a turnout and could have been headed north or south.” “They were probably heading north,” the deputy said, answering his own question. “Did they see you?” “Yes, they definitely did. Do you think we’re in danger?” “Huh? Ah, no, I guess not. They’re trying to get out of the country, the FBI said.” “So what were they doing on the side of the road?”

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Chapter Twenty-Four The Two

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he FBI helicopter landed directly on the road as close to the wrecked pickup as the pilot could get. Two men exited the helicopter and spread out, one north and one south to help control traffic. Two Interstate Highway Patrol vehicles already blocked the roadway, so the two agents joined the other officers. Jessica Yarrow went directly down the hillside to the wreckage. She was surprised it hadn’t been burned; that was their usual MO. Were they in a hurry or was it another small mistake? She might never know. There wasn’t much in the way of obvious evidence except the blood all over the seat, windshield, and door panels. One thing was obvious. The terrorists had wrecked on the hillside and were either on foot or they had hijacked another vehicle. They had to be in a hurry to get out of the country, had to be wise enough to know Red Tackert had probably talked. It was her suspicion that they had parked

Holy War in the overlook waiting for a suitable vehicle to car jack, or worse. She was glad the local police hadn’t touched anything. There was a lot of blood in the center seat. She looked around but couldn’t find anything that might have caused a wound as large as this one must have been. She went through the glove compartment but there wasn’t anything there except the typical warranty book and vehicle operator’s guide. Next she looked behind and under the seat; still nothing. She stepped out of the vehicle to look into the truck bed. Nothing. She glanced around at her people. They were spreading out in an ever-widening circle around the truck, looking for anything to give them more clues as to the terrorists where abouts or about what had happened here. What had they done to cause the truck to crash? “Over here.” Walton was waving to her from up the hillside about 100 yards away. She walked up the slope and stopped next to a body. “Who is he?” she questioned Walton. “Name is Sam Conomes. There’s fifty-three dollars, two Visa Cards, a hunting license, several pictures, two driver’s licenses…” “Why two driver’s licenses,” she interrupted. “One of them’s a CDL.” “Commercial Driver’s License?” “Yeah.” “So he was a trucker. Any indication of who he worked for?”

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The Two “Let me look again. Here, you look at this half.” Walton handed her half of the wallet’s contents. She rifled through the papers but came up blank. “You find anything?” she asked Walton. “No.” “Call his wife. Find out who he worked for before you tell her he’s dead, and for God’s sake, be gentle.” She went back to the Highway Patrol car where the fat Deputy who had sent her the message waited. “How long’s it been since you first talked to the witness?” He looked at his watch. “About two hours.” “Too long,” she said, shaking her head, and headed back to the helicopter. “Gina,” she said to one of her people standing nearby, “stay here with Walton and search the truck again, and the area. Radio me when you get the information from the wife, and then go into town and talk to the couple that saw them. Get good descriptions and anything else they can think of, then send them on their way with our regards.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Cut the ma’am crap.” She smiled. “O.K.”

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Holy War Jessica got into the helicopter followed by her entourage. It took off straight up, then pivoted and headed back to Washington. *** Calvin Dary bounced around in the rear of the van while Stu drove down a backwater dirt road. He was probably just driving nowhere in particular because it was less likely to draw attention to them than parking somewhere. Stu couldn’t have picked a less traveled road with the snow falling lightly and the nasty, cold weather causing ice to form. Cal asked, “If I promise not to cause any trouble would you take off my handcuffs so I can try to get a little more comfortable?” “No. Now shut up or I’ll put a bullet in your head to shut you up myself. I told you all along that Abu didn’t kill those others and he wasn’t going to kill me. You were just trying to cause a ruckus and sow the seeds of malcontent.” “No. I saw him kill John Wilkenson and I don’t think Mark’s death was an accident either.” “Shut the hell up.” “Wait just a second. I have nothing to gain now by convincing you of anything.” Stu didn’t answer immediately so Cal pressed ahead. “If we had gotten into Washington, where do you think Abu planned to drop you off so you’d be safe?” “He was going to let us go. It was in the plan, so why don’t you just shut up.” 314

The Two “He was going to blow the bomb in the van, right?” “Well, yeah, so what? “That means you would have to leave with Red Tackert. Had you guys discussed how you were going to get out of the city?” “No. I guessed we would just take off. They needed to plan because they didn’t know America like we know it. I’ve been in Washington a dozen times. I know how to get out.” “Do you really think he was going to let you two go?” “He was going to drop you, wasn’t he?” Stu asked after a moment’s consideration. “Yes, he was, but only after Imad screwed up and caused him to have to free a slave to save his honor and the fast of Ramadan. He was going to commit suicide and couldn’t face Allah with that transgression on his head. His original plan was to kill me along with himself when the nuclear bomb detonated, you were in the van when he told me that. And I believe he was going to kill you, too. No more loose ends. Listen, I believe they could only handle two American helpers and me. They didn’t want to deal with anymore.” Stu must have been thinking about things. He sat there with furrowed brow, silent for a long time. “I thought that Abu had taped an ‘X’ on Mark’s briefcase because it was the one with the money in it. John wasn’t killed until Mark came along. Mark wasn’t killed until Red came along. I guess I was lucky.” “And what about Red? Where was he supposed to be when the bomb blew in Washington?”

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Holy War “Red was going to pick me up next to the van, then Abu was going to wait thirty minutes before he blew the bomb.” “He was going to press that button when Red pulled up. You guys would not have known what hit you.” “You’re a pest, Dary. But maybe you’re right about John and Mark. I’m pushing your butt out at the next town, if you promise not to tell them about me for twenty-four hours. I think you’ll honor your word. I guess I owe you that indirectly. That’ll give me enough time to get out of this van, into an airplane, and out of the States.” “What makes you think you can trust me? I thought I was a pest?” “You are a pest and a cretin. But you’re also a bleeding heart liberal and a man of your word. I have learned a few things about you, too, Dary. You’re not the only one watching the enemy.” The road continued to jostle the van and cause Cal considerable grief. At last a stop sign signaled an intersection, and a welcome reprieve from the constant jarring and the shooting pain, if only for the time it took to look both ways. To Cal’s surprise they had intersected with a paved road. To their right was a sign that announced a restaurant five miles up the road in the next town. Among other things he was starving; they hadn’t eaten since last night and that was nearly twenty-four hours ago. “I’m hungry,” Cal said. Stu looked left, then pulled out turning right toward relief, rest, and nourishment. Cal actually felt grateful.

