People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1)

by Craig Martelle

  Rick needed to put the conclusion up front – those two sentences that he wanted the Colonel to be able to repeat, the ones that would lead to an action, after which the world would be safer.

  Rick had no idea what those words would be. He didn’t have anything yet. He excused himself from the meeting for a second time, without a word, and returned to his desk. He didn’t know that the Colonel hadn’t made his play yet.

  Too often, the dithering reminded him of Iraq. Units rotated in and out with such frequency that no one really knew what was going on. So they spent a great deal of time talking. When they failed the troops, no one put the blame where it belonged. Rick could feel it coming, so he disappeared into a stall in the bathroom and closed his eyes. It was never easy.

  Mosul, Iraq - 2004

  Rick was like everyone else, hungry. Lunchtime and an open mess tent made for a welcome combination. He’d traveled to Mosul from Baghdad earlier in the week as part of a joint-service intelligence liaison team. They’d made some progress with the Kurds, native to the region, but the people who needed the most help were the Americans.

  There was more intelligence than anyone could use. The commanding officers grew numb to the threats. They stopped inviting their intelligence personnel to the pre-mission briefs because the risk assessment was always the same and didn’t help.

  Roadside bombs, insurgents, mortars, blah, blah, blah. The convoys had no choice but to go. Without a specific threat, such as a bomb in an exact location, the operational rules of engagement acted as their security blanket, provided them a way to counter the known unknowns.

  When they received information regarding an attack on the Army compound, they treated it the same way. Rick watched them talk about it and decide to do nothing. People were told to wear their body armor and helmets when they moved within the compound as if that would protect them from the unknown.

  Rick argued, saying they could do better against a threatened insurgent penetration to deliver a bomb, but conceded early as the officers had already made up their minds. He was told, "Don’t make a bigger deal out of it than it was." The flashback was suddenly in full color.

  Rick saw himself going through the line, one face among many, steel tray, food served from green tins, probably no different than they did in the Second World War.

  Dread filled him, but he was powerless to change the past. He could only watch again as the waking nightmare continued. He was near the end of the serving line when the explosion tore through the tent. Bodies and body parts were thrown everywhere. He was splashed by someone’s intestines as he and most others in line were thrown through the serving trays, the hot food, and into the servers. They lay in a heap, ears ringing. Rick was one of the first to recover, crawling out of the mess that had been the serving line moments before. He looked for anyone injured and helped by putting pressure on a wound. He passed this person to another, uninjured, but too shaken to think on their own. At least they could put their hand on a wound. Then he moved to the next, putting a tourniquet on the thigh of a young soldier who’d lost the rest of his leg.

  Rick heard the screams of the injured, the wailing of those too scared to move. He heard his voice condemning himself for not arguing to dig further into the intelligence tipper they received.

  The man without a leg? He was wearing his helmet and body armor when the insurgent triggered the explosion. Public Affairs reported it as a 122mm shell, fired from miles away. A lucky shot, they called it.

  Sergeant Rick Banik, USMC, received a Navy Commendation with a V device for valor for his actions that day. He refused to wear the medal. He saw people fail in their duties, him first and foremost. He saw the leadership get medals, too, the same men who refused to take a credible threat seriously.

  Credit? He didn’t want credit for that. He wanted the credit for bringing up the intelligence in the first place, and he wanted credit for being ordered to stop. He wanted the officers to be held accountable for their actions in failing every troop injured in the explosion.

  Some might call it PTSD, but Rick preferred to think of it as the rage. His rage, ready to unleash on those who blame others for their failures, take credit for what others do, stealing their honor.

  Diligence, credit, and accountability. Rick had those when he went to Iraq, but as he sat in the bathroom stall, shaking and sweating, he could only think that he failed in all three, and good men died.

  When the episode passed, he collected himself and returned to his desk. He had a phone call to make. He couldn’t let those in charge miss something this important.

  Not again, anyway.

  D Minus 23 – The Plan Takes Shape

  Clay was a big man. James Madison University recruited him out of his native Kenya to play football, which he did, although never developing into the superstar they’d hoped for.

  His real name was Mwanajuma Kalu, but everyone who knew him called him Clay. He graduated college fluent in three languages, hoping to move into a management position with an import/export business so he could help his countrymen while doing well for himself.

  He wasn’t seen as management material, so he was hired as an interpreter. He wasn’t a simultaneous interpreter, and he would get lost during conversations he had no interest in.

  He was soon fired.

  He took the only job he could find that didn’t involve waiting tables. He worked at the Enterprise rental counter at Dulles International Airport, a short shuttle ride away from the airport, just far enough to feel isolated and alone.

  That’s when he met Mohammed Marsook ibn al Mohammed, according to his Saudi Passport. In private, he went by Mohammad al Sham, a Da’esh recruiter.

  Clay was the only one at the counter. The other counter agents were on break.

