“Dad, no,” Mo denied.
“Don’t lie to me,” his father said and picked up the phone. He rewound the video a few seconds and watched. He cringed and looked away when the man sliced the woman’s throat. Angered, he tossed the phone against the wall. It shattered. “What are you doing watching that sort of stuff in this house on your phone? Huh?”
“It’s news,” Mo said in a weak attempt to defend his actions.
“News? That’s terrorist propaganda. And your friend Malik writes awesome. Son, what’s wrong with you? Those people are killers, murderers. We are not them.”
“Maybe we should be!” Mo shot back defiantly.
“What did you say?” his father asked angrily, taking a step towards him.
“Americans are over there killing our people every day. They bomb them all the time. Killing innocents! We can’t just sit by and do nothing.”
“Our people? Are you an idiot? We’re Iranian. I fled after people like that began to kill your relatives. Your great-uncle was executed by those types of people. Fortunately, I was given asylum and only because I could help the effort to rid my people of the scourge in Iran. Don’t you dare say those are our people. We’re Persian, they’re Arabs, and on top of that, we’re Americans. You were born here, you’re an American, you’re not an Arab, you’re not even Iranian. You’ve never even been to the Middle East.”
“I hate America and you…you’re a traitor to the prophet!” Mo screamed.
His father slapped him across the face hard.
Mo’s mother screamed, “Stop it!” She ran to Mo.
“Mohammed, you take that back. You take back what you just said!” his father blared.
“No, I won’t!” Mo yelled. He picked himself up and marched out of the room.
His father wasn’t done with him. He grabbed Mo’s arm and gripped it tightly. “Don’t you dare walk away from me. You live in my house and under my rules.” He began to slap him repeatedly on the back of the head with an open hand.
Mo cowered and tried to shield himself from the hits but his father was relentless.
After a flurry of smacks, his father released him and yelled, “Go to your room. You’re on restriction. You’re to only go to and from school. No more hanging out with that kid Malik. You hear me?”
Mo stood up, glared and raced off.
USS Anchorage, Arabian Sea
Sergeant Rich Brennan lay in his rack, resting. To say he was tired was an understatement. He was worn out, but he found a minute’s worth of energy to gaze upon Jenna’s face. He swiped from one photo to the next on his phone until he came to the photo of the ultrasound.
Jenna and he had once had a turbulent relationship. It had all started in high school. They’d started dating the beginning of their junior year and continued their romance long distance when he joined the Marines. However, she had found being a deployment widow difficult so they broke up soon after he made it to the Fleet. They rekindled the flame when he returned home from leave after his last deployment to Afghanistan and, from then on, kept it lit. Of course, it required he come home more and bring her to Camp Pendleton as often as he could.
At first the news of her pregnancy scared him; then over time he settled into the idea of being a father, but with weeks to go in the pregnancy, the fear began to return. He loved the Marine Corps and knew being married with a kid would change his experience of it. In fact, he hadn’t contemplated getting out until he found out he was going to be a father. He had seen over his many deployments how a family at home affected those Marines. While they provided comfort, they also seemed to bring pain. He never could get any of those Marines to admit it but he could see it in their weary eyes as they boarded transport to deploy knowing they may never see their loved ones again. The questions he knew that plagued them popped into his own head. How will I provide for them? What will happen to them if I die? How will Jenna and the baby manage on the next deployment I’m sure to go on? Never did he dread a deployment until now, and being infantry, he was assured to deploy every eighteen to twenty-four months.
When he tried to discuss his troubled thoughts with his two best friends, Corporals Viktor Vickers and Kevin Klyde, they’d only return his beleaguered questions with taunting answers like, ‘Maybe next time you’ll be mindful of where you stick your dick.’ Or, ‘If you kept it wrapped, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.’ Often, they were good counsel until now and he hated it. But alas, it was his situation to deal with and he would deal with it with an open mind and a commitment to be the best he could be.
“Sergeant Brennan, did you hear?” Lance Corporal Dietz asked, stepping next to his rack.
“Hear what?” Brennan replied, lowering his phone.
“Some douchebag terrorists attacked and killed hundreds in Europe somewhere.”
“That sucks,” Brennan said as he lifted his phone.
“Do you think it will change our going home?” Dietz asked.
“No.”
“You sure? Several people are saying it will.”
“Dietz, I highly doubt it. Now leave me alone. I want some private time,” Brennan said drawing the blinds on his rack.
“Goodnight, Sergeant Brennan. I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER TWO
Saturday, April 22
Copenhagen, Denmark
David shrugged his shoulders. A deep ache emanated from the center of his back and into his shoulders and neck.
The sun hit his face and warmed it. A grateful feeling rose in him. Seeing the sun made it even more special. He had survived, but why?
The adrenaline that had coursed through his veins during the long evening and early morning hours was waning. A great fatigue was bearing down on him, but leaving the scene to go find his bed felt like a dereliction of duty. However, he was finding it hard to focus and if he was going to be at his best, he needed a few hours of rest.