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The Two The five miles went slowly, Stu being careful to stay five miles an hour under the speed limit. No speeding ticket was going to stop him now. Cal shook his head. Stu turned into the restaurant parking lot, but there were no empty slots. “There’s more parking in the rear, the sign says,” Cal told him. They pulled around back and found an empty slot and pulled in. “You wait here,” Stu said, “I’ll go order and come back so we can wait together. Then we’ll eat.” After Stu locked the van and walked off, Cal realized Stu hadn’t asked him what he wanted to eat. *** Try as he might Abu Hamza couldn’t find a power source in the aircraft. Finally he found a toolkit in an overhead compartment and loosened the screws on the radio. He pulled it out and carefully disconnected the power wires by cutting them one at a time with his knife. He knew that if he shorted them out, the fuse would blow and he’d have to find another source. He stripped the wires one at a time and wired them together with the cut wires from his makeshift wiring harness. He didn’t need a lot of energy, just something to get the chain reaction going by detonating the explosives around the nuclear material. At last he was satisfied and got back into the pilot’s seat. He reached down for the switch lying next to his seat on the floor. He could reach it easily. He checked the instrument panel and estimated he’d be in position in less than thirty minutes. 317

Holy War He wasn’t going to go to National, it was much too late for that now. Let them shoot him down if they dared. The first Air Force plane he saw he would detonate the bomb. The message would be nearly the same as if he detonated it over the White House. The fact that a determined group of people could get a nuclear bomb inside the United States of America and set it off would be sufficient. This attack wouldn’t even the score, for the first time Moslems would be ahead. Screw the United States and their “In God We Trust.” Let’s see what they do when their own women and children are suffering in the streets! *** Stu returned and brought fried chicken, biscuits, and corn on the cob. He unlocked Cal’s hand restraints but left him in the handcuffs attached to the seat legs. That was acceptable; to have his arms free was a blessing. They ate in silence. The food was awful. Cal didn’t even bother with the biscuits after the first bite. He longed for his mother’s warm biscuits slathered with butter and honey. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said, when he finished. “You’ll have to wait. Anybody sees you in your present condition and I’m screwed.” Stu finished, wiped his hands on a rag in the front, and then pulled back onto the street. He turned north, then west at the very first crossroads after stopping for the light. As soon as they had completed the turn, a policeman passed them going the opposite direction. The policeman was alert 318

The Two as they passed and recognition shone in the man’s eyes. Had Stu seen it? *** Sheriff Masters fought off the usual afternoon sleepiness. He had eaten too much lunch and the car was too warm. He turned off the heater fan and rolled down his window for a moment. Maybe he’d get lucky and old man Rinehart would run the new stop light at the corner of Tucson and Phoenix roads. That old coot had said the first time he’d run the light that he’d lived here all his life and had never once had to stop at that corner and wasn’t going to start now. The light in front of him went yellow so he put his foot lightly on the brake pedal. A van pulled around the corner as the light changed to red. It was the right color and make for the terrorists’ van. Sheriff Masters sat up and tried to get a look at the license plate, but there wasn’t one on the front. That’s right, he had been told it was a temporary tag, it would only be in the back. An American was driving, but that didn’t mean anything. The van passed and Masters got a good look at the tag as he swiveled around in the seat. OIST920 stood out plain as day. He picked up the microphone to radio for backup. He’d need a lot of backup. *** The question of whether Stu had been bothered by the policeman was answered as he accelerated down the street, 319

Holy War turned right at the next intersection then left at the next. He accelerated again and headed out of town. Cal was glad his hands were free to hold on, this was probably going to be a rough ride. He watched the speedometer climb over 100 miles per hour. Would he die in this speeding bullet just when he had convinced Stu to grant him his freedom? Was Rebekah never going to hear his apology? He didn’t know how much more of this up and down emotional roller coaster his heart could take. Cal looked behind them; flashing lights well back from them told him all he needed to know. They had been found and were being followed so he expected to see more police cars quickly. They were approaching a small rise in the fairly straight road, beyond which they couldn’t see until they gained the top. Roadblock! Stu locked up the brakes while looking left and right for an alternate route, anywhere, road, path or field that would work. A small road a few hundred yards back was the only thing Cal had noticed. Otherwise, surrounding them were frozen fields with mud, ice, and snow, but how much was mud, they couldn’t tell. Stu wheeled the vehicle around without slowing and punched the accelerator. Black curling smoke engulfed them momentarily as the vehicle’s tires squealed on the pavement. They came out of the smoke to see the police car that had been following them now parked sideways across the middle of the road. They were blocked. The policeman in the car scooted across the seat and got out on the opposite side. He took out his revolver and leaned across the hood aiming it with both hands. Just as Cal was sure bullets were about to come through the 320

The Two windshield, Stu turned the wheel and plunged into the field on the right-hand side of the van. They slowed quickly as the tires spun in the mush, bogged down but continued to plow forward. Their forward momentum was enough to carry them diagonally through the field and onto the small dirt road beyond. The traction there wasn’t much better and Stu eased off the accelerator enough to gain some grip on the surface of the road, then began to accelerate once again. Cal looked behind them to see the lone police car enter the dirt road where it intersected with the highway, swerving and fishtailing in an attempt to give chase. He glanced up the road to see that car joined by another. Then the two cars split up, one going west and one coming toward them on the dirt road they were now rocketing down. The adrenaline was pumping so hard he hardly noticed the pain in his leg, but he did feel the pain in his hand where he had been gripping a handhold too tightly. He relaxed a bit and tried to breathe deeply to oxygenate his blood; he had been holding his breath. The road turned sharply right and Cal was not surprised when the rear of the van hit a tree as they attempted to negotiate the turn. The jar was terrific. First he was slammed right, sliding off the seat and snapping against the handcuffs on his ankle, then he was slammed back to the left and made the automatic mistake of trying to catch himself on his bad leg. Crying out in pain, he let go of the handhold and fell to the floor of the van onto his bad leg. He tried to get up on all fours but couldn’t put any weight 321

Holy War at all on the bad knee. He rolled over and sat up, then used his arms and his good leg to bring himself back into the seat while the van continued to careen up the road. He looked behind them and saw the police car slam up against the same tree in the curve they had narrowly negotiated. They rounded another corner, this time a little slower, only to see flashing lights coming toward them. Stu turned left, bounced across a small ditch, and maneuvered through a stand of trees separating them from the field beyond. They were spinning wildly, throwing up mud and slowing rapidly until suddenly they were completely bogged down. Stu threw open the driver’s door and ran for a distant copse of trees. Cal watched him run, slipping and falling twice before he got to the stand of trees across the field. Cal turned and looked behind the van. Two state troopers clamored out of their police car and headed in his direction with weapons drawn. Cal remembered an odd thing that didn’t actually apply, something his brother had said when some boy’s mother had threatened once to kill him for beating up her son. His brother had replied, “If you kill me, I’ll sue you!”

