Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  “It was Allah’s will. So, tell me, what have you in mind to strike back at the great Satan?” Aalee asked with a sinister grin.

  Alvarez smiled. He didn’t buy the great Satan rhetoric, but he enjoyed the enthusiasm of those that did. His driving factors were money and service to his country, and at the moment, he had been recruited for a mission that could both make him rich and increase his country’s standing in the world.

  “Your unique skills will be useful here,” he replied, handing him the file jacket.

  “What is this?” Aalee took the jacket and opened it, pulling out several photos and documents.

  “It’s a personnel file, along with some surveillance information we’ve gathered.”

  “Do you wish them dead? What is their significance?” Aalee asked, studying the glossy photos.

  Alvarez took the pictures from Aalee. “This is former U.S. Representative Maureen Ridley,” he pointed to the woman in the picture standing outside, watering her flower garden.

  “The second picture is her husband, Jack Rivers, and the third is of their 18 year old son Evan. The man is old. He shouldn’t pose much of a threat, and the boy is retarded. Their information is all in the file. We need you and your men to take them as hostages.”

  Aalee frowned as he scratched his chin where his full beard once was. Allah would certainly forgive him for altering it. After all, it was the will of Allah that he go to America and strike a blow to the great Satan.

  “Hostages? What good could these people be to you? They will not fetch much of a ransom.” Aalee’s frown deepened. He had served five years as one of Saddam’s top interrogators in the Republican Guard before the regime fell in 2003. He could make anyone talk, and had done so many times to root out those disloyal to the regime. After the collapse in 2003, Aalee turned to Al Qaeda. Working closely with Al-Zarqawi, he instilled fear in the hearts of those who would help the Americans. Anyone he found to be loyal to the coalition or the West was tortured in front of their families and killed.

  “I do not want to go into detail here. The Americans may be listening, and this is too big to jeopardize our operation. Just know that you are doing your part to deal a major blow to their military. The ransom is bigger than you can even imagine.” Alvarez smiled reassuringly.

  “And if the ransom fails? The Americans don’t negotiate, remember?”

  “Then you will send a message to the Americans that not even their political leaders are safe, and we will still prevail.”

  Aalee’s frown finally broke into a wry smile. He enjoyed taking the fight to the Americans. They had killed his parents with their senseless bombings during the first war in Iraq. They were non-believers, and Allah’s will was to cleanse the world of their filth. He hoped whatever scheme the Cuban had come up with would fail, so he could show the pigs exactly what they had brought upon themselves with their evil ways. Maybe once the Cubans got whatever they wanted, he would do that anyway.

  “All the information is in the packet in your hands.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a prepaid flip phone. “This is the only phone you will use to contact me. You will use the code included in the packet when speaking on it, and you will not make any other calls on it. Do you understand?”

  Aalee nodded and took the phone, studying it. “Do not insult me with your condescending ways. I am perfectly aware of how to conduct myself.”

  “I am sorry. This is very important to everyone. I must go. Thank you again, old friend.”

  “It was nice to see you again. Allahu Akbar.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Homestead, FL

  The sound of his office door opening startled Spectre out of his daze. He had been sitting at his desk in his lone corner office thinking about the events of the day prior. In just a few hours, he had gone from job stability and a happy home life to turmoil and love lost. No matter how much he tried to figure it out, he still couldn’t discover where he’d gone wrong.

  “You ok, big guy?” Marcus asked, cup of coffee in hand.

  “Chloe dumped me,” he said, looking up from his monitor. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He didn’t even try to sleep the night before. Instead, he just stayed awake, trying to relive every moment he’d been with Chloe, desperately searching for the moment he’d gone off course. But despite knowing their relationship, like most, was never perfect, he could find no reason for what happened.

  “Holy shit, are you serious?” Marcus nearly choked on his coffee as he sat in the chair across from Spectre.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much the first thing she did when I came home last night,” he said, pulling the ring out of his pocket and tossing it onto his desk. He then went over in detail everything that had happened the night before. He told Marcus how she was sitting in the living room, with the TV off, waiting for him when he finally got home. How she broke the news to him, gave him the ring back, and then locked herself in the guest room. He had even tried to talk to her through the guest room door, but all he heard was her talking to her mom on the phone.

  “You sure it was her mom?” Marcus was suspicious. His standard response to any relationship problem was that the girl was obviously cheating on him.

  This made Spectre smile slightly. “Well, either that or she’s calling the dude ‘Mom.’”

  “I’m sorry buddy, I know it’s tough. But she didn’t give you any reason at all?”

  “She’s not in love with me anymore, and I’m not the same person since I stopped flying,” replied Spectre as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  Marcus hesitated for a bit. Everyone that knew Spectre acknowledged that he had become a changed man since being forcibly removed from the cockpit. Some knew the change was for the best. It opened up many new opportunities and friendships that he wouldn’t have otherwise had. Despite the good that had come from the incident, others still said he was a shell of his former self. He just didn’t seem to have the drive and confidence that he used to have. He went through the motions of everyday life, but he wasn’t the Spectre that people had known and loved. Marcus, however, was a firm believer in that former self.

