Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  Madison hit a few buttons on the remote. Suddenly the room filled with poppy-sounding music.

  The volume of conversation rose immediately.

  “Now we’re talking. Let’s have fun!” Chris hollered.

  “Did we have to invite him?” Brett asked, referring to Chris.

  “It’s a package deal,” Madison said.

  Chris was married to Kristin, and Kristin was one of Madison’s best friends.

  Madison rubbed his shoulders and said, “I know you’re upset, but try to have a good time.”

  “I will. Now go, entertain,” he said, nudging her away.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek before heading off to do her duties as a host.

  Brett looked around the room. Everyone was laughing, chatting, and completely disengaged from what they’d just seen. Are they feeling like me? Do they care? Or is it easy to put aside because it’s all so far away?

  Chris came over and patted him on the shoulder. “Your brother looks like you, a few pounds lighter, but I can see the resemblance.”

  “Yeah, he’s kept in better shape than me. I guess when you’re bouncing around the world you don’t eat as well as we do here.”

  “What are you drinking?” Chris asked.

  “Beer.”

  “What flavor?” Chris asked, walking away.

  “No, hold on, this is my party, I should be waiting on you.”

  “Nonsense, I have two good legs,” Chris said, hovering over the cooler. “IPA or Corona?”

  Brett stood up and went to the cooler. He looked at the beers but none looked good. “Neither, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll have a whiskey.”

  Chris’ eyes widened with excitement. “Now we’re talking, whatcha got?”

  “A decent selection, Bulleit, Templeton Rye, Buffalo Trace and a new favorite, Four Roses.”

  With a robust laugh, Chris replied, “All of them. But to be more specific, I’ll try the Four Roses.”

  “Good to finally meet a whiskey drinker,” Brett said as he placed the bottle down and grabbed two glasses.

  “My mouth is watering,” Chris said.

  “Neat or rocks.”

  “Rocks,” Chris replied.

  “I’m liking you more and more.” He put ice in the glasses and poured a healthy amount of whiskey.

  Chris took his glass and said, “Nice pour, cheers.”

  Brett raised his glass and went to tap Chris’ but stopped when Chris blurted out, “Death to all those Islamic savages.”

  Brett took pause because he never was a man who held such views that targeted a specific group or religion but his feelings were in flux and anger was one of them. He tapped Chris’ glass and said, “Death to the Islamic savages.”

  Rancho Bernardo, California

  The confrontation with his father only amplified Mo’s hatred of all things American. While in lockdown in his bedroom, he spent the hours cruising pro-jihadi websites, blogs and videos. He didn’t care what his dad said, he was not going to turn his back on his people. As he bounced from one site to another, a feeling of pride began to well up inside him. Hearing the many different voices express their support for the Islamic State and The Bloody Hand was motivational. Many cited and described how they were fighting the good fight. One site had dozens of testimonials from men and women who had left their homes to go and fight. What struck him most of all was how similar he was to them. Most came from middle-class homes in Europe, Australia, Canada and the United States. As they put it, ‘had tossed aside the chains of those cultures and embraced the ways of the caliphate’ .

  Mo couldn’t get enough. As soon as he’d finish one video, he’d click on the next. It was intoxicating. These were people his age, but they had one thing he didn’t, a purpose. He longed for something greater than him, a cause to put his energy towards and one that promised adventure.

  He clicked and there at the top of the screen was a video titled ‘Manifesto of THE BLOODY HAND’. He clicked on the video.

  An ad popped up, making him wonder how YouTube allowed such stuff to be viewed, but there it was regardless. The ad concluded and the screen went dark. A synthesized voice began to speak.

  The end of days is coming. Which side will you be on after Israfil blows his horn? Will you be on the side of the infidel or will you be on the side of Allah and his prophet, the most holy twelfth imam. He is here. He is working diligently to prepare only those true to Allah and his teachings. The others, including Islamic State, have failed. We, The Bloody Hand, are Allah’s true warriors. We fight alongside our imam to destroy the infidel and the Great Satan. Be prepared, for the day that will end all days is fast approaching. Praise be The Bloody Hand, praise be Israfil, praise be our prophet the twelfth imam, and glory on high to Allah for he shall give us the victory we have so long sought.

  An image of a bloody hand appeared on the screen just before the video ended.

  The dark and foreboding video hooked Mo. There wasn’t anything to see, it lacked the grisly images so often found in ISIS videos, but for some reason the mysterious element attracted him.

  A notification popped up at the top of his screen. It was a text from Malik.

  “What you doing?”

  “My dad put me on restriction. Can you believe?” Mo texted.

  “Sorry, bro.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Heading out to the party.”

  Mo had forgotten about the party Malik’s friend Ali was having. He grunted and stared at the popcorn-textured ceiling. Disgust and anger began to rise in him.

  “Gotta go. See you Monday?” Malik text.

  “What’s the address?” Mo asked.

  No response came.

  Mo texted again, “What’s Ali’s address?”

  “You coming?”

  “Yeah. Fuck my dad.”

  Malik sent the address and finished the text by saying, “Glad you’re coming. I want you to meet someone.”