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Chapter Twenty-Five The One

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lliot Grover ran to the nearest radio transmitter. He crashed through the door and demanded a microphone and the appropriate frequency. Jess had already been airborne when the two calls came in to Elliot. She was flying while he was trapped in the building she had left hours before. The first call reported that Abu Hamza was in a Cessna of some kind heading toward Washington. The tower at Richmond airport had reported the failure of a pilot to answer radio queries, and the plane’s passenger had been delivered to the airport in a van answering the description of the terrorists’ van. The second call reported that Stu Long was escaping on foot through a field. Elliot needed that helicopter Jessica was in. He got her on the radio and said, “Jess, I need you to go to…”

Holy War “We already got a call and we’re on our way,” she said, hurriedly. “Stu Long gave the local police there quite a chase before he bogged down in a field and headed out on foot. Where are you anyway?” There was a pause. “My pilot says we’re about ten minutes from there. I’ll keep you posted.” “Somebody get me M. James Vernider on the phone,” he said to the operations people in the room. “You got a map in here?” “Name’s Robert Uller,” a man said behind him, “We have a map over on the south wall behind the screen.” Elliot turned around. “Bob Uller,” the man said again. Elliot shook the hand Uller extended and followed him to the south wall. Uller pulled up a screen to expose a detailed map of Washington, D.C. “May I ask why you need a map?” Bob asked. “We have at least two analysts in the room who can pinpoint even the rats in Washington for you if you need them.” “Oh, no thanks. I do my best thinking in front of a map.” Bob didn’t recognize the hint that Elliot wanted to be alone. He said, “This Stu Long is just off the map here to the southwest and the guy in the airplane came out of Richmond’s airport and headed north by northeast.” He pushed the Washington map, which was on rollers, aside. Behind that was another map covering more territory. “He disappeared off radar here,” he pointed, “so if you draw a straight line to the White House it will be pretty easy to find this guy.” 324

The One “I’ll bet you a paycheck he’s nowhere near your imaginary straight line.” Elliot commented, staring at the map. “He’s being sought by Air Force fighters, the coast guard, and Army and National Guard ground units, why wouldn’t he fly straight to the White House?” “Because he’s never done anything we expect.” Bob raised his eyebrows, thinking, Thanks, but no bet. “M. James Vernider is on the phone, Mr. Grover,” someone said behind them. Elliot walked over and took the phone, “Jim, Stu Long is on foot outside Wellington, Virginia. Troops there are doing a pretty good job of encircling him and I’ve got Jess heading that direction in a helicopter. She’s got about five minutes before she gets there.” “What’s our madman with the bomb doing?” “He dropped off radar like a rock. I believe he went east or west, then turned north.” “What’s our best chance of stopping him?” “He’s coming in low and as fast as his Cessna will carry him. He could have picked a faster plane, but apparently didn’t think of it. I suspect the pilot’s dead, which means our guy can fly. Since he’s a pilot, I think he’s either east or west of a direct line to Washington, or better yet, the White House. I’ve stationed ground units at every airport to prevent him flying in, declaring an emergency and flying out again. Also, I’ve stationed ground units at the White House and other probable sites. I think they’re our best defense.”

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Holy War Jim Vernider was quiet only a moment, “Why would declaring an emergency help him?” “A plane in trouble has priority everywhere in the world. If Abu Hamza can convince a tower he’s somebody else and in trouble, if only for a few seconds, he might be able to get close enough to destroy the White House.” “Got it. Is there anything else I need to know?” Jim asked. “Not that I can think of at the moment, except he is probably the only small plane in the air. Everything else has been grounded.” “Good work. May God help us all.” He hung up. *** Abu stopped praying after a few minutes. He rechecked his instrument panel for the hundredth time. He was now about ten minutes away from the White House. He planned his approach to the White House from the south, envisioning it in his mind’s eye. The Potomac emptied out into the ocean not far from the White House along with another river he couldn’t remember. He did remember it was a fairly large body of water that no doubt held plenty of firepower in the various types of boats and ships. He took control of the Cessna and pulled east to avoid the river and then returned to an interception course for the White House. A year ago the Pentagon had been his target of choice. Their plans had called for them to evade the military as they traveled through the country. They would not engage them 326

The One in any way for fear of being destroyed before they could deliver the bomb. But it was the American military that had wiped out the Iraqi way of life and more than a hundred thousand of their best troops. It was the military that had bombed them mercilessly from the air and shot them at point blank range in superior tanks. It was the military that had forced them to walk through the burning desert with their hands on their heads, begging for mercy. The Pentagon would have done nicely. But the man with the money and the backing, Saddam Hussein, had ordered the bomb to go off over the White House as a symbol and a sign. He said the Pentagon was so close it wouldn’t escape destruction either. But that wasn’t good enough for Abu. The American infidels wouldn’t know it had been targeted. He sat thinking for a moment or two before finally deciding to change his course once more. If the Pentagon would be destroyed when they took out the White House, then surely the reverse was true. The White House would be vaporized when the Pentagon was struck. He redirected his flight path slightly west then shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” *** “There he is!” Jess shouted, pointing with her finger. The pilot looked to see which way she indicated, then veered in that direction. He dropped altitude and pursued the man as he ran across the road and into another stand of trees beyond. What Stu Long didn’t know was that the trees ended not too far away and there was only open field after that. 327

