The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE (39 page)

“Yes,” Al-Faisal said. “We fight on many fronts, Ahmed. The Americans are driven out of our holy lands but they’re not yet beaten. If we can defeat them on their own soil, none will long stand against us on our soil.”

“America?”

The Imam nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Do you remember the attack in Brazil, the one that killed the Pope?”

“Why yes, of course.”

“That was us,” Faisal says, beaming with pride. “The nuclear attack in Panama which killed the American President and others was also one of ours. We are now prepared to reach even further, into the very heart of
Dar al-Harb
!”

Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim did not know what to say. He merely stared at the Imam, trying to find his voice and the words to put to it.

Imam Nouri Al-Faisal smiled, showing his bright white teeth again.

“It seems that your head is as full of questions as your belly is empty of food,” the Imam said and took Ahmed by the arm. “Come have dinner with me and I will attend to both.”

All through dinner and the next three days the Imam answered every question Ahmed could raise. The scope of Al-Faisal’s plan was farther reaching than anything Ahmed could have ever conceived being a part of. He was both humbled by the responsibility that was being entrusted to him and eager to bring it to fruition. The thrill he initially felt at the prospect of serving in so glorious a manner never left Ahmed. If he succeeded, surely his place in paradise would be secured.

From Basra, the Imam sent Ahmed to Riyadh where he stayed for several weeks at the home of the Saudi prince who was bankrolling the operation. There he began his study of English and Spanish while daily assembling and disassembling a mock-up of the twenty-five kiloton bomb he would build in Mexico.

The prince created a new identity for Ahmed, insisting he cut his beard and hair. From Riyadh, Ahmed travelled to Cairo, where he boarded an OPEC minister’s yacht to the Canary Islands. Al-Hakim met the other four members of his team there. They spent several weeks getting to know each other, going over their plans and acclimating themselves to Western culture as best they could. It was not easy for Ahmed. The sights on the Canary Islands repulsed him. People shamelessly strolled along the beaches, day and night, without a
stitch of clothes. Men and women openly flaunted their sexualities everywhere with no thought to decency, dignity or decorum. Everything was permissible. There were bars and clubs dedicated to every perversity.

None too soon for Al-Hakim, they left the Canaries, one at a time, for various points in South America. They met up again months later off its coast, on the Venezuelan Isla de Margarita. There they stayed another three months assuming new identities and plotting the remaining stages of their mission to the last detail while they continued to practice their new languages with Venezuelan allies. Eventually word reached them from Basra to proceed to the border. The people and pieces they needed were all in place.

Everything had gone smoothly until their host called off the border crossing which was scheduled to begin less than an hour from now. Ahmed was upset at the delay and furious that he was told by one of his host’s underlings. Angry as he was, Ahmed Aziz knew that he had to proceed with caution. His host, Machete was a dangerous man known to have butchered many an enemy with his namesake weapon. Imam Al-Faisal briefed Ahmed on many of the players he would deal with on his journey to the heart of
Dar al-Harb
. Al-Faisal warned him of the Saudi prince’s weakness for liquor, cocaine and young boys as he warned him of Machete’s temper and bloodlust. While Ahmed hadn’t seen any evidence of Machete’s penchant for violence, he had other reasons to be repulsed by the man.

Machete’s villa was part military camp and part whorehouse. It was garrisoned with over two hundred of his men. They were members of the Mara Sal-vatrucha, a ferocious street gang, more popularly known as MS-13. Aside from the heavily armed and grotesquely tattooed and pierced underlings, Machete kept some fifty women around, girls really, some he guessed as young as twelve. These drug-addled females were stabled like animals, kept to sate the sexual appetites of Machete and his men. The shameless gang leader had no qualms about indulging himself in the presence of his guests. On their first meeting three days ago, Machete offered Ahmed and his men a half dozen of the girls to do with as they pleased.

Ahmed declined the offer.

Machete laughed and openly mocked them.

“You ragheads shouldn’t knock it till you try it,” he told them. And then, to throw his scorn in their faces, he called one of the girls to him and bent her over his desk.

Ahmed walked away before he could see what followed.

“Why should we deal with such men?” Al-Hakim asked his Imam when he first learned of the prince and Machete.

“They are despicable men, yes,” Al-Faisal answered. “But even despicable men can be useful to us. The Prince has the money we need. And in America, there is little that passes the border that doesn’t go through Machete’s hands. You must be patient when dealing with men like them. Patience, my son Ahmed; it serves our jihad as well as does courage. You must show great restraint and patience until the hour to strike arrives.”

As Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim walks into Machete’s office, he reminds himself of his master’s advice: Restraint and patience. Both virtues are tested immediately. Machete is seated behind his desk, his legs spread to a young girl, knelt between them. Ahmed pointedly ignores her bobbing head and keeps his gaze fixed on Machete’s dark, deep-pitted eyes. Like his men, he is covered in tattoos. The most disturbing tattoo on him is the intricate combination of lines and shading on the left side of his face and shaved head. The hideous design suggests an exposed skull. More grotesque than the tattoo, the hellish light in the man’s eyes convinces Ahmed that he is dealing with a demon in the flesh.

“Ah, jihadi,” Machete says. “I had a feeling you would be coming by.”

“I would like to know your reason for cancelling the border crossing.”

“Of course, you would,” Machete says and picks up a remote control wand off his desk. He points it at a flat screen mounted on the wall behind Ahmed. “See for yourself.”

Al-Hakim, grateful to turn his back on the scene before him, fixes his attention on the television. The black and white movie is still playing on television. This is nothing new to Ahmed. He and his men noticed the same thing through their cell phones. The old Christmas film began playing repeatedly after the Mass in Washington. It is a curious thing, especially on the tail of the President’s kidnapping, but Al-Hakim can find no reason in it to alter their plans. Still, Ahmed watches the screen dutifully until the groaning and grunting dies down behind him. When he feels certain that Machete has finished his business with the girl, Aziz turns back to him.

“Please forgive me, Machete,” Ahmed says. “But I still don’t understand why we must postpone the crossing.”

“There’s a national emergency going on,” Machete answers, petting the young girl who has curled at his feet like a dog. “The President has been kidnapped and someone is screwing around with the world’s satellites. The gringos will have all kinds of drones and planes in the air. It’s not the best time to cross the border with a nuclear bomb.”

“You have tunnels.”

Machete pulls a cigar out of a box on his desk.

“Yes, lots of tunnels,” Machete says, lifting the box of cigars towards Ahmed.

“No, thank you.”

Machete shrugs and drops the box back on his desk. He pauses to light the cigar, bringing it to life with several short puffs. His eyes fix on the lit end and he seems to withdraw within himself.

Ahmed Aziz waits until his host has savored a few long draws from his smoke before talking again.

“You have tunnels,” Al-hakim repeats.

“Ah yes, the tunnels,” Machete returns to the moment. “It’s too dangerous to use them tonight. Some of them Yankee drones have real sensitive ears on them, you know? They can hear an ant pissing in sand. No tunnels tonight. We’ll just have to wait.”

“You’re being paid very well to get us and our weapon to America,” Ahmed says.

“And I will do just that,” Machete replies. “When I think it is safe to cross, we’ll cross. Until then, just take a chill pill, Ali Baba. It’s not like I don’t want you to blow up gringos. We’re on the same side.”

“We have a schedule.”

“You’re on my schedule now, raghead,” Machete says coldly. “Is that clear?”

Patience, Ahmed tells himself, restraint. “Yes, it is clear.”

“Good,” Machete says biting down on the cigar. “You can leave now.”

09:08:07

Augustine Koenig hears his PalmPal chirp with an incoming message. He snaps awake. He rises from the RV’s narrow bed and plucks the PalmPal from its belt-clipped sheath. Augustine thumbs its small display screen and reads the short message that scrolls across it.

[Well done. We’ve struck gold. Have a Merry Christmas!]

Excellent, thinks Koenig. They all suspected that breaking into the ‘American Ayatollah’s’ secret office would pay off handsomely and apparently, it did. Sheik Qassim Abdul Zahra has long been suspected of being the ‘Godfather of terrorism in America’ but Qassim was always careful to plot his dirty business behind closed and electronically impenetrable doors. Outside those doors, the Sheik also had an army of lawyers that made him invulnerable to prosecution. Zahra earned the whispered nickname of the ‘Teflon Turban’ because no prosecutor has ever been able to make anything stick to him. Worse yet, prosecutors had grown wary of even investigating the ‘Motor City Mullah.’ It was certainly never done publically because even the most obliquely drawn connection between the Sheik and terrorism in the press would bring out thousands of protestors in dozens of cities. All too often acts of terror would accompany these demonstrations against ‘Islamophobia in America.’ Two of the Federal government’s more ambitious D.A.’s were killed for their trouble in the last public investigation of Qassim.

