by Peter Telep
Epilogue
“I have no idea what’ll happen to us now, but we’ll always be Marines, always be friends, and always be together.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny rapped on the apartment door, then stood back, placing himself in clear view of the peephole.
“Who is it?” came a voice from the other side.
“FEDEX.” Johnny gestured to the patch on his borrowed jacket. “Need you to sign.”
“We’re not expecting any deliveries.”
“I have a letter for Mr. Abdul Azim Mohammad. It’s from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Signature required.”
The deadbolt clicked. The second lock thumped open—
And Johnny booted open the door, knocking Abdul onto his rump. The kid’s complexion faded as he crawled backward, crying, “Please, don’t shoot me!”
“Shut up.” Johnny closed the door, keeping his pistol trained on the kid. “Why did you run?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Abdul hesitated, fighting to catch his breath. “Wait a minute. I know you. You’re Dr. Johansen’s brother, the Marine. There was a picture in his office. How did you find me?”
“That’s my business.”
“Only my parents know where I am. Did they tell you?”
His parents had not told Johnny per se, but Ashur Bandar had obtained the kid’s whereabouts. It was during the drive up from Texas, while Johnny had been sitting there in the SUV, scrutinizing every loose end regarding his brother, that he remembered Abdul Azim Mohammad had gone missing. He called Detective Paul Lindquist to enquire if the kid had ever been found. Lindquist said he had not, but inevitably the conversation shifted to the attacks and Johnny’s involvement, with Lindquist stammering as though Johnny were a celebrity. Johnny politely ended that call and dialed Bandar.
Wilmington’s tightly-knit Muslim Community would not volunteer information, especially to outsiders like Lindquist and the Holly Ridge Police Department. Bandar, however, was a Muslim-American whose cousin was a member and benefactor of the Islamic Center of Wilmington. Connections were made, words exchanged, and information finally leaked. Bandar had called Johnny, and, while trying to catch his breath, he had delivered the intel. Johnny drove alone to Atlanta and spent the past day reconnoitering 100 Midtown at 10th Street, Atlanta, an apartment complex near Piedmont Park, popular with both Georgia Tech and Georgia State University students. Abdul was staying with a GSU buddy in a two bedroom, single bath unit up on the fifth floor. The buddy had left earlier, wearing a Home Depot apron.
“Son, it doesn’t matter how I found you. I’m here, holding this gun, and asking you a question. Why did you run?”
“I decided to hang out with a friend.”
“My brother was killed. You were his student and lived in the area. Then you were gone, and no one’s talking to the police. Do you think I was born yesterday?”
Abdul snorted. “You think I did it?”
“What am I supposed to think? You’re not telling me shit.”
“And you’ve come here for revenge?”
“Maybe I have.”
“Look, I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you ran.”
“All right, I did. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know exactly. But they did it.”
“They as in...”
“Jihadis.”
“Why?”
Abdul hesitated, and his eyes grew distant. “It was all my fault. I met Reva, too. She was a really nice lady. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to him because he was in charge of the whole department. He was the best professor there. He talked me into entering contests and stuff.”
“Did you talk him into converting to Islam?”
Abdul frowned. “No. We never discussed religion. Mostly engineering. And sometimes he talked about you and your father.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you and your dad were like dogs, and he was the sheep or something. I don’t know why he said that.”
“He ever tell you about finding stuff? Like a note, maybe?”
“I gave him the note.”
Johnny tightened his grip on the pistol. “Really.”
“I was working with this visiting professor on an engineering project.”
“Shammas?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“I know they killed him.”
“Good.”
“You’re glad he’s dead?”
“He was one of them. I know because I started hearing things, phone calls he was making, conversations he had with students in the MSA who I knew were frustrated. One day this guy came around looking for one of Shammas’s students. I talked to the guy in Arabic and pretended I was one of them. I told him the note was for me.”
“And you gave it to my brother?”
“I translated it for him.”
“Why?”
“Because your brother hired Dr. Shammas. If the guy was a jihadi, I thought he should know. Plus I was scared that jihadis were being recruited at my school.”
“What did the note say?”
“Something about going to a place called Reliance Tactical, talk to some guy named LaPorte, and get some keys.”
“And what did my brother think?”
“He told me to keep an eye on Shammas. While I was doing that, I think he followed the note. I didn’t see him after that. And the next thing I know, they’re telling me he was killed.”
“Who’s they?”
“Friends at school. Somebody saw it on the news.”
Johnny tensed. “So Abdul, why the fuck didn’t you go to the police and tell them what you knew?”
“Because I thought I’d wind up like your brother—and now just being a Muslim could get me killed.”
Johnny lifted his voice. “I understand that, but do you have any idea of what you’ve put us through? I’ve been wondering if my brother was a jihadi. And it was killing me. And you knew all along.”
“Dr. Johansen wouldn’t have helped them. He was the best teacher I ever had.” Abdul choked up and bowed his head. “He convinced me to become an engineer.”