Holy War “We got him on the ground about three quarters of a mile from your position. He’s in a stand of trees just below us and probably heading for the other side. There’s only field on the other side though. If you can bring a couple of units down the road and plant another couple on the highway, we’ll land and have him boxed in.” “We got it, ma’am. Stand by.” “Name’s Jessica Yarrow. My friends call me Jess, but you can call me just about anything but ma’am.” “Yes, ma’am, Jess.” “How long will it take?” “About one more minute.” She waited until the cars on the highway were in position and she could see the others moving down the dirt road. “Move out to the field and set her down, Nick,” Jessica said to the pilot. When they were on the ground, she climbed out. “Go back up just in case,” she shouted. He gave her two thumbs up. She gave him a quick smile and stepped away from the helicopter as it took off to resume its position above the fugitive still hiding in the stand of trees. She glanced in the direction he must be and began slogging through the mud. Rain or snow she could deal with, but mud was something different; she longed for her boots. Suddenly she realized that she was standing out in the open, without backup, where even a lousy shot could hit her. She instantly fell to the prone position and carefully removed her revolver. It was cold and the facade of hardness the icy surface presented cracked readily under her weight as she crawled toward the trees. She stopped, removed her jacket and kept 328

The One moving. Jessica could see Stu Long at the edge of the clearing, clearly watching the state trooper cars on the highway. He had to hear the helicopter and probably knew there were more state troopers behind him on the dirt road. Jessica fired a warning round over his head into the trees. “FBI,” she yelled, not knowing whether the sound would carry over the noise of the circling helicopter. He heard the shot and crouched down, still in view. After a moment’s hesitation he stood up and put his hands above his head still holding his pistol. This was too easy, she thought. Take him now and accept the risk, or wait for backup? She stood up. There was only one FBI agent in this field. She pointed the revolver at his chest and walked slowly forward. If she fell in the mud now, she would be dead. She walked carefully, slowly, forward until she knew he could hear her, and she wasn’t likely to miss if he made a move. “Lose the gun!” she yelled. Then he asked a very strange question, calling above the noise. “Is Washington still there?” “I said drop the gun!” “Has Washington been hit?” “I don’t know,” she shouted back, “Now drop the weapon before I get nervous.” She was about twenty feet away when he moved suddenly, dropping the gun to shoulder height. She fired reflexively just as a shot sounded from his weapon. The side of his head blew away from what was left of Stewart Long and his body fell headlong into the mud and ice. He

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Holy War had pointed the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger. Jessica holstered her weapon and walked slowly over to the body. She heard voices calling to her. “It’s over!” she shouted. She stood over Stu Long and slowly shook her head. What was left of his life, hopes, and ambitions gurgled into the brisk afternoon air of northern Virginia. She wondered why she wasn’t glad it was over and why she was suddenly so sad. *** Abu Hamza switched off the auto pilot and estimated at what point he would have to start to bring the Cessna up to be about a thousand feet over the Pentagon when he pushed the button. He guessed about three or four minutes out should do nicely. He was about five minutes away now. There would be no time to find him on radar, call in the information, then relay the information to Air Force fighters, and for the fighters to get to his location before he could press the detonation button. If they did manage to get to his position before he had reached the Pentagon, he would press the button anyway so they couldn’t shoot him down with one of their fancy missiles. Abu was about three or four minutes out. He reached down and picked up the small black box with four wires running out of it, two forward and two toward the rear. He placed it in his lap and began to nose the plane up slowly. He could see the Pentagon in the distance and adjusted his direction to fly directly over the center of the five-sided 330

The One building. He hoped all the officers who had waged war on his country during Desert Storm were in that building when the bomb went off. *** Samuel J. Eddington had been on duty for four hours. His post was on the northwest side of a small out-of-theway airport that only had three or four prop jobs that he could see. He had hoped to be placed near the White House so he could at least have a chance for a shot at the bastard responsible for his brother’s death. He hadn’t been able to believe it when the news reports started bringing in the facts surrounding the attack on Denver Stadium. Denver’s team was trying to get back into the Superbowl for the first time since John Elway retired. The Broncos were playing even better than they had all year, going into the last two minutes of the game. Why did the terrorists attack Denver? Because it was easy? Why would anybody attack innocent women and children? The stadium was full that day, a record attendance. Everybody there had a life worth living, family, friends, churches, jobs. Why? His brother’s wife Margie had just had their first child. It wasn’t the son Doug was looking for but he bragged about how much fun it was going to be to try for another one. He was so proud of Rachel, too. She was indeed a beautiful baby. Why had they killed his brother? Doug had never been in the military, never been in trouble, and was a better husband and father than Sam ever hoped to be. So why?

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Holy War And here he was standing watch with that idiot George Tapper who was probably smoking a joint instead of watching the sky. Like they were going to have a chance to see the bastard anyway. “We’ve got him on radar. He just popped up southeast of the field.” George’s voice brought him fully alert. He started scanning the sky to the southeast and sure enough, he saw the little piper pulling up practically right in front of them. He thumbed the switch to give the tracker its head and heard the motors slaving the rocket into position. The piper was already in range so Sam had to hurry. He pulled up the headphones and prayed. God give me a tone. Just this once let mercy and grace fall on my shoulders. I swear I’ll never ask for another thing my entire life. The chirping sounded and he pushed the fire button. The rocket erupted from its home in the tube and rose into the brisk afternoon air leaving a trail of smoke behind like a finger pointing at the target. “Die! You miserable bastard!” Sam shouted into the sky. *** Out of the corner of his left eye Abu saw a flash. What was it? Whatever it was had been low, nearly at the bottom of the window and coming from the airfield he was just about to pass over. A streak of fire! He plunged his hand between his legs to retrieve the switch and managed to get his hand on the box just as the rocket penetrated the wing. 332

The One Its impact sensor closed and the warhead exploded making a fireball in the sky with the fuel in that part of the aircraft. Almost immediately another explosion finished the destruction of the Cessna and its contents as the expanding fire found the remainder of the fuel in the opposite wing. *** Was that two explosions or just one? Sam Eddington wondered. It didn’t matter, one or two, it had been enough. At least one man in the universe felt even with his tormentor. “Thank you, God,” he whispered. “Gopher one, this is Sam Eddington,” he said as he keyed the radio microphone. “We’ve got one helluva mess down here to clean up.”

