The Last Jihad

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  THE LAST JIHAD

  THE LAST JIHAD

  A Novel

  Joel C. Rosenberg

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  To Lynn—

  thank you for loving me

  believing in me,

  encouraging me,

  and running the race with me—

  next year in Jerusalem

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Marry a girl who loves you enough to take big risks—who believes in you and is willing to ride the roller coaster of life together. I did, and I’m a better man for it.

  Lynn—I thank God every day that He brought you into my life, and that in some cosmic and counterintuitive moment I wasn’t stupid enough to let you slip away. I cringe to think of what I would be if I hadn’t married you. I cringe to think of how many jobs I would have been fired from if you hadn’t patiently read and edited everything I’ve ever written—before I gave it to my editors. The fact that you are such a wise, discerning, and sensitive writer and editor, as well as a great wife, mom, daughter, sister, daughter-in-law, and friend, totally astounds me. I could never have written this book, or any other—nor would I have wanted to—without you. Thank you. I love you.

  Caleb, Jacob, and Jonah—yes, you’re the Ringling Brothers, a wild and wonderful three-ring circus, but nothing makes me happier than being your dad. Thanks for your love, your prayers, and your eagerness to go on big adventures together.

  Dad and Mom Rosenberg—I can’t tell you how blessed I am to be your son. Thanks so much for reading this manuscript umpteen times, and thank you even more for not naming me Lincoln. Em, Jim, Katie, and Luke—you’ve endured all my crazy projects through the years, what’s one more? Thanks for rooting me on! The Meyers “fam”—Mom, Soonan, Muncle, Tia, little Michael, ’Fael, Dad, Carol, and “Great Gram”—thanks for welcoming me into your family.

  To our kindred spirits from Syracuse—the Koshys, Akka, Dave and Barb Olsson, Richie and Colleen Costello, Vince and Junko Salisbury, and Nick and Debbi DeCola—thanks so much for getting us started and keeping us going.

  To our kindred spirits from McLean and Frontline—Dan and Elise Sutherland, “John Black John Black,” Edward and Kailea Hunt, Daryl Gross, Amy Knapp, Lori Medanich, Julie Christou, Wendy Howard, John and Kelly Park, Jim and Sharon Supp, Kerri Boyer, Alan and Bethany Blomdahl, Tim and Carolyn Lugbill, Dave and Twee Ramos, Bob and Janice Lee, Brian and Christa Geno, Frank and Cindi Cofer, Ron and Gennene Johnson, and Lon Solomon and his team—what a thrill to be in the race with you guys. Thanks for doing fun, faith, and fiction with us!

  To our kindred spirits in the political world—Rush, Steve and Sabina Forbes, Sean and Jill Hannity, David Limbaugh, Bill Dal Col, Diana Schneider, James “Bo Snerdley” Golden, Kit “H.R.” Carson, Grace-Marie Turner, Marvin Olasky, Nick Eicher, Allen Roth, John McLaughlin, Nancy Merritt, Bill and Elaine Bennett, Pete Wehner, Burt Pines, Joe Loconte, Adam Meyerson, Ed Feulner, and Peggy Noonan—thank you so much for all your encouragement on this project and on so many others.

  To my agent, Scott Miller, at Trident Media Group—why you took my first call I’ll never know. But I’m so grateful you did. You’ve done an absolutely fabulous, relentless, tireless, brilliant job, and I am forever grateful. Thanks so much for your hard work, wise counsel, coolness under pressure, and your friendship. You da man! Let’s hope this is just the start.

  Finally, to Tom Doherty, Bob Gleason, Brian Callaghan, Jennifer Marcus, and the entire team at Tor/Forge Books—you guys rolled the dice and took a chance on a first-timer…then you all went absolutely above and beyond when the crisis with Iraq began to heat up to get this book locked, loaded, and fired into the marketplace before the war! I believed in miracles before I met you guys—but now I’ve seen one with my very eyes and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  “Before your eyes I will repay Babylon and all who live in Babylonia for all the wrong they have done in Zion, declares the Lord. Babylon will be a heap of ruins, a haunt of jackals, an object of horror and scorn, a place where no one lives.”

  —Jeremiah 51:24, 37

  “The real test of a man is not when he plays the role that he wants for himself, but when he plays the role destiny has for him.”

  —Vaclav Havel

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  A presidential motorcade is a fascinating sight, particularly at night, and particularly from the air.

  Even from twenty miles out and ten thousand feet up—on approach to Denver International Airport’s runway 17R—both pilots of the Gulfstream IV could clearly see the red and blue flashing lights of the entourage on the ground at about one o’clock, beginning to snake westward down Pena Boulevard.

  The late November air was cool, crisp, and cloudless. A full moon bathed the flat plains below, and the Rockies jutting heavenward to the right, with a bluish tint and remarkable visibility.