Nobody wanted to touch Sheik Zahra. Nobody but the Crusade, that is. Homeland Inquisition needed to know what Zahra was hiding so as to better counter the resistance the Sheik was more than likely to throw at them. Now that the revolution was on, there was nothing to lose and so much to gain. Augustine Koenig and Doug Ditka readily, even eagerly, volunteered to break into the Sheik’s office.

Qassim’s inner sanctum was a windowless, soundproof chamber with a ceiling mounted sensor which continuously scanned for eavesdropping devices and signals. A glass, crescent-shaped conference table dominated the room. Nine swivel chairs were spread along the inner arc of the crescent and one plush, leather chair was centered behind the outer arc. The one computer in the room was not connected to the internet or even the network that managed the rest of the Salafi Cultural Center and Mosque. It sat on one side of a small desk in the far side of the room. Beside the desk there stood a single file cabinet. There were no phones inside the chamber and its lead-lined walls made cellular transmission into and out of it impossible. After breaking in, Augustine had to prop the steel door open with a couple of chairs to allow a faint signal to keep him connected with his partner Doug.

Once inside the office, Augustine immediately set about removing the hard drive from the computer. Koenig then searched through the desk drawers,
adding three thumb-drives, a legal pad of hand-written Arabic notes and an unused, still-packaged, disposable cell phone from a half-empty case that once contained fifty just like it. He stuffed them all into a small, black gym bag and turned his attention from the desk to the four-drawer filing cabinet. Once he snapped the lock on it, Augustine recorded the contents, page after page, on his PalmPal. There were several hundred sheets of paper, mostly in Arabic, divided among the top three drawers. The last drawer contained musical discs. He shuffled through them and realized that they were all copies of
Kid Jihadi’s
latest rap album,
‘Infinite Intifada.’
It was a curious find in the office of man known to deplore all Western music, but Koenig figured that if the Sheik was going to listen to any Western music it would be the crap that Kid Jihadi produced. Augustine grabbed a handful of the silver dollar-sized, plastic-wrapped discs and tossed them into the gym bag. Lastly, he lifted several fingerprints from the edge of the table, desk and armrests of chairs.

Koenig was on his way out when his partner Ditka warned him about Qassim and his bodyguard. Their arrival was a small but annoying glitch in the otherwise smooth operation. While Augustine was sorely tempted to empty his clip into the Sheik’s head and be done with him, he resisted. Everyone was under strict orders to avoid all unnecessary violence during the opening nights of the coup. Instead of killing the Motor City Mullah and his muscle, Koenig steered the men into the inner office and handcuffed them to the legs of the conference table.

“Why are you doing this?” the Sheik demanded of Augustine as the cuff closed around his wrist.

“Kielbasa,” Koenig answered. “I haven’t had a decent link of sausage since you ragheads ruined this town.”

Doug Ditka laughed approvingly at his answer to Zahra when, minutes later, they sped off to join their families in Cleveland. En route they uplinked the material from the file cabinets. In Cleveland they were met in front of Saint Anthony’s Church by fellow crusaders who took the gym bag from them. That was a few short hours ago. Once the goods were delivered, Augustine caught up with his family. After kisses and hugs he collapsed on the one of the RV’s pull out beds and fell asleep amid their happy, bubbling banter.

The text message from Homeland Inquisition woke him in time for morning Mass. Augustine Koenig clears the message from his inbox with a smile, glad to know that his first mission for the Crusade is a success.

“Happy to help,” he says to the PalmPal. “A Merry Christmas to you!” The machine converts his voice to text and transmits it with a tap of an icon.

Augustine turns the slender machine in his hand and chuckles appreciatively. His PalmPal is one of the few communication devices on the planet that is working properly. A simple chip and program added to the mass-produced machine allows it to function through the electromagnetic static raining down on the world, rendering all unenhanced devices useless to their owners. This control of the world’s satellites will give their revolution a clear advantage in the days to come. The technological high ground, impressive as it is to Koenig, is not what brought him onboard, willing to risk life, honor and family in a battle against, what could turn out to be, all the nations of the earth. It is the Crusade’s moral high ground, the vision of a world so desirable and so readily attainable, offered by Colonel Miguel Cesar Pereira that convinced Augustine to join.