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Chapter Twenty-Six Aftermath

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alvin Dary sat slumped in the van wishing the FBI would hurry but not blaming them for taking their time. They had to be careful in case he wasn’t alone. Now that the game was mostly over, he became aware again of the terrible pain in his legs. He had forgotten it for a time, but now his knee throbbed so violently that he thought he might be sick. He felt suddenly so tired. He wondered if a person could die from being tired. Cal knew about longterm emotional highs. His situation the past forty-seven days had been just that; an emotional roller coaster. Cal wasn’t certain about many things except that his ordeal was over. Did Abu detonate the bomb over Washington? But he would have seen the fireball, being so close. Wouldn’t he? And where would the FBI have taken Rebekah? When finally the FBI arrived, it didn’t take them long to ‘secure the van’.

Holy War “Get an ambulance in here,” the first man through the side door shouted. Cal watched as if through a long tunnel as men entered the van and assessed his predicament. They examined the seat and then sent for metal cutters. “You O.K.?” one of the men asked. He began to laugh lightly. “Sorry. No, I’m anything but all right. I think they broke my left leg. The right one is sore; I think I have blood poisoning, and I probably have at least a slight overdose of radiation. But other than that I’m feeling wonderful.” “Get me those cutters!” the same man shouted again. “My name’s Curt, Mr. Dary. You’re the most loved man in America right now, and I’m sure glad to be able to help you out.” “What’s the story on Washington? Did we get Hamza?” “If you mean the terrorist with the bomb, I don’t know. My son lives in Washington with his wife and two of my grandchildren, though. I told them to get out this morning, but by that time the place had gone completely crazy and he decided to stay in the basement of his building and hope for the best rather than get caught out in the open in a traffic jam.” “He was very smart.” The cutters finally arrived. A woman with mud nearly covering her from head to toe handed it to Curt. She took off a muddy glove and extended her hand. “Special Agent Jessica Yarrow, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I hope you’re up to having a few visitors rather quickly, Mr. Dary. The President just radioed me and told me to give you his 336

Aftermath personal thanks and the thanks of the entire nation for saving the lives of countless thousands in Washington.” “You mean my getting the license number to you helped? You mean I made a difference and we got him?” “Yes, indeed we did, Mr. Dary. And yes, your message about the license number identified the truck in sufficient time to help us track the nuclear device. Two more minutes and it wouldn’t have mattered, but thanks to you, we did get him. I want to thank you, too.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. Ridiculously, he started crying. He put his head between his palms and fought the tears back. The FBI agent put her hand on his head. “Let’s get this man to a hospital!” *** The three terrorists crossed the Canadian border and stopped at the first gasoline station to celebrate. They bought dinner, gasoline, and donuts before they got back on the road heading for home, all without the help of their American friends. “I’m so happy about being out of America I could kiss the ground,” Hasan said, as he waited to get in the tractor. “Hey, why don’t we drop the trailer and make better time?” Ahmed asked when they were all three in the cab. “Who knows how?” Hasan replied. “Who cares?” Banu bantered in return. They all laughed. “When will we arrive at the boat?” Hasan asked. 337

Holy War “Tomorrow morning if we take turns driving,” Banu answered, “sometime the next day if we stop and sleep it off.” “I say we stop to buy clothes before it gets too late, then get a nice room and celebrate with some real food and maybe a little something extra,” Ahmed said, then laughed loud and long. *** The tractor-trailer pulled out of the station and the manager on duty called the owner. “I have the terrorists on film. I couldn’t believe it when they walked in. The FBI was right. They were on this road and they were in a party mood.” “Get the videotape ready and I’ll call it in to them,” the owner replied. “I’ll make sure you get half of that reward they talked about, Leon. Good work.” “Hey, thanks. I just couldn’t believe it. I kept waiting for them to take out a gun and start shooting.” “They’re gone now. Remember to keep it quiet for a few days so they can get out of the country. If they find out we did it, and they surely would figure it out, they or their friends might come back and get even.” “Oh, sure. I understand,” Leon said sincerely. ***

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Aftermath Shelby Betz closed the box into which he had been packing the personal belongings from his desk and sat down in his leather chair. He looked around the room and out the window on the city he loved. He would miss this place. The house they had built in Colorado was certainly nice, but Colorado was a far cry from Washington. He remembered his son’s quips when he found out they were moving to Vale. “What’s the difference between Vale, Colorado and yogurt?” he had asked. “Only one of them has an active culture.” Maybe Greg was right, but he was tired and it was time to enjoy some serenity in the last few years of his life. If he could actually stomach the solitude. The hustle and bustle of Washington life had become more than predictable, it was welcome. The door opened and his secretary entered. “Anthony Sonel’s here,” he said. “Send him in.” The door closed and then reopened almost immediately. The man looked ragged. “Tony, you look like you’ve been up for two days,” he said to the smiling man. “More like three,” he replied as he sat down heavily in a chair in front of Shelby’s desk. “This had better be good after what we’ve been through in the last three days.” “Sorry you didn’t get your man.” “Not as sorry as I am. I would have made a much slower job of it than that lucky Army puke that shot down the terrorist leader.” If he’d been any slower at all both of us would be dead right now, he thought. Instead of saying anything he’d

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Holy War regret later, especially since the other was so tired, he laughed. “I’ve got something better than that for you.” “What could be better than taking that son of a bitch murderer out? And I don’t mean to lunch.” Shelby smiled, “How about taking out three of the sons of bitches?” “You got ‘em?” Tony said as he sat forward. “On tape and in living color.” “You’re not kiddin’ me? You got ‘em cold, already?” “Actually our buddies in the FBI got them for us. Some smart cookie by the name of Elliot Grover and his side kick, Jessica Yarrow, came up with some pretty good analysis of their probable whereabouts and set the terrorists up, in Canada no less, without them knowing about it.” “Canada? Isn’t that illegal?” “Under the circumstances, who would tell? And to whom would they tell it?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Where’s that tape now?” “The tape isn’t here yet. I want you to go get some sleep and decide on your team. Here’s the ground rules. Don’t screw this up. Two guys and only two guys. They go in, they do their thing, and they come out. Something happens, we never heard of them, so pick your guys carefully. They have to play the part of Moslems and we need them right away. You don’t have time to train them in any aspect of this operation. I want them in country within two weeks and I want the mission carried out as soon as possible after that. They have one contact external to the country and that’s you. Don’t see me again until it’s over. It is a quiet