He walked down the nearly empty sidewalks of Copenhagen, heading towards his hotel. What would have normally been a bustling Saturday late morning was eerily quiet. A heavy sense of dread hung like a thick cloud over the city and there was no escaping it. Each turn down a street and each person he saw displayed the dreariness.
A buzz in his upper jacket pocket tore him away from the fog of the hours before. He reached and pulled out his phone. He expected to see the screen of his iPhone full of notifications and his assumption proved correct. As he thumbed through the typical numbers and texts, he stopped when he saw his brother Brett’s phone number with a notification there was a message. He clicked the message and put it to his ear. When his brother’s concerned voice came over, it tugged at him. He and Brett were close but didn’t stay in constant contact. They had a relationship that could go for months without conversation, but the instant they talked, they could pick right up from where they had left off before. When the message ended, he went to hit the call back then remembered the time difference. The last thing he wanted to do was wake him but he questioned the hesitation. The minimum he could do was text, so he did and stated he’d call later when the time was more appropriate.
The phone vibrated the second he pushed the send button.
He saw it was one of the numbers that had called him countless times. He knew the number well. It was his agent calling.
David accepted the call and said, “Hi, Max.”
“David! Thank God you’re okay!” Max bellowed with his thick New York accent.
“I’m good. Max, it was horrible, it was fucking horrible.”
“So the reports are correct,” Max said.
“What do you mean?”
“The reports that you were at one of the cafés when one of the attacks was going down.”
“Who told you that?” David asked.
“David, how long have you known me? I have my sources. You gave a statement to the police and, well, we found out. How come you didn’t do an interview? This is pure gold.”
“It didn’t feel right. I’m not the story.�
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“The hell you aren’t. Now I’ve got you set up for airtime with all the top shows. I need you available later, okay?”
David grunted but knew the importance of him telling his story. It not only helped others understand the brutality of the terrorists with a firsthand account, it also selfishly benefitted him. He had been working on a film documentary about ISIS but his financial resources had dried up after many in the mainstream media outlets turned a cold shoulder to anything they perceived might tarnish Islam. It infuriated David, but it was the reality of what he was dealing with. With his financial backers gone, his film died.
Max was a godsend and was always looking out for him. He knew that any exposure David could get might help bring in some much-needed money for his project.
“When and where?” David asked.
“I’ll e-mail the details. You should try to get some rest.”
“That’s what I’m about to do.”
“And get me all your shots. I’ve got some hungry news outlets. And please get some of those bloody handprints. I hear they’re everywhere.”
“I will as soon as I get to the hotel. I’ll send them to the FTP server.”
“Sounds good. Thanks and, Dave, good job, bravo.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Be safe. I can’t risk having you end up horizontal,” Max joked.
Ignoring Max’s attempt at humor, David replied, “Talk with you later.” He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He paused on the corner and caught a glimpse of a canal. The waterways and colorful buildings that lined them were iconic to the city. He loved this city and its people. What happened to him was something he would never forget but what would be seared into his memory forever was the woman he’d witnessed being executed. Her pleas for mercy going unheeded made his heart ache. It also was a clear message to him that he needed to do more. He wasn’t sure what he could do but he couldn’t be a bystander in history anymore, he needed to bring awareness, real awareness, to the threat that was spreading around the world.
Lake Arrowhead, California
The sun’s early light crested the horizon and with it brought the promise of a new day but more importantly for Trevor Cassidy, the sun brought warmth. It was a welcome sight to see the orange glow as his numb fingers and toes ached from the cold air.
Spring, or mud season as the locals called it, was merely a light winter because on some days it could be in the low fifties and on others you could wake to six inches of fresh snow.
Cassidy, a native of Lake Arrowhead, disliked spring just for that reason, but one event each year kept bringing him back, spring gobbler season. He had grown up hunting and the first chance to get out with his bow to snag a turkey, he was there.
Cassidy was proud of his native home so having his best friend, Jim Ramsey, to show it off to made it more special than before. He hadn’t seen Ramsey since he left the Marine Corps four years before, so the two would be able to spend much-needed time together.
Ramsey had just ended his active service with the Marines and was on his way home, but not before spending the weekend with Cassidy. Like Cassidy, the two had served with the First Battalion, First Marine Regiment in Weapons Company as heavy machine gunners.
After exiting the Corps, Cassidy had big plans, he was going to join the State Department, but those plans all came crashing down after one bad night and a DUI. With his dreams of being an agent dashed, Cassidy came home and found the one job he could get, a custodial job at the local elementary school. His fall from grace was profound.
Ramsey hadn’t admitted it to Cassidy, but one reason for his stopping by was to ensure his friend was coping.
Cassidy often commented that hunting and combat were similar in some ways; both included hours and hours of sitting around, accompanied by boredom, all offset by brief but intense moments of action. When Cassidy invited Ramsey to go turkey hunting, he gave him that exact comparison but added the one advantage of turkey hunting was that they didn’t shoot back.
