by Peter Telep
While in Little Creek, he met a woman named Jada, an admin intel analyst from Lake Charles, Louisiana. She possessed everything he wanted in a woman. She had a keen wit. She was an aggressive go-getter when it came to professional matters. She had movie star hair that glittered like fourteen karat gold. Best of all, she was one hell of a marksman. On the day they met, Jada knew immediately that she and Josh were soul mates. Even their names were similar. She hatched a plan to win his heart. She began by telling her female co-workers that Josh had a sexually transmitted disease so they would avoid him like the plague. Josh discovered this about a year later, at his own birthday party, and he had a good laugh. He had been working at Little Creek for a long time, unaware that his colleagues were thinking, this guy has an STD.
In the beginning, Jada kept her feelings for Josh a secret. Several times each week they would have lunch at Arby’s. She hated Arby’s. Despised it. But it was time alone with him. Back then, Josh had another girlfriend, and Jada would let down her hair and shake it out, hoping to leave behind evidence in Josh’s car that might complicate that relationship. This went on for months, and Josh eventually broke up with the other girl and sensed that Jada liked him. One day out of the blue, he invited her up to their second floor offices to tour some new construction renovations. She looked at him strangely but went along. When they were finished, he grabbed her and went in for the kiss. Later that year, on Halloween, he asked her to marry him.
They exchanged vows in a simple ceremony under an old oak tree. Their “minister” was one of Josh’s colleagues who had earned his ministry certification online. The wedding took place at work, while they were still wearing their 5.11 tactical boots. Jada did not care though, so long as they were together. She had known Johnny’s brother very well, and had cooked up a storm with Reva during the holidays when they all came together. She rarely broke down, but after hearing the news, she had quietly wept.
“You want another one?” Corey asked as he fetched himself a beer.
Josh waved him off. “I’m good.”
“So what do you think? Just a break-in?”
Before Josh could answer, Johnny came thumping down the stairs. Despite his bloodshot eyes, he looked refreshed in his sweatshirt and cargo pants. “Willie still outside?”
“Yeah, he went to get the birds and call Ivonne,” Josh answered.
“Beer, Johnny?” Corey asked.
Johnny nodded, and Corey shoved one in his hand.
“I put in a call to Bryce,” said Josh. “North Topsail will be all over this. We’ll keep the pressure on all these guys.” Bryce was one of Josh’s old aft gunners and now an officer with North Topsail Beach Police. “Tomorrow I’ll get with the mayor of Holly Ridge and the town council. Little political pressure wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“That’s great,” said Johnny, his voice cracking slightly.
The rear door opened and in strode Willie. “I’m leaving the birds outside. Ivonne’s on her way over. She’s real sorry about everything, Johnny.”
“Thanks.” Johnny grabbed a beer and tossed it to him. “Let’s sit a minute.”
“Roger that.” Willie plopped down on the sofa.
“When things cool off, we need to go through this ourselves,” said Josh. “We’ll make sure the truth comes out.”
“Well, the truth so far is this,” Johnny began. “My brother wasn’t acting normal. He wanted to tell me something.”
“What do you mean ‘not acting normal’?” Josh asked.
Willie answered for Johnny: “He had something going on, and he was going to man up and get it done.”
“But it was something he was going to run by me,” said Johnny. “Then he didn’t.”
“Whatever it is, we’ll help you find out,” said Corey. “You know that.”
“Right on,” Johnny answered. He faced them all. “Sorry for all this.”
“If you apologize again, I’ll crush this beer can on your head,” said Willie.
“And we’ll do the same,” Josh promised.
Johnny climbed off the bar stool and raised his beer, bringing them to their feet. He stammered a moment, then said: “My brother was never a warrior. He didn’t have that mentality. But he was a good man. And he married a good woman.” Johnny’s voice grew thin as he added, “May they rest in peace.”