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Aftermath affair. Only me, your section chief, the President, and nobody else, and I do mean nobody else, knows of this. “I’ll get the tape analyzed and a packet ready for you when you wake up tomorrow. Make the usual contact, take possession of the data, make your preparations and take care of business. We have all three of them now and I want all three of them taken care of, up close and personal. Do you understand, Tony? I don’t want one of them recovering from a nearly fatal attempt.” “I got it, boss. You can go to the bank with this one. I know just the two guys I want, too.” “I don’t want to know and I don’t want you to tell your section chief. Do you understand?” “Sure. Yeah, I got it loud and clear the first time. You coulda kept it to yourself the last two.” “One more thing,” Shelby finished, “I do not want them taken in front of their families.” “Boss, that’s the easiest place to take them. Get them in the doorway when they come outside, go to the car, sit at their favorite chair in front of a window, or well, you know what I mean.” “I don’t care. I do not want to end my career by killing men in front of their wives and children. I want to leave knowing I took care of business my whole career and went out with pride. They shot Teresa Dary in front of her pastor and her daughter. I don’t want to do the same. Let’s show them we have class.”

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Holy War “O.K.” Tony said, but he was clearly upset. He’ll get over it, Shelby Betz thought. Shelby stood and offered his hand, “Good luck.” *** That evening, Calvin Dary came out of the recovery room feeling like someone had turned him inside out. He was wheeled into his private room and Jessica Yarrow threw everybody out except one other guy. Cal was glad she was there. “I’m sure you want to talk to your family and get your head screwed on straight. As soon as you’re ready, call us and we’ll give you the details and get some information from you. You will be with us for quite a while recovering and we’ll spend lots of days together in the next couple of weeks. You’re pretty impressive, Cal, and I want you to know how much I respect you.” Jessica wanted to hug him so bad she could only just barely keep herself from doing it right there in front of God and everybody. “How long am I going to be here? I mean, how bad is my broken leg?” “Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t anyone tell you? It wasn’t broken. There is a hairline crack somewhere, tibia I think, and the knee is torn up really bad, but the doctor said your surgery was very successful and you’ll never know they were in there if you don’t look at the scars. Let’s see, they took thirteen stitches in your head over your right eye, three in your leg, shot you full of antibiotics, and a few other things

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Aftermath I just don’t remember. Ask your doctor when he comes around.” “Thanks. Could I please call my daughter? I’m really exhausted and I want to talk to her before I zonk out. I am just so tired, you know?” “Sure. When that phone rings, it’ll be her. We thought you’d want to talk to her right away so we had a call placed to her as soon as your recovery door opened on your way up here. By the way, she’s dying to talk to her daddy.” “She hasn’t called me ‘Daddy’ in a long time. Growing up, I guess. Now it’s usually just ‘Father’, especially when she’s mad.” Jess smiled, “Come on over, Elliot.” She held out her hand. “Cal, this is Elliot Grover. He’s the man in charge of tracking you across the country.” “Hello, Mr. Dary,” Elliot said, while shaking his hand, “I hoped I’d get a chance to meet you, but to be perfectly candid, for a while there I wasn’t sure that we’d ever meet.” “Mr. Grover, I wasn’t sure either. Thanks for all your help.” “Well, in the end it was more Jess than me that helped. She’s the one who first had the instinct you were going to Washington. She had some of the details wrong but she was pretty certain where you were going and why.” “Well, thank you both, anyway. I am very grateful to get a chance to see my daughter…”

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Holy War The phone rang. “We’ll see you later tonight,” Jessica whispered and they both left quietly. “Oh! Daddy!” Rebekah wept into the phone. *** Jessica and Elliot walked into the hallway. Jess felt like a million dollars but the look on Elliot’s face said he wasn’t feeling the same. He hadn’t had very much sleep, but Jess thought it must be something else. He was usually lighthearted when they were together and a mission was over. “He looks positively awful,” Elliot said turning toward her. “He’s alive and a lot of Americans owe their lives to him.” “I have a hunch he’s going to retire and do something else.” “Why? I didn’t get that at all. I don’t think the guy has a clue about the future.” “It was the way he said he was tired. Listen, Jess, you need to go back in there and tell that man about his wife.” “Oh, no! I can’t believe I forgot. Sure El, thanks. I’ll wait until he’s off the phone and go back in for a minute.” “And why don’t you tell your guys to come back in the morning? Whatever he’s got to tell us can wait until tomorrow.” “Are you sure you’re all right? We need a good description of those three murderers as soon as we can get it.” 344

Aftermath “Jess, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. We got them on video at a gasoline station just across the border in Canada. We’ve got all the description we need. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m going home for some sleep. I’ll be in my office in the morning. Come round and see me when you get finished here.” *** Calvin couldn’t stop crying. Ten thousand tears must have already fallen between him and Rebekah. He swore to himself that he was going to quit writing and take that teaching job and get his butt home every night at a decent hour. He wiped his tears and tried to compose himself. He had to talk to Rebekah about Teresa. Better now than later. They both had to come to grips with the loss. “Rebekah,” he said, when she paused, “I’m really very sorry about your mother. It was my fault.” “Oh, it wasn’t your fault, Daddy. We were so proud of you.” The door opened and Jessica Yarrow came back in. She pointed to the bathroom and he nodded. “No, they shot your Mother after I tried to escape in St. Louis.” “Oh. But that doesn’t matter, you had to try and escape. Didn’t you always tell me that just being with bad people and not doing anything meant you were agreeing at least a little bit with what they were doing?” “Well, yes, but that’s not quite the same thing.” “I think it is.” 345

Holy War There she went again. He’d never known such an opinionated child. He was proud of her for it, but she needed to learn when to speak and when to keep her opinions to herself. Or did she? “Anyway, I’m very sorry about your mother, baby.” “I just know she’s going to wake up any minute, Daddy” she replied. “Sweetheart, she’s gone. She won’t be waking up again. We have to face that.” “No!” Rebekah shouted, “She’s going to wake up! I know she’s going to wake up. The doctor said she’s going to wake up, it’s just a matter of time. I go in and talk to her every day; he said that was a good idea, too.” “You mean you go to a hospital where your mother is?” “Yes. She’s in a coma, the doctor said.” “You mean she’s alive!” he exclaimed. Jessica came out of the bathroom and leaned against the door. “We told the news media she was dead to prevent another attempt. I’m very sorry, Cal. I didn’t remember that you thought she was dead.”