Johnny swore through his breath and lowered his pistol. Yes, Abdul had run. Yes, he should have come forward, but he did have the foresight and courage to intercept that note and bring it to Daniel. He was willing to cross religious and cultural lines to help protect America, his country.
“Hey, kid, listen to me. My brother was trying to tell you something. There are three kinds of people in this world: wolves, sheepdogs, and sheep. The wolves are the bad guys and they want to eat the sheep. So the sheepdogs come in to protect those who are unable or unwilling to protect themselves. It’s as simple as that. When you brought that note to my brother, you chose to be a sheepdog, just like him. You shouldn’t feel bad about that. My old man used to say that men are like steel: they both need a little temper to be worth a damn.”
“But you’re right. I shouldn’t have run away.”
“Well, you can own that now.”
“I already do. I’ve been thinking about your brother every day. I never thought they’d kill him. I just thought Dr. Shammas would get fired or something.”
“All right. On your feet. I’m taking you out of here.”
“Taking me where?”
“There’s a guy downstairs named Lindquist. He’s a detective. He’s waiting for me. He thought we were coming up here together, but I wanted some alone time with you first. You’ll be safe with us.”
“I can’t go with you. If the jihadis are watching, you know what they’ll do, Johnny? They’ll kill my family. Is anything I told you worth that?”
“We’ll get you out of here discreetly.”
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a sheepdog. We don’t hide. We hunt.”
* * *
Back home in North Carolina, Johnny felt compelled to dig through a box in his attic, a box filled with the artifacts of his youth, namely that old Hardy Boys adventure novel The Mystery of Cabin Island. After all these years, he would sit down and read the book, owing this moment to his brother. The spine creaked as he opened the novel, and the right there on the title page was a handwritten inscription from Daniel:
Dear Johnny, even though you are stupid and need a younger kid to help you, I still like you, and you are a good brother. Happy Birthday. Love, Daniel.
Yes, men were like steel, but they needed tears as much as temper to remember what was important in this life.
Johnny wiped his cheeks and began to read.
* * *
In the weeks following the attacks, the Muslim-American community put huge pressure on the government to raise the level of protection, since they continued to be targets of blowback and hate crimes. Fights broke out in supermarkets, while vandalism and shootings at Islamic centers across the nation occurred on an almost daily basis. As they had in the weeks following 9/11, American flags flew in great numbers from homes across the country, and the thirst for revenge grew.
With evidence provided by Johnny’s group and Mark Gatterton, officials acceded that Dresden and Senecal were aiding and abetting the terrorists. Nazari’s name had still not been released, and Plesner’s disappearance was being covered up by the FBI. Senecal was apprehended while trying to escape Toronto and was in custody in Canada, fighting extradition. With all of his money, Johnny assumed he could stall authorities for years.
The United States Attorney General, along with the Assistant Attorney General for National Security, had launched an independent investigation into the breaches and failures within the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security. Pundits were already musing that they would produce a document of findings as lengthy and perhaps more convoluted than the 9/11 Commission’s original report.
In the meantime, Johnny put his house up for sale. Marines who knew him and realized he was the one who had posted the target list wanted him to get credit for his acts, and photos of Johnny swept across the internet before the Bureau or anyone else could stop them. The media descended upon his neighborhood, and the circus would not let up. Holly Ridge and Topsail Beach Police Departments strained their resources to ward off reporters and spectators. As a consequence, Johnny and Elina decided they would head out west for a while and lay low with friends in rural Colorado until the storm blew over.
Johnny was packing up the garage when his phone rang. “Mark, what’s going on?”
“Hey, man, Director of the FBI and this Under Secretary from DHS want to meet with you guys A-SAP.”
“Really? Do me a favor—remind them we’ve already talked to the FBI and those security reps from DoD, State, and that big shot from the National Security Council. We’re exhausted. We’ve told them everything we know. We’re done talking.”
“Johnny, this is the director of the entire FBI. This is big. They won’t take no for an answer. And I know your company hopes to get more government work, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Look here, if they want to talk, they come down here.”
“I’ll run it up the flag pole and get back to you.”
* * *
The Special Missions Training Center was located in Courthouse Bay, a subdivision within Camp Lejeune and its Joint Maritime Training Center. Over 175 personnel from the military, along with government civilian employees and civilian contractors conducted daily operations in and around the facility. Each year, instructors trained nearly 2,000 operators who had signed up for a variety of Coast Guard and Navy courses, including four classes that focused on riverine combat training and utilized patrol boats not unlike the ones Josh and Corey commanded in Iraq. Some of the courses were designated high risk and required students to complete a Physical Activity Risk Factor Questionnaire (PARFQ) form on the first day of the class. Johnny had joked that their meeting should be considered “high risk” by their government friends, who, if they knew what was good for them, should fill out PARFQs themselves. Since Corey had been employed at the SMTC back in his civilian contractor days, he leaned on his contacts to book them a conference room. The CO had contacted him to say that their VIPs had arrived late at 1710 local time and with an entourage of security in tow.