After sipping his beer, Josh tensed. He hated seeing his brothers like this. He was reminded of an old Viking proverb: “A hungry wolf is bound to wage a hard battle.” The wolves had been hungry, all right, and they had taken Johnny’s brother and his wife—but they had no idea who they were dealing with now.
Josh could trace his ancestry back to Norway, to some of the fiercest warriors and chieftains who had ever lived. He had studied the sagas of Icelanders that detailed events from the 10th and 11th centuries. He imagined that one of his forefathers had carried into battle the mighty Ulfberht sword, whose creation was a thousand years ahead of its time. Most swords during the medieval period were constructed of soft iron with little carbon. The steel used for the Ulfberht had been acquired in India and contained higher levels of carbon and much less slag. The sword could penetrate enemy armor and be removed much more effectively than a conventional blade. Once elite warriors began carrying the Ulfberht into battle, they realized that in their calloused hands was one of the greatest swords ever forged. While Josh might never wield such a weapon, he understood that its power was already in his heart. He understood that “the longer the vengeance is drawn out, the more satisfying it will be.”
Chapter Six
“They met at the golden arches, a symbol of American culture known throughout the world. I wonder if they appreciated the irony.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
The McDonald’s on Main Street in Cedar Falls, Iowa was a popular haunt of employees from the car dealerships lining both sides of the street. Three mechanics from the Toyota Service Department waited patiently for their coffees and Egg McMuffins while engaging in a heated debate over the upcoming Hawkeyes game. Two portly salesmen bragged about their new diet plans while placing their order. A knot of senior citizens had staked out a table in the back, the women swiping fingers across their iPads, the men scowling at newspapers clutched in their wizened hands. The main entrance door swung open, and three teenaged girls dressed in varsity jackets rode in on a blast of cold air. They were shivering and giggling. The young men behind the counter, none of them older than nineteen, lifted their chins with recognition and began a conversation about cutting class. They ignored a young woman with an infant tucked in the crook of her arm, and it was only when the baby screamed loudly enough that she finally gained their attention.
As the sun rose higher through the front windows, and the sweet aroma of breakfast foods thickened, Rasul Abdi Yusuf finished his tea and continued sitting alone in his brown UPS uniform. His eyes left his smartphone only when the main door creaked open, and once he had inspected the new arrivals, he would return to playing Grand Theft Auto while breaking occasionally to surf the web. He consulted his watch: 8:14 a.m. Dr. Nazari was running late.
Rasul was a twenty-eight-year-old graduate student at the University of Northern Iowa. The Doctor of Technology degree had become a nightmare because of his Advanced Statistical Methods class, but if Allah willed it, he would pass. Rasul was an American citizen and an only child born in Michigan to parents from Saudi Arabia. He moved to Illinois when he was seven. While attending middle school, he was bullied and branded a “camel jockey.” After weeks of pushing, shoving, and taunting, he finally snapped. He pummeled the fat perpetrator into a bloody pulp, screaming that he was more American than him. A change of schools was only a temporary fix. The 9/11 terror attacks were still raw, and it was impossible to escape from the scrutiny and hatred no matter how hard he and his parents tried. He lived under a cloud of suspicion all the way up through high school, where in his junior year someone spray painted the word terrorist across the hood of his Honda Civ
ic.
While he was an undergraduate attending Illinois State University, he joined the Muslim Students Association and found kindred spirits there. Many had suffered the verbal and physical abuse that he had, and now their new mission was to spread the word that Muslims and non-Muslims could co-exist peacefully, despite all of the ignorance and bigotry. After all, this was their country, too, and they loved it as much as anyone else. He was an idealist back then, prepared to mount his soapbox and change the world.