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Reciprocity

T

he market was crowded with people. Hasan al-Banna walked through the crowd like a man who had all day to do nothing more than watch other people in the busy market. His head was covered with the traditional turban and his body with a full flowing outer tunic of white. He walked slowly through the crowds, keeping his hands inside the many folds of his garments, his right holding on to the hilt of his dagger. Ahmed Hanifa, the coward, was here somewhere. It was a matter of time and planning. He had left Libya the day after his informants had told him Ahmed once again walked to the market daily. It had been nearly a month since they had left America and two weeks since arriving home. So far, the early planning of yet another strike into America had overshadowed the celebrations of partial victory. Their only failure had been the bomb. The next time they would

Holy War strike with a bomb only, and that quickly and without preamble. He had left messages for his wife to put out on the Internet for the others so that no one would suspect. He would be gone no more than a week whether he succeeded or not. Less if Allah granted him success in punishing the transgressions and cowardice of Ahmed Hanifa. In any case, his wife was to post one of the messages every other day. Each was mundane. Simple things devised to throw off the others and protect Ahmed’s long-term interests. Hanifa had been a poor choice from the beginning. Hamza had told the others he was weak and because of this weakness had chosen a weak name. The indications were all there, but because he was from Iraq and Saddam was the financier, the group had bowed to pressure and made this coward one of them. He moved his left hand up to his face to scratch at the growing beard there. It was coming in satisfactorily and had even looked pretty good these last few days. Across from him, not more than twenty feet away miraculously appeared Ahmed Hanifa. Hasan continued to scratch his beard to partially hide his face while turning slightly away from the direction Ahmed was walking. Hasan followed him at a discreet distance, being careful not to look at him directly but keeping him in the corner of his eye. Ahmed stopped at a stall. It was good the market was so crowded in the early spring atmosphere. His own escape would be relatively easy. Hasan walked up to Ahmed’s back, carefully removed his dagger, and plunged it deep. He whispered, “My leg is 348

Reciprocity healing nicely. I don’t think you’ll have that chance.” He twisted the blade, felt it scrape against bone, and smiled to himself. Blood flowed from the open wound onto Ahmed’s tunic. Hasan knew Ahmed’s death was only moments away. Ahmed stiffened and clutched his chest as Hasan removed the dagger. Walking away quickly, Hasan looked down to put the dagger in its sheath and to check for blood on his own tunic. He too was blood stained so the tunic must come off quickly. He turned a corner, removed the outer tunic stained with blood, and threw it against the nearest wall. His robe beneath had a few spots of red but that would have to do. He continued down the street and turned yet another corner, this time removing his turban. He threw that against the wall and continued toward his friend’s house where he would wait out the next day or so before returning to Libya. *** Hasan and Ahmed were going to meet in the market, Roger Tordin realized, when his target, Hasan al-Banna entered the busy section from the north. It made perfect sense. The CIA now knew that another attack was in the early stages of planning and these two were probably getting together to exchange documents too sensitive for the Internet. The Internet code was easy to break, so he had been told. They now had fifty-one people on their list of possible targets to expunge the modern Khariji from American 349

Holy War nightmares. What he didn’t know was whether this target would be only the first in a long series of strikes against the people murderous enough to bring atomic destruction to America. Of course, none of that mattered. His instructions had been to take this target. Whether more would follow was not his worry. Hasan was his target and would not be too difficult. He had watched Hasan for only a few hours before he had departed Libya for Iraq. He had been easy to track. He stayed with another couple for a day, old friends of the family, not of the Khariji sect, before setting out today in search of something Roger couldn’t figure out, but the fact that Ahmed Hanifa resided here hadn’t escaped him. There was one other Khariji on the list of fifty-one who lived here, but it was unlikely they would meet today in the market. But Ahmed Hanifa’s presence in the city, and the fact they had spent six weeks together in America just about cemented the meeting in Roger’s mind. It wasn’t hard to figure out that Ahmed Hanifa might also have a tail and even easier to find him. It was the one man he expected to see here, Lou Aldon. He looked the part of an Iraqi but his scraggly face couldn’t be hidden by a mustache and beard. Procedure dictated he signal Lou only if he were sure he wouldn’t be seen. The code he’d been given wouldn’t do for contact with another agent. Lou’s code most definitely would be different from his own. There would be a problem only if Lou didn’t recognize Roger. Roger searched in front of Lou and recognized the face from the briefing, Ahmed Hanifa. Roger made certain of 350

Reciprocity his own quarry’s whereabouts, then moved to intersect Ahmed Hanifa’s path just behind him and in front of Lou. He crossed the path without pausing, then looked directly into the eyes of Lou Aldon, but only briefly. Recognition brought a slight widening of the eyes, nothing more. Roger continued to a stall, bought a piece of fruit and continued down the street past his target. He was just a man out for a leisurely walk eating his apple. If he could talk to Lou they might be able to coordinate a strike. Or might it be better to wait? Two murders in the market might be too much even for them. He decided to let events take their natural course. If he had an opportunity he would take it, if not, he could afford to wait. There were a great many witnesses here in any case. Ahmed Hanifa walked up to a stall and picked up an item Roger couldn’t see. Roger’s quarry, Hasan al-Banna walked up behind him. Here it comes, he thought, a very shadowy exchange of a small object, then Hasan will be on his way. Roger saw the quick movement and the stiffening of Ahmed Hanifa, dropped his apple, and moved to get as close as he could to the rapidly moving Hasan al-Banna. *** Lou Aldon couldn’t believe that that idiot Roger Tordin was right in front of him. What was he trying to do? Thankfully the jerk moved to a stall and bought an apple. Was he here to make sure Lou didn’t screw up the