  Lake Arrowhead, California

  Ramsey watched the flames of the campfire dance. There was just something about an open fire that he found alluring. Was it the smell, the crackling sound or the unique heat a fire gave off? Did it matter? Not really, he thought.

  Across from him, Cassidy sat slumped in his chair. A can of beer dangled from his fingertips.

  “You’re awful quiet,” Ramsey said.

  “Just tired,” Cassidy replied.

  “Sucks that Scott had to completely cancel,” Ramsey said referring to a message he had received on his phone from Scott earlier, informing him he wasn’t coming at all.

  “Yeah, it does,” Cassidy replied as he took a sip of beer.

  “You mentioned the school called. What’s up?” Ramsey asked. He was desperate to draw any amount of conversation from Cassidy that he could.

  Cassidy took a big swallow, crushed the can in his hands and tossed it in the fire. “They want to meet with me on Monday.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m guessing it has to do with something I posted on Facebook. I took it down but not before a teacher from the school railed against me in a post. It appears I’m in trouble for expressing my opinion.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep. At least that’s what I think it’s about. They just wanted to discuss something that concerned the administration and staff.”

  “What did you write that was so bad?”

  “After the terror attack in Copenhagen I posted a meme. I guess the snowflakes began melting at the school when they saw it,” Cassidy said, cracking another beer open.

  “And…what did it say?”

  “Something like ‘Ten out of ten terrorists shot in the face don’t commit terrorism’ . Something stupid like that.”

  “Hmm, well, it’s true.” Ramsey laughed.

  “Yeah, it’s true…ly got me in hot water now.” Cassidy sighed. “I just don’t know when to shut up. I’m such a dumbass.”

  “Why can’t you have an opinion?” Ramsey asked
.

  “I can, mine is just the wrong one compared to the administration’s is all. Trust me, if I was slamming a white guy or a Christian for murdering people, I’d probably get a damn raise,” Cassidy said just before chugging half the beer.

  “Fuck them, man, it’s all bullshit. You’ll be fine,” Ramsey said trying to make Cassidy feel better.

  “If I lose this job, Sophie will be pissed. I just need to be quiet, learn my place.”

  Ramsey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His old friend looked and acted like a man defeated. It was hard to imagine this was one of the toughest, smartest and most confident men he’d ever known in the Marine Corps.

  Cassidy gulped down the beer, crushed the can and tossed this one into the fire next to the other one.

  Ramsey searched for what he could say to ease Cassidy’s mind, but nothing came to him, so he thought it best to reminisce. “Remember that time in Thailand when Corporal Brown had his clothes stolen from that prostitute’s room?”

  “God yeah, he stepped out, happy and proud in his birthday suit, not a care in the world.” Cassidy laughed.

  “No shit. When you’re hung like a horse, you can walk around like that,” Ramsey quipped.

  Cassidy laughed hard but quickly fell back into a mood. He looked across the flames and asked, “I’m a loser?”

  “Huh?”

  “Look at me. I lost my selection for that State Department gig, I got a DUI, which prohibits me from jobs I want to apply for and I might lose my job as a janitor. A fucking janitor at a damn elementary school. I’m scared, man, I’m scared if I lose this job, I’ll lose Sophie,” Cassidy confessed.

  “You’ll be okay. Toss me a beer,” Ramsey said. All he wanted was to change the topic but Cassidy was making it impossible.

  A ping sounded on Ramsey’s iPhone. He picked it up and looked. “I can’t believe I have a signal up here.”

  “There’s a tower across the lake, that’s why. The town of Lake Arrowhead is just over there maybe three miles way of the crow,” Cassidy said, pointing south.

  “Speaking of losers, those fucking protestors are causing chaos all over. They’ve shut down freeways and are smashing people’s cars and businesses in Phoenix, LA, Seattle, New York, Houston and Chicago.”

  “What now?” Cassidy asked.

  “I guess they’re protesting the president’s new executive order and his reaction to the terror attack in Copenhagen. You know, I have to wonder which side those people are on.”

  “Executive order? He hasn’t even signed it yet,” Cassidy mocked.

  “I guess that doesn’t stop these goons from rioting.”

  “Let’s not mince words, they’re on the side of the terrorists, period. They hate America almost as much as those Islamists do. The media loves to wrap these people in the Constitution and say they’re peaceful. Clearly, they’re not,” said Cassidy.

  “I can’t imagine they’re all bad. Some are just misinformed,” Ramsey said.

  “Useful idiots is what Hitler used to call his Brown Shirts.”

  Ramsey kept reading the news flash article and said, “Get this. A bunch of mask-wearing protestors in Philadelphia torched part of Independence Hall.”

  “See, they hate our country. Nothing like burning down the very building our Declaration of Independence was signed in.”

  Ramsey clicked his phone off, shook his head and said, “You know, I’m beginning to think those protestors are more a danger to our way of life than the terrorists.”

  Rancho Bernardo, California

  Mo had become a master of sneaking out; it was always getting back in that he feared. He tiptoed to the side window of the dining room and pushed, but it was locked. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath. This could only mean his father had found it unlocked and secured it. He tried again, fully knowing he wasn’t getting inside. After failing, he pondered just how he’d get in.