  A phalanx of two dozen police motorcycles led the way towards downtown Denver, forming a “V,” with the captain of the motorcycle force riding point. Then came a dozen Colorado State Patrol squad cars, four rows of three each, spread out and taking up all three lanes of westbound highway with more lights and more sirens. Two jet-black Lincoln Town Cars followed immediately, carrying the White House advance team. These were followed by two black Chevy Suburbans, each carrying teams of plainclothes agents from the United States Secret Service.

  Next—one after the other—came two identical limousines, both black, bulletproof Cadillacs built to precise Secret Service specifications. The first was code-named “Dodgeball.” The second, “Stagecoach.” To the untrained eye it was impossible to know the difference, or to know which vehicle the president was in.

  The limousines were tailed closely by six more government-owned Suburbans, most carrying fully locked-and-loaded Secret Service assault teams. A mobile communications vehicle followed, along with two ambulances, a half dozen white vans carrying staffers, and two buses carrying national and local press, baggage and equipment. Bringing up the rear were a half dozen TV-network satellite trucks, more squad cars, and another phalanx of police motorcycles.

  Overhead, two Denver Metro Police helicopters flanked the motorcade—one on the right, the other on the left—and led it by at least half a mile. All in all, the caravan lit up the night sky and made a terrible racket. But it was certainly impressive, and intimidating, for anyone who cared to watch.

  A local Fox reporter estimated that more than three thousand Coloradoans had just packed a DIA hangar and tarmac to see their former governor—now President of the United States—come home for Thanksgiving, his last stop on a multistate “victory tour” after the midterm elections. Some stood in the crosswinds for more than six ho
urs. They’d held American flags and hand-painted signs and sipped Thermoses of hot chocolate. They’d waited patiently to clear through incredibly tight security and get a good spot to see the president step off Air Force One, flash his warm, trademark smile, and deliver one simple, Reaganesque sound bite: “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  The crowd absolutely thundered with approval. They’d seen his televised Thanksgiving Week address to the nation from the Oval Office. They knew the daunting task he’d faced stepping in after Bush. And they knew the score.

  America’s economy was stronger than ever. Housing sales were at a record high. Small businesses were being launched at a healthy clip. Unemployment was dropping fast. The Dow and NASDAQ were reaching new heights. Homeland security had been firmly reestablished. The long war on terrorism had been an unqualified success. Al-Qaeda and the Taliban had been obliterated. Osama bin Laden had finally been found—dead, not alive.

  Forty-three terrorist training camps throughout the Middle East and North Africa had been destroyed by the U.S. Delta Force and British SAS commandos. Not a single domestic hijacking had occurred in the past several years—not since a U.S. Air Marshal put three bullets in the heart of a Sudanese man who single-handedly tried to take over a U.S. Airways shuttle from Washington Dulles to New York. And thousands of cell members and associates of various terrorist groups and factions had been arrested, convicted and imprisoned in the United States, Canada, and Mexico.

  Overseas, however, the news wasn’t quite as good. The global economy still struggled. Car bombs and assassinations continued to occur sporadically throughout Europe and Asia as remaining terrorist networks—unable to penetrate the U.S.—tried to find new ways to lash out against the allies of the “Great Satan.” One newspaper editorial said the U.S. seemed to be playing “terrorist whack-a-mole,” crushing the heads of some cells at home only to see others pop up around the world. This was true. Many Americans still felt unsafe traveling overseas and global trade, though improving, remained somewhat sluggish. But at least within the U.S. there was now a restored sense of economic optimism and national security. Domestically, at least, recessions were a thing of the past and terrorism seemed to have been quashed. Presidential promises made were promises kept. And the sense of relief was palpable.

  As a result, the president’s job approval ratings now stood steady at a remarkable 71 percent. At this rate he’d win reelection in a landslide, probably pick up even more House seats and very likely a solid Senate majority as well.

  Then the challenge would be to move to the next level, to bolster the U.S. and international economies with his sweeping new tax cut and simplification plan. Could he really get a single-rate, 17 percent flat tax through Congress? That remained to be seen. But he could probably get the country back just to low tax rates, say 10 percent and 20 percent. And that might be good enough. Especially if he abolished the capital gains tax and allowed immediate write-offs for investment in new plants, buildings, equipment, high-tech hardware and computer software, instead of long, complicated, Jurassic Parkera depreciation schedules.

  But all that was a headache for another day. For now, it was time for the president to head to the Brown Palace Hotel in downtown Denver and get some rest. Wednesday night he’d attend a Thanksgiving-eve party and raise $4.2 million for the RNC, then join his family already up at their palatial lodge, nestled on the slope of the Rockies in Beaver Creek, for a cozy, intimate weekend of skiing and turkey and chess. He could smell the fireplace and taste the sweet potatoes and marshmallows even now.

  The motorcade cleared the airport grounds at 12:14 A.M. Wednesday morning.