  Marcus had known Spectre, both before and after his flying career ended, and he knew a significant change had occurred. Although they hadn’t been close friends before they started working together, Spectre had confided in Marcus many times that he was frustrated with his squadron. He complained that there was just too much inertia, too many lazy people, and no work ethic. Change was nearly impossible for the Gators of the 39th, and Spectre hated it. To Spectre, organizations that refuse to adapt and grow, even in the military, often were left behind.

  Although Marcus had his own selfish reasons for believing that Spectre was better off in the civilian world, Marcus felt as if Spectre was a lot happier and less cynical since they’d first met. But he couldn’t ignore how he’d benefited from Spectre’s change in status. Spectre had single-handedly changed Anderson Police Supply into a viable Twenty-First Century business. He had given them a web presence and business model that was sustainable and realistic.

  “Do you really think that’s true? Are you sure she’s not fucking someone else?”

  Even in times like these, Spectre appreciated Marcus’s candor. He knew that a guy like Marcus didn’t get to where he was by sugar coating things. He was a man that spoke his mind. While some people would be horribly offended and turned off by it, Spectre always felt like it offered perspective.

  “The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t believe it. She’s not that kind of girl,” Spectre replied.

  “There’s no such thing as ‘that kind of girl,’ Cal,” Marcus said cynically. “Weren’t you in here just the other day complaining that she was acting differently?”

  “Yeah, but that’s because she had been stressed out about her flight lead upgrade,” Spectre said, shaking his head. “The Gators have been making it incredibly painful for her to get through it.”

  “And your sex life?” Marcus asked with a raised eyebrow.<
br />
  “What? Dude, that’s none of your business,” Spectre shot back.

  “I’m just saying man, that’s the first thing to go when they’re cheating,” Marcus offered, holding his hands up.

  Spectre considered it for a moment. Their sex life had been pretty sparse in the last few months, but he had attributed it to the stresses of her job and the fact that he spent most of his time working at the gun store. They just didn’t have time anymore.

  “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think that’s it. She’s probably just worn down by the harassment program the Gators have been putting her through and taking it out on us. I guess I have been here a lot lately too, so that’s probably part of it. Hopefully she’ll come around when she finally finishes her upgrade and is under less pressure.”

  “If you say so, bud,” Marcus said. “But there are plenty of better women out there if she is cheating.”

  “She’s not cheating on me,” Spectre replied firmly.

  “Alright, enough girl talk.” Marcus shrugged. “Let’s get back to work. You and I are going to take a ride up to the base to talk to Director Browning about that letter. If you’re a good boy, they might even take you for a ride in the Blackhawk.”

  “Jeepers do ya really mean it, Mr. Anderson? That would be so swell,” Spectre answered, doing his best Wally and the Beav impersonation.

  “Let’s go,” Marcus rolled his eyes.

  Marcus opted to take the slightly longer route to avoid the Florida Turnpike, or as he liked to call it, the IdiotPike. Except for his time in the military, Marcus had lived in South Florida his entire life. Throughout it all, he had noticed the quality of driver go from mediocre to downright awful.

  Marcus likened the local drivers to “Iraqis doing jumping jacks” referencing the famous YouTube video of the Iraqi soldiers who couldn’t quite master the basic exercise. He loved everything about living in South Florida, except driving. He firmly planned on buying a houseboat, living on the water, and never driving again when he finally retired. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  As they made the long sweeping left hand turn on 137th past the Homestead-Miami Motor Speedway, a flight of F-16s made their final approach to land.

  “Is that your ex?” Marcus asked.

  “Well, she was supposed to be flying this morning. Could be.” Spectre couldn’t quite get used to referring to her as the “ex.” He was still very much in denial that their relationship had become unrecoverable.

  Arriving at the south gate of the base, Marcus showed his retiree identification and the military gate guard waved him through.

  Once a major Cold War era Air Force base, Homestead Air Reserve Base was a shell of its former self. Prior to Hurricane Andrew in 1992, Homestead Air Force Base, as it was then known, was a major base, home to several F-4 and eventually F-16 basic training squadrons. The base was ideally suited for a large infrastructure with a huge runway that was over two miles long and two hundred feet wide that could support the largest of aircraft. After Hurricane Andrew and the devastation it left in its wake, however, the base nearly shut down.

  It was the Air Force Reserve Command that saved it, keeping a lone F-16 squadron on base. The over water airspace was ideally suited for the F-16’s air-to-air training missions, and with the Florida Air National Guard on site for homeland defense, the base served strategic purposes as well. Being the gateway to South America, Homestead ARB also served as home to Special Operations Command South, the US Coast Guard, and Customs and Border Protection’s Air and Marine Branch for South Florida.

  Marcus drove the white Tahoe down Coral Sea Boulevard toward the Customs Air Branch Operations Building. The entire base was under a renovation project to modernize the buildings. Those that weren’t surrounded by construction equipment were severely run down, most likely original from the days that the active duty ran the show.

  As they parked in front of the Operations Building, they could hear the rhythmic gunfire of the firing range right next-door.

  “Sounds like home,” Marcus said, holding the door open for Spectre.