By the end of his freshman year, the message was beginning to wear thin. He met new colleagues who persuaded him that the MSA’s work—while necessary and important—was falling on deaf ears. These men of the Muslim Brotherhood brought Rasul to the local Islamic center. There, he connected with other young men who were as bitter and disillusioned as he was. He studied the history of the Brotherhood and its roots dating back to 1928, when Hassan al Banna, the son of a well-known imam, created The Society of Muslim Brothers in the Egyptian city of Ismailia. Rasul attended workshops that introduced him to the Brotherhood’s greatest ideologue, Sayyid Qutb, who in his seminal work Milestones characterized the United States as the oppressor of Muslims everywhere. Qutb argued that Muslims should return to a state of complete adherence to Islamic Law and could only do so through a series of milestones. As Muslims dove deeper into their studies, they would recognize their requirement to wage jihad until the world was under Sharia law. Rasul came to realize that Dar al-Islam (the house of Islam) was at war with Dar al-Harb (all those countries like the U.S. where Sharia law was not in force, and these, collectively, made up the house of war). Arguments over how the Koran should be interpreted would continue in perpetuity, and there were many who disagreed with Qutb’s contentions and chose to ignore the call. Rasul, however, was young and impressionable, and he was looking for direction. He had not recognized it then, but he had undergone the process of “progressive revelation” and had achieved milestones of enlightenment. The infidels called this radicalization. He called it an awakening. He became well-versed in the six stages of the Islamic movement put forth in Shamim Siddiqi’s book Methodology of Dawah Ilallah in American Perspective. These stages were recruitment, organization, training, resistance, migration, and armed conflict.
By the time Rasul graduated, his destiny was clear: he would fight jihad to transform America into an Islamic State ruled under Sharia law. The Brotherhood had already established dozens of social, scientific, and health institutions in the United States, including the Islamic Medical Association and others. New Islamic centers were being constructed every year. Ground operatives in every state collected intelligence on local and federal law enforcement personnel. Brothers with doctorate degrees in Islamic culture offered their services as counterterrorism experts to many federal agencies, where they, too gathered intel for the cause. In sum, the Brotherhood was embedded in all aspects of American society, from Wawa convenience stores to the White House. Even more impressive was their capability to moderate any threat, arguing themselves that not all Muslims were terrorists. Most were tax-paying, law-abiding citizens who wanted to raise their children and pursue happiness. At the same time, these innocents served as perfect camouflage for the Brotherhood and other like-minded jihadis.
Rasul had nearly finished a level of his game when someone rapped a knuckle on his table, startling him. Dr. Nazari grinned and headed toward the restroom. The older man’s face was clean-shaven, his hair closely cropped. He appeared more South American than Middle Eastern, and the graying at his temples was a recent addition in the past year. After scrutinizing the other patrons, Rasul left and joined his associate.
“As-salam alaikum,” said the older man.
Rasul returned the greeting: “Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam.”
“How was your flight?”
“It was crowded, but otherwise not too bad. There’s an envelope for you back home.”
“You were discreet?”
“Of course.”
“You gave him your new number?”
“I did.”
“Excellent. I’m proud of you, Rasul. There are always a few who have second thoughts and lack the courage, but not you.”
“Our friends in West Virginia trained me well.”
“I knew they would. And you proved to the others that we can trust you.”
“I’m more than just a courier.”
“You are.” Nazari gave him an appraising stare. “When you were a boy, you had no idea that you would grow up to become one of us, Al-Saif, the Sword.”
“I wanted to be an engineer like my father.”
“You will be.”
Rasul nodded, even though his grades said otherwise. “I’m due back at the warehouse this morning.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
“And if there’s any more trouble, you’ll let me know.”
“Rest assured. Baraka Allahu fika, Rasul.”
He bowed his head. “And may Allah bestow his blessings on you, too.”
Chapter Seven
“It was a hard day, full of drama. I was shaking trees and nothing was happening. I felt like I was under the train. And then it got worse.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
Corey sat on his haunches, tugged off one of his gloves, then traced a bare finger around the boot print. It was 0950, and the rich, oaky scent of burning firewood wafted over from the chimney of an old farmhouse in the distance. A cold front had come through the night before, plunging temperatures some twenty degrees below normal. There was something telling and almost sinister about the weather, but Corey shrugged off the feeling.