  Special Agent Charlie McKittrick of the U.S. Secret Service put down his high-powered night-vision binoculars and looked north, scanning the night sky from high atop the DIA control tower. In the distance, he could see the lights of the Gulfstream IV, a private jet chartered by some oil company executives that was now the first aircraft in the holding pattern and waiting to land. Whenever the president, vice president, or other world leader flies into an airport, all other aircraft are prevented from landing or taking off, and the agency tasked with maintaining complete security puts an agent in the tower to keep control of the airspace over and around the protectee. In this case, until “Gambit”—the code name assigned to the president—was secure at the Brown Palace, McKittrick would maintain his vigil in the tower and work with the local air traffic controllers.

  The holding pattern was now approaching five hours in length, and McKittrick had heard the G4 pilots repeat four times that they were running low on fuel. He hardly wanted to be responsible for a screwup. It wasn’t his fault the flight crew hadn’t topped their tanks in Chicago rather than flying straight from Toronto. But it would certainly be his fault if something went wrong now. He glanced down at the radar screen beside him and saw thirteen other flights behind the Gulfstream. They were a potpourri of private and commercial aircraft whose pilots undoubtedly couldn’t care less about the White House “victory lap” or the Secret Service. They just wanted their landing instructions and a good night’s rest.

  “All right, open 17R,” McKittrick told the senior air traffic controller, his voice suggesting an unhealthy combination of fatigue and fatalism. “Let’s get the G4 down and go from there.”

  He cracked his knuckles, rubbed his neck, and swallowed the last of his umpteenth cup of coffee.

  “TRACON, this is Tower, over,” the senior controller immediately barked into his headset. Exhausted, he just wanted to get these planes on the ground, go home, and call in sick the next day. He desperately needed a vacation, and he needed it now.

  Linked by state-of-the-art fiber optics to the FAA’s Terminal Radar Approach Control facility three miles south of the airport, the reply came instantaneously.

  “Tower, this is TRACON, over.”

  “TRACON, we’re bringing in the Gulfstream on 17 Romeo. Put all other aircraft on notice. It won’t be long now. Over.”

  “Roger that and hallelujah, Tower. Over.”

  The senior controller immediately switched frequencies to one-three-three-point-three-zero, and began putting the Gulfstream into an immediate landing pattern. Then he grabbed the last slice of cold pepperoni-and-sausage pizza from the box behind McKittrick and stuffed half of it in his mouth.

  “Tower, this is Foxtrot Delta Lima, Niner Four Niner, on approach for 17 Romeo,” said the Gulfstream. “We are going to increase speed and get on the ground as quickly as possible. Roger that?”

  His mouth full, the senior controller thrust his finger at a junior controller by the window, who immediately jumped into action, used to finishing his bosses’ sentences. The young man grabbed a headset, and patched himself in.

  “Roger that, Foxtrot. You’re cleared for landing. Bring her down.”

  Special Agent McKittrick didn’t want to be there any more than these guys wanted him to be. But they’d better get used to it—all of them. If Gambit won his reelection campaign, he might as well open up his own bed-and-breakfast.

  On board the Gulfstream, the pilot focused on the white strobe lights guiding him in, and the green lamps imbedded down both sides of the runway.

  He didn’t have to worry about any other planes around him, because there weren’t any. He didn’t have to worry about any planes taxiing on the ground, because they were still in the Secret Service’s holding pattern. He increased speed, lowered the landing gear, and tilted the nose down, taking the plane down from ten thousand feet to just a few hundred feet in a matter of moments.

  A few minutes more and the long night would be over.

  Marcus Jackson munched on peanut M&M’s and tapped away quietly on his Sony Vaio notebook computer as the motorcade sped along at well over seventy miles an hour.

  As the New York Times White House correspondent, Jackson was permanently assigned Seat #1 on Press Bus #1. That put him just over the right shoulder of the driver, able to see and hear everything. But having awoken at 4:45 A.M. for bag
gage call in Miami—and having visited twelve states in the past four days on the president’s “Thanksgiving Tour”—Jackson couldn’t care less what could be seen or heard from his “coveted” seat. All he wanted to do now was get to the hotel and shut down for the night.

  Behind Jackson sat two dozen veteran newspaper and magazine reporters, TV correspondents, network news producers, and “big foot” columnists—the big, brand-name pundits who not only wrote their political analyses for the Times and the Post and the Journal but also loved to engage each other on Hannity & Colmes and Hardball, O’Reilly and King, Crossfire and Capital Gang. All of them had wanted to see the president’s victory lap up close and personal. Now all of them wanted it to be over so they, too, could get home for Thanksgiving.

  Some dozed off. Some updated their Palm Pilots. Others talked on cell phones with their editors or their spouses. A junior press aide offered them sandwiches, snacks, and fresh, hot coffee from Starbucks. This was the “A” team, everyone from ABC News and the Associated Press to the Washington Post and the Washington Times. Together, what the journalists on this bus alone wrote and spoke could be read, watched, or listened to by upwards of fifty million Americans by nine A.M. So they were handled with care by a White House press operation that wanted to make sure the “A” team didn’t add to their generally ingrained bias against conservative Republicans by also being hungry, cold, or in any other way uncomfortable. Sleep was something national political reporters learned to do without. Starbucks wasn’t.