Dressed business casual, Johnny and the others strode up to the single-story brick building whose entrance was bordered by crepe myrtles and featured an enormous anchor displayed on the front lawn.
Inside, they found FBI Director Matthew Bartone seated at the head of a broad conference table. At nearly three hundred pounds, Bartone was an imposing man who had been born and raised in New Jersey and was a graduate of Seton Hall University. He came from a family of law enforcement personnel and had spent his entire career in the FBI. Known as a straight shooter and often brutally honest with his critics, he had become a source of irritation for the current administration because of his political leanings.
Beside him sat a woman in a navy blue business suit who was pouring over documents and manila folders. She was lean, a runner perhaps, with naturally blond hair graying at one temple. She eyed them over the rim of her glasses as though they were bulldogs pissing on her rose garden. She echoed Bartone’s greeting but failed to rise or shake hands.
“Gentlemen, this is Wendelin Voigt, Under Secretary, National Protection and Programs Directorate from the Department of Homeland Security,” said Bartone.
“Say that three times fast,” quipped Willie.
Voigt gave Willie a look, then cleared her throat. “Now, gentlemen if you’ll have a seat, we’ll get right down to it.” She slapped shut a file and took a long breath, as though bracing herself. “We came here to congratulate you for a job well done—despite the numerous times you took the law into your own hands and committed nothing short of murder, for which you received little more than a slap on the wrist.”
“We always drew our licensed and registered weapons in self-defense,” Johnny retorted, a phrase he had rehearsed after his many interrogations. “Ma’am, if I may, you’re not having a good day, are you.”
Bartone intervened before she could answer. “Johnny, the conspiracy, the cover-ups, and the massive security breach you gentlemen uncovered saved us from an even worse attack. We’re all grateful for that. But Secretary Voigt and myself? The politics here... well, you know how that goes. This isn’t exactly our shining hour.”
“I read you loud and clear, sir. And I can see how what we did put your heads on the chopping block. So now you think you’re causalities of war, but if you think about it, all you have are jobs to lose. If I asked you who Clive Gleeson, LaToya McBride, and Eric Gordon were, would you even remember? How about Victor Lugano and Irving Jones? Those names ring a bell? They were Marines who gave their lives for us. They’re the real casualties—not anyone else.”
Voigt tapped a finger on her folder. “Mr. Johansen, your evaluations say you have a big problem with your mouth. Just imagine how far you could have gone in the Marine Corps if you weren’t so outspoken...”
Johnny snorted. “I have no regrets. Besides, if I were still active duty, all of this might’ve turned out differently.”
Voight sighed, removed her glasses, then continued: “Mr. Johansen, despite what you might think of us, we’d like you and your partners to continue working with the government, drawing upon your own sources of human intelligence that helped thwart many of these attacks.”
“She’s trying to say you’re a valuable asset,” said Bartone. “The NSA can continue its data mining operations until the end of time, and we can fly all the drones we want, but the jihadis have gone old school, and they’ll keep slipping under the wire if we don’t stay on them—any way we can.”
“Sir, like you just said, you have all the assets in the world, and you want to le
an on some good ole boys from North Carolina? Or is hiring us another political game?”
“We appreciate your modesty, Johnny. This isn’t a game. We’ve seen what you can do. You bring to the table some real battlefield ingenuity that these jihadis will never see coming. I’d like you to join us right now.”
Johnny glanced over at the guys. Josh frowned and chuckled under his breath. Willie shook his head. Corey pursed his lips and shrugged.
Bartone continued, “Look, gentlemen, the country has lost even more faith in its government, and I know you boys would like to help restore that, wouldn’t you...”
“Sir, with all due respect, our last job with the government didn’t work out so well. Our boss tried to kill us.”
Bartone’s tone grew more emphatic. “We’re in the same fight here.”
“Really? Do you have Plesner?”
“That’s classified,” snapped Voigt.
Bartone raised his palms. “There’s no reason for paranoia.”
“Oh, really? So he’s still out there—because if you had him, you’d be telling the whole world.”
“Johnny, you can’t—”
“Sir, look here, we love our country more than anything, and we’d be happy to sell our consulting services to the government, but you need to get your house in order.”
“Exactly. And we can do that with your help. It’s a very lucrative deal. You’d lose a lot if you turned it down. You know how government contracts work. It’d be tough for your company to compete if the jobs get awarded to inside bidders before you even knew about them. That’s already a problem, and now it’ll only get worse.”
“So if we don’t work for you, you’ll find another way to shut us down,” said Josh. “That’s bullshit, man.”
Johnny raised a hand to calm his friend, then he narrowed his gaze on Bartone. “You’re saying you want to hire us, but this has to be killing you. We made your agencies look really bad. So let me guess: you got orders to come down and offer us the job. You wouldn’t have come willingly.”
“It was strongly suggested to us,” said Voigt.
“By who?” asked Willie.