  Director David Browning was waiting for them in the lobby when they walked in. He was a short, slightly heavyset man in his mid fifties. He was wearing a khaki flight suit with police utility belt and a USP .40 holstered on his right hip. A gold US Customs federal agent badge was velcroed to his left breast.

  “Marcus, it’s good to see you,” he said, extending his hand.

  Marcus gave Browning a firm handshake without breaking eye contact. It was his signature greeting that few could forget.

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Dave; I know you’re a busy man. You remember Cal,” he said, nodding to Spectre.

  “I do. Cal, how are ya? Wish we could have hired you, but we’ve had a lot of cutbacks lately, as you can about imagine.”

  “No problem sir, I’m doing ok,” Spectre replied.

  After signing into the visitor registry, Spectre and Marcus followed Browning past the sea of cubicles to the director’s office.

  Browning offered them coffee as they sat at the conference table in the large office. Spectre declined as Marcus graciously accepted.

  “Marcus, I’m going to be honest, we’re hurting right now,” Browning explained as he handed Marcus his coffee.

  “You mentioned that on the phone yesterday,” Marcus replied dryly.

  “We didn’t cut you out because we found someone cheaper. We cut you out because there’s no money,” Browning explained. “We’ve been cut off.

  “This fiscal year’s budget has completely gutted us. The hours we have allocated for the Blackhawks have been cut in half. The Dash-8s aren’t even 24-hour operations anymore. They’re telling us that when people retire or move away, to close out that position. And this is just another step. That contract we had? The one you bid on with all the other local companies. Well, that’s done. If it’s equipment or a firearm, we have to get it from another branch – and that’s only when the original becomes completely unserviceable. Ammo? Well, our training round allotment has been comingled with our real world bullets. So it’s either shoot paper targets or bad guys, but not both. If guys want to stay current, beyond their yearly qualifications, it’s on their own dime.”

  “We can work out a deal for that,” Marcus interjected.

  “I know you can, Marcus, and you have been great for us in the past. This goes much higher than my level. Much, much higher.”

  “Democrats,” Marcus grumbled.

  Spectre tried his best not to laugh, but sometimes Marcus could be hilarious, even when he wasn’t trying to be.

  “Whatever the case may be, it’s above my pay grade,” Browning responded, attempting to veer the discussion away from the impending political train wreck.

  “Is it really that bad?” Spectre asked.

  “This doesn’t leave the room, got it?” Browning asked, waiting for a nod from both men across from him.

  “The answer to your question is yes. Just last week, we were tracking this guy, Abdul Aalee,” he responded, pointing to a picture on the wall of an Arab man with dark hair, deep set brown eyes, and a full black beard. “Heard of him?”

  “Sounds familiar.” Spectre pondered the name. “Iraq?”

  “He calls himself Abdul Aalee, or servant of the Most High. A couple of three-letter agencies were tracking him for several months in Iraq earlier this year. He was suspected of orchestrating the suicide bombs attack in Ramadi that killed nearly two hundred people. With the new Status of Forces Agreement, they could never get a warrant to go in and get him. Last month, he completely fell off the grid. No one had any idea what happened to him. Some even thought he was killed.”

  Spectre leaned forward in his chair. Aalee was the kind of asshole he had twice been to Iraq to stop. He had seen the name in intel briefs before his flights. The man had a history of ruthless violence against those sympathetic to the West. He had been behind a few Improvised Explosive Device (IED) attacks and had sent countless suici
de bombers to their death in the name of Allah.

  “Our informants told us the new player in town was there to take over the Brothers of Freedom, a group the FBI had been watching based in Hialeah,” Browning continued. “So they handed his case file off to us and told us to keep an eye out for him. We’ve got some cool toys to find people with, so we did. We tracked him. Cell phones are a funny thing, these days, even sat phones. We found him in a regatta peeling off to Marathon Key.”

  “So you got him?” Spectre asked anxiously.

  “Ha,” Browning replied. “Not quite. The air asset tracking the boat had to go home for fuel, so we put a high priority request in for additional assets due to the target. It was denied! ‘Use what you have,’ they said.

  “We even got lucky. Some boaters were spooked by an obviously foreign man on their not so foreign dock, so they called the cops. Cops show up, can’t do anything, so they call us again. Since the cops can’t detain him, we are left holding the bill. No air assets available. No tracking. Now he’s here. Guess who takes the blame?”

  “So you’re telling me there’s a terrorist asshole on US soil right now, and you guys don’t know where he is?” Spectre asked incredulously.

  “There’s always a terrorist asshole on US soil, Cal. The problem is we’re stretched too thin. That safety net we set up after 9/11 is becoming more and more porous. We’ll catch this guy, I’m sure of it, but you see my point? We’re only winning because the bad guys are dumber than we are lucky. I just hope our luck doesn’t run out.”

  “Democrats!” Marcus replied.

  Browning rolled his eyes and looked at his watch. “Anyway, we’ve got a Blackhawk going up in twenty minutes for a local area orientation for a new pilot. You guys want to tag along? When you said you were coming, I cleared it through Division. Cal, I think you might even know the pilot.”

  CHAPTER SIX