He and the others were out behind Daniel’s house, following the perpetrator’s escape route identified by the police. The prints ended at an embankment beside a dirt road stretching off through the east side of the forest. Tire tracks from at least four or five different vehicles had dug furrows in the dirt, and each would have to be analyzed, although none of them appeared fresh. The first theory was that their man had doubled back toward the swamp and had escaped to the north, using the wetlands to break up his trail; however, the teams had only discovered a few extra boot prints to support that assumption before the trail went cold across the long beds of pine needles. Theory #2 held that he reached the embankment, where someone had picked him up. While that might be possible, none of the neighbors mentioned any visitors or suspicious vehicles in the area, and again, there were no fresh tracks to support that. This was a rural town sans any traffic cameras or other high tech surveillance devices. Human intelligence was the best they could gather, but in rural areas, HUMINT was often valuable because more people knew each other and were, in turn, a lot nosier.
What the police had confirmed was that their man had approached on foot from the woodlands; therefore, he might not have seen Reva’s car in the driveway. He had used a screwdriver or similar tool to gain entry through one of the French doors on the back porch. Once inside, he encountered Reva, who had returned an hour early from work, this according to Mrs. Donna Rae Hennington, the sixty-three-year-old widower and math teacher from Dixon High School who lived next door. Mrs. Hennington had neither seen nor heard a thing after waving to Reva while collecting her mail.
Evidently, the perpetrator had caught Reva before she could flee, and instead of using his jimmying tool (which he had either pocketed or ruled out) he drew the nearest weapon of opportunity—an 8” Wusthof cook’s knife from the block set on the granite countertop.
The more Corey thought about it, the more the police department’s narrative made sense. A few minutes earlier, he had called Lindsey with an update, and she, too, had agreed that Daniel and Reva were such generous and unassuming people that she could never imagine someone wanting to kill them. Once again, she pleaded to join him. She was still up at her office in Charlotte, where she specialized in corporate wellness for a large insurance company and had done business with Reva. Corey told her to hold off coming down until they had firm dates for
the wake and funeral. She had held it together pretty well, but by the end of the call she was crying and saying, “I need to be with you. I can’t ever lose you.” Those words forced him to imagine the same, a life without her, a life that had been blessed because of her.
They had met three years ago while on a friend’s boat, and that meeting seemed preordained given Corey’s love of watercraft. They began hanging out with mutual friends. They exchanged numbers. Their conversations grew deeper and more intense until the inevitable first date. She was in her late twenties, with hair the color of a Caribbean beach, but it wasn’t just her looks that had quickened his pulse. She was light years smarter than some of the college girls he usually dated in Wilmington.
Though he never bragged, securing dates back then had not been too difficult. He had just left the Marine Corps, was in great shape, and the ladies told him he had a twinkle in his eye they could not resist. Sometimes they would ask why he left the Marines.
While Corey was definitely a gambling man, he realized after his first enlistment that if he re-upped, a guy with his experience would be rushed downrange, where he had already burned out eight of his nine lives. The thrill was gone, in part because Corey had matured and had set longer term goals for himself. Besides, he had seen more than his share of combat. The only problem was he loved the boats and working with all those great crews. Leaving them was like losing his identity.
But then fate had struck. Josh had heard about Corey’s impending EAS and recruited him right out of the Marines. Cory became a civilian contractor and course supervisor in the Navy Riverine Program at the Joint Maritime Training Center, Camp Lejeune. He trained over 140 riverine sailors per fiscal year. He created and executed high risk exercises and dynamic live fire ranges. He supervised other instructors and taught various conventional and special operations units throughout the United States and abroad. At the same time, he returned to school, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in Business Project Management with a minor in International Business Development and Finance from American University. After six years in the riverine program, and with his degree in hand, he was ready to branch out and help Johnny turn Triton 6 into an efficient organization fulfilling critical military and law enforcement needs. Johnny, the charming sales rep with the great sense of humor, along with Willie, the marksman and firearms expert, were like an intricate Suisse chronometer, the whole became vastly greater than the sum of its parts.