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Holy War assignment? That thing in Minsk was not his fault He didn’t need a babysitter. His target stepped up to a stall. He wasn’t there long before another man stepped up behind him. From his vantage point, Lou saw the flash of a blade plunging toward the back of his target. He hurried forward, but by the time he got there Ahmed Hanifa was on the ground and a red stain was spreading out from under him in the dry ground. There were grunts and a single scream as men and women reacted to the murder. Lou carefully covered his target with his robe while straddling him. He might need to add a wound to the man’s chest if he weren’t already dead. He kept his right hand under the robe and checked the pulse with the left. Thankfully, that wouldn’t be necessary. “This man’s dead,” he yelled. “There’s been a murder!” *** Roger Tordin followed Hasan al-Banna until it was impossible to do so without being seen. The man walked toward his friend’s house like he didn’t have a care in the world, past the dried out buildings standing valiantly against the constant onslaught of wind and blown sand in this godforsaken country, and he was smiling. Roger was nearly alone with Hasan al-Banna. They were walking in the streets of the northern sector of Kirkuk, Iraq. He watched his man briefly, then moved over a street and walked quickly toward the house where Hasan was headed. He got there in plenty of time to set a trap. The sun was bright nearly everywhere in Iraq, which made it hard to find 352

Reciprocity an ambush site in broad daylight. But he was able to find a suitable position behind some old crates in an ally that he knew Hasan must pass. Behind the crates enough daylight shone to enable him to see any passerby. He removed his pistol and screwed on the silencer, then chambered a round. Minutes later the unmistakable form of Hasan al-Banna passed by. Roger stood slowly, took careful aim and fired a single round into the head. The explosion of blood was enough to tell him he didn’t need to take the extra risk of checking the body. He put the pistol in his belt and moved hurriedly back down the alley. After a hasty trip to Mosul in the north, he would be home in a week. *** Muscat sits on the Gulf of Oman and is in fact the capital of Oman. Rick’s was a truly wonderful assignment. The scum he tracked was responsible for his uncle’s death in San Francisco, so he had gladly accepted the assignment. Banu Hashim was as good as dead. Rick Dahlren reached into his bag of dates and pulled out another. He bit the end and chewed, savoring the flavor. It was one that you had to get used to. At first he didn’t think he could, it was so different and the texture was certainly unique. He pulled out a picture of the 16th Century Portuguese fort Banu had just entered and marveled at its beauty. There was enough treasure to look at, but Rick was certain that

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Holy War Banu had not come to see an ancient fort, but to meet others of his ilk. It was late in the day and the men and women peddling their wares near the fort were collecting their things to go home for a restful evening. He continued to wait, milling around among the visitors and sightseers. There were plenty left for his purpose. Rick was not surprised to see several men in a group exit before Banu. Actually, he didn’t care what the purpose had been for Banu’s visit here today. He only cared that it was his last visit anywhere and then Rick would be going home early. It had been restful, his first trip to Oman. Rick moved toward the car that had brought Banu Hashim from his home to this magnificent port early in the afternoon. He thought about the day’s events, the trip in on the yacht, the planting of the bomb when Banu’s driver had made his one mistake of the day. He had left the car to go to the bathroom. It had been more than enough time. Rick walked past the car into the grassy area across from it and up to an arch set there for a purpose Rick had not been interested enough to discover. He leaned up against the arch and gazed intently toward the sea beyond the car and the ancient fort. Banu entered the vehicle, the driver started it and began a slow acceleration around the cul-de-sac heading back toward home. Rick reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a transmitter not unlike the ones used by the team of five terrorists inside America. He let the car get about twice the distance away he needed to be safe, then slowly pushed the button. 354

Reciprocity The resultant explosion rocked the countryside, sending fire and smoke bellowing toward the evening sky. A small corner of the quiet, serene world of Oman was rocked by two deaths. “We’re even, you son of a bitch,” Rick said, then walked slowly back to the boat which was to take him to the yacht and safety. *** Calvin Dary sat next to his wife, holding her hand. Rebekah had firmly insisted on staying as long as it took, but Cal was having doubts about the wisdom of his acquiescing to her probably unrealistic desires. It had been a month today since he had been rescued. He had arrived here two days later to begin the long road to recovery. The daily physical therapy sessions were going well but the daily mental tête-à-tête with the psychiatrist was getting no one any closer to normal living, neither he nor Rebekah. Sure the tutor was keeping Rebekah up with her class work, but she didn’t need much help anyway. She had always been ahead of her class and very quick to learn. But still, the daily sitting and waiting for a mother to wake up, who might never wake up, would be torture to anybody. Cal looked at his wife and prayed for the thousandth time for God to give her back to him. He would not make the same mistake of letting the job, the position, and the fame take him away from what was really important in his life. He moved the hospital gown back and looked at her wound. It was completely healed and the scarring wasn’t 355

Holy War even that bad. They had done a good job with her. The damage lay much farther inside where the bullet had shattered bone and sent fragments into her spine. The damage wasn’t apparent on any test the doctors took, but the fact that she lay here in a coma weeks after was testament to its effects. He felt her hand twitch just as it had twitched hundreds of times before. Each time it brought renewed hope that this time it was the real thing. The doctors had all told him that this was perfectly normal and not to expect too much, but at the same time they told him that his voice and Rebekah’s voice might be pivotal in reversing her condition. “Teresa, please wake up,” he said squeezing her hand. “Please God, let her wake up.” He put his head down on his hand holding hers. Suddenly it was too much for him, and tears he had not shed since the phone conversation with Rebekah came rushing out. Faintly he heard, “I am awake.” “Mommy!”

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Acknowledgements

No novel is put together by a single individual. Janice Ackroyd, my editor, was awesome. She kept me rewriting until we were both excited. How she read the manuscript so many times and kept her focus, I’ll never understand. Dale C. was my sounding board. His enthusiasm was contagious. And of course, I owe much to my secret idea generator, Janet. I wrote the manuscript in ten weeks, mostly over Thanksgiving and Christmas. Janet was always there. She guided, suggested, and every once in a while, spoke about her horror. She helped me keep Elliot solid and provided all the terrorists’ names as well as finding almost all the research material. The book is authentic from ancient Khariji names to Ramadaan practices. For all this and much, much more I thank my wife, Janet.

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About The Author

Max Woosley is a retired U.S. Air Force noncommissioned officer who currently works for the United States Department of Defense as a technician, manager, and inspector, and as a research analyst with the Department of Justice. His twenty-year Air Force Career allowed Max to travel throughout the United States, Europe and Asia, including the former Soviet Union. He lives in Ohio with his wife and eight children, ages seventeen to the one year-old twins. He also has two grown daughters and four grandchildren. To read part of his new novel, which he calls Stars Without Night, and to see pictures of his family, go to his website at www.maxwoosley.com.

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