The sun’s first rays touched his chilled face. It felt good, so good, in fact, that he began to doze off.
His head bobbed up and down as he tried to fight the sleepiness.
The crack of a branch behind him brought him out of his slumber.
He quickly glanced right and peered towards a grove of aspen trees. There he saw a young spike buck mule deer grazing.
A smile creased his rugged face. Seeing the majestic animal made him so happy to be home. He loved the wilderness and all that inhabited it. Hunting for him wasn’t just the kill; it was more about the appreciation of the outdoors and the animals that lived there. He never took a shot he couldn’t make and he never killed for the pleasure, he left that for the battlefield. Cassidy, like many warriors who served with him and those who had come before, didn’t join the military for the benefits, the GI Bill or even for love of country. Yes, he loved his country, just like many Americans, but truth be told, he joined the Marines and specifically signed up for infantry so he could be among the few who knew what combat truly was. It was hard for him and others like him to explain that to the civilian population. It wasn’t politically correct to say you wanted to see combat, somehow that defined you as being deranged or delusional. It seemed all the civilian population understood about combat was four letters, PTSD. He and many others hated that their sacrifice had been summed up to mean only that. What also irritated him was that those very broad definitions came from people with no experience in the matter. How easy it was for society to lump him and his brothers into a neat little box wrapped in phony sympathy and tied up nicely with a bow of skepticism. It was true that some of his comrades had a difficult time transitioning from the battlefield and needed help, but to say all veterans were disturbed was one of the biggest lies perpetrated by a society against a group of people who had given so much and asked for nothing in return. It was the very definition of groupthink and represented the wide disconnect that separated society and the warrior class who protected them.
Cassidy enjoyed the tranquility of the wilderness. There he could reconnect with nature and clear his head while enjoying the fraternity of brotherhood.
A cool crisp breeze swept in from the north and enveloped him with bone-chilling air. He shivered and resisted the urge to adjust in the tree stand for fear his movement would spook the deer.
He admired the lone spike buck and wondered if he was the fawn he’d seen last year wandering these parts.
With his mind drifting, he didn’t see the two turkeys appear over the rise to his left until the deer took notice of them. Curious as to what the deer found so interesting, he slowly moved his head until he spotted the two gobblers.
His heart fluttered with excitement.
The birds were moving towards him and soon would be in range.
Ever so carefully, he raised his bow until it was out in front of him. His arrow was nocked and ready, so he pulled back on the string. The cams creaked and his muscles tensed until he reached the breaking point where the pull weight reduced. He placed his index finger knuckle behind his ear and peered through the peep sight.
Turkeys were some of the dumbest birds he’d ever hunted, but they had a keen eyesight and could pick up on any subtle movement.
Fortunately, Cassidy was smooth with his draw and now only needed them to walk into a safe range.
The turkeys kept meandering down the slope towards him and soon would be thirty yards from his position, a proven and accurate striking distance for him. He could go further but again didn’t want to take the chance of only wounding the animal. He prided himself on his hunting ethic.
The slow-moving birds were taking their time and putting strain on Cassidy’s muscles.
Come on, stupid birds, he thought to himself.
Just a few more yards and the turkeys would be past a felled tree and in clear sight and range.
Cassidy couldn’t wait nor could his arms, shoulder or back.
One bird jumped
on the rotting tree and looked in Cassidy’s direction. It was just about where he needed it, but the scrawny branches of a fir were blocking a clear shot.
“Argh,” Cassidy grunted.
Just to be a pain in Cassidy’s ass the turkey didn’t move from his perch on the tree.
“Jump, move,” Cassidy said under his breath.
A vibrating sound emanated from Cassidy’s backpack. It was his mobile phone.
Cassidy ignored it and kept his bow drawn.
The phone stopped but quickly began vibrating again.
Oh, come on, He thought.
The phone stopped again and in seconds began vibrating once more. It was clear someone needed to talk to him, but he wasn’t going to answer. He was just a few branches and feet from bagging a turkey. He could taste the basted meat already; he just needed the turkey to come into range.
Over and over the phone vibrated.
The turkey finally jumped down and came into clear view.
Cassidy aimed.
A loud crashing sound to his right startled him and the turkeys.
The birds looked and took off at a sprint away from Cassidy and the noise.
Cassidy retracted the arrow and looked to see what or who was coming towards him. From behind a tree a couple came holding hands and giggling.
“You gotta fucking be joking,” he snarled.
The young couple walked underneath his tree stand and towards the creek beyond, oblivious to Cassidy being up in the tree.
He was half tempted to get down and give them a piece of his mind, but why bother. Frustrated and tired, he eased back against the tree and tried to enjoy the warmth of the sun with hopes the turkeys might just return.
San Diego, California
Upon waking, the first thing Brett did was look at his mobile phone to see if he had any messages from David. When he saw the pithy response from his brother, which was typical of him, he felt a weight ease off him.
Day of Reckoning Page 5