  Back and forth he paced. The high he had earlier was gone. He most assuredly would receive his father’s wrath and the courage he’d displayed before leaving and at the party had vanished. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that he was tough and fearless, his father struck terror in him.

  A back-door patio light turned on.

  He jumped behind a bush and hid.

  “Mo, come now,” his mother called.

  He hesitated.

  “It’s okay, son, come,” she called out just above a whisper.

  He lifted his head and, like a beaten dog with its tail between its legs, stepped from behind the bush and walked towards her.

  The bright light cast behind her, allowing him to only see her silhouette.

  He walked up and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m sorry, but I—”

  She grabbed him and pulled him close. “Don’t apologize. Men don’t apologize for being men. Come inside.”

  He was shocked and didn’t know how to act.

  She pulled him up and nudged him to go inside.

  He resisted for fear his father would be just on the other side of the door.

  “It’s okay. Your father is asleep,” she said pushing him more forcefully inside.

  He stepped across the threshold and into the living room.

  She came in behind him and closed the door.

  Both were in the shadows of the darkened house.

  She stepped in front of him, took his hands and said, “I believe in you. You’re a good young man who will bring honor to our family.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I know, I know what you’re doing and I approve. You must bring honor to our family and glory to Allah.”

  “You know?”

  “This is our secret,” she said, squeezing his hands.

  “How do you know?” Mo asked, confused.

  “How long have I been friends with Malik’s mother, hmm?” she replied.

  “Malik’s mother knows?” Mo asked.

  “Yes, and she told me after I called over looking for you.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she just tell you something as sensitive as that?”

  “It’s not for you to worry.”

  “We’re lying to father.”

  “Allah allows us to be untruthful to the infidel and those who have lost faith. It is fine.”

  He was more confused than ever. The power he felt from being rebellious was zapped somewhat but it was replaced with pride that his mother, whom he adored, supported what he was doing.

  She placed a hand on his face and said, “I’m so proud of you. Now, go upstairs and get some sleep.”

  He walked away and swiftly scaled the stairs to his room. Inside, he lay on the bed and tried to put his arms around everything that had occurred tonight. From meeting Kareem, Malik’s secretive friend, and now the actions of his mother, he had much to process.

  As he closed his eyes to sleep, he concluded that Allah was truly guiding him. If it was his will, then his plan would be shown to him and he’d have to let it play out.

  When he finally drifted off, a slight smile crept onto his face, for he could see he was being given something that few teenagers had, a divine purpose.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sunday, April 23

  Island of Juula, Off the Coast of Somalia

  Brennan’s boots hit the tarmac. He let go of the thick rope and raced to his position. The insertion of first squad couldn’t be more precisely choreographed. One by one as they fast roped down, the Marines peeled away to cover their responsible areas of fire.

  First squad’s main job now was to provide cover for the rest of first platoon as it followed.

  It took only minutes for the remaining squads to get on the ground.

  Brennan peered through the green-tinted terrain, made so by the night vision attached to his helmet.

  “Sierra One and Two, move your squads north and secure those buildings. Sierra Three and Four, make a secure perimeter from west to east. Radio when you’
re in position,” Lieutenant Frank radioed.

  Brennan got up and tapped Vickers. “Let’s go.”

  The Marines of first squad moved at the ready along the western edge of the makeshift airfield with Brennan leading the way.

  They reached the hangar and stacked up alongside the wall.

  Brennan watched second squad with Frank leading them move along the eastern edge, stopping to secure the two aircraft before they too reached the hangar.

  A wide opening spanning fifty feet separated the two squads.

  “Sierra One, you’ll go in and left. Two, follow me. On the count of three, let’s move,” Frank radioed.

  “Roger that,” Brennan replied.

  “One, two, three,” Frank radioed.

  Feeling he needed to be point, Brennan led his squad into the darkened hangar. He walked straight ahead, his rifle raised at the ready. The second Marine peeled off to the far left and one by one, each Marine of first squad entered, calling out the direction they were heading.

  Inside, they found an empty hangar save for a few crates and tables.

  “All clear,” Frank called out.

  The Marines looked around, many hoping they’d encounter at least one bad guy to take down.

  “Sierra Two, move north off hangar and set up a perimeter,” Frank radioed.

  Second squad exited the hangar and spread out along the north edge.

  Frank walked over to Brennan. “That was easy.”

  Brennan had six years on Frank, who was a second lieutenant. While he was younger and had less experience, their time in Afghanistan had christened Frank and proved to his men he could be a leader.

  “Easy for now, sir. I recommend we keep our heads on a swivel. There’s no telling when a skinny will pop up. Those Ospreys aren’t the most silent things. I’m sure we got someone’s attention,” Brennan said, using the derogatory term of skinny to describe the Somalis.

  “You got that right, Sergeant,” Frank said.

  “Any contact with the Raiders or SEALS?” Brennan asked.

  “They’re almost there. Other than that, a lot of shit talking between the two groups.”

  “Of course,” Brennan replied.