  “Mohammed Marsook ibn al Mohammed,” Clay repeated out loud as he typed in the name from the passport. “As-salam ‘alaykom,” Clay said looking at a man who appeared well off, and only slightly older.

  “Wa 'alaykum as-salām,” Mohammad replied. “You speak Arabic, no?”

  “Na'am, qalīlan, a little, yes. I always like to practice.” Clay smiled up at the man from his chair, momentarily forgetting about the car. The Arab didn’t mind. He had nothing on his schedule until tomorrow. He expected that he’d enjoy some American libations and maybe a woman, to throw off the scent of any who might think him a fundamentalist.

  “Where are you from, my large friend?” The man’s teeth were perfect and beamed white through his swarthy skin.

  “I am from Nairobi, but I’ve lived here for the past six years. I would like to go home, but there’s nothing for me there. I don’t know what there is for me here, either, but I am here nonetheless.” Clay looked at the ceiling, then quoted the Quran. “Whatever misfortune happens to you, is because of the things your hands have wrought, and for many of them He grants forgiveness.”

  “Are you a believer?” Mohammed turned serious. His smile disappeared as he leaned close and talked in a low voice. He became instantly suspicious. This was too easy. In the US, he expected the CIA and the FBI to lurk behind every counter, on every street corner. He also knew how many times he’d come and gone without any problems.

  He never went to a mosque outside of Syria. He couldn’t risk the young fanatics talking where he couldn’t take charge and control them. He wanted the young fanatics, of course, but at a time and place of his choosing.

  “I believe. I didn’t in Kenya, but while here, something changed. I attend mosque but have no friends there. They are not friendly to Africans. Still, the Quran is wise, and I study, both English and Arabic, to better understand.” He spoke barely above a whisper. “Maybe you can go with me, help them understand, be at peace with me.”

  “Which mosque do you attend?”

  “Dar Al-Hijrah, in Falls Church,” Clay answered.

  “Ahh, I understand. Instead of mosque this Friday, you will join me, and we will pray together, elsewhere.” Mohammed knew that one on one, he could determine t
he large man’s sincerity. Over tea, in a more traditional setting. Maybe he’d skip the drink and women on this trip.

  Dar Al-Hijrah, Mohammed thought. Of all places to go, you pick a mosque that is under constant surveillance by the FBI. Maybe you aren’t a plant. After Friday, I will know, my large friend. If you are sincere, I will have you, make you into everything you think you need to be. In the end, you’ll do our bidding while I’m half a world away.

  Mohammed pulled a non-descript business card out of his pocket and wrote the name of a park in Arabic and a time. He would give away nothing else. The young man handed a yellow sticky over the counter with his name and phone number. “Perfect, my friend. Shukran. If I can get my car, I need to be on my way.” Mohammed lightly tapped his forehead, lips, and heart with his fingertips as he bowed slightly to Clay.

  Clay smiled broadly and looked around. No one had returned yet from break and there were no other customers. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have what you reserved. Would you be willing to accept a luxury vehicle at the price of the mid-size car you reserved?” Without waiting for an answer, Clay printed out the rental contract, ran the credit card, and pointed Mohammed toward the row where his Cadillac Escalade was waiting.

  “Shukran,” Mohammed said with a slight smile. He reached across the counter where his hand disappeared into the larger man’s hand. They shook, and he left. If nothing else, he had a nice ride for his stay in the nation’s capital.

  The Company Wants In

  Rick called a friend in the Company, a euphemism for the Central Intelligence Agency. They were only acquaintances. No one ever got too friendly with outsiders; no one shared completely beyond their own section. As Rick thought about it, he realized that he didn’t even share everything with people in his section. Everyone had secrets.

  Everyone.

  “Can you go secure?” Rick turned the key on his STU-III to initiate the secure connection. He always spoke slower into the phone when it was secure. The latest technology was light years improved over the AUTOSEVOCOM he had to use when he was a Lance Corporal in the Marines. It was secure, but that’s because no one could understand anything. It was like talking into a bubble of air that you held over your mouth while you were underwater.

  “The brain trusts are spun up over that report out of CENTCOM earlier today. You know the one I’m talking about?” Rick asked. He tried to be ambiguous, just in case the man on the other end was thinking about something different. Central Command sent out a great number of reports every day as did European Command, EUCOM. In the Intelligence Community, everyone pumped everyone else for information. No one ever came clean all the way. Secrets were power. If you knew something someone else didn’t, it gave you leverage.

  Rick hated that mindset. He made it his personal mission to wheedle one secret out of everyone he talked to every day. He failed far more often than he cared to admit, but he never stopped trying. He called it practice, and if he acquired a secret that the person hadn’t intended to divulge, then he had a marker to call in when needed.

  Over the years, Rick built a bevy of markers.

  “Come on Rick, what are you asking for?” Bob McClendon knew how the game was played. He’d taught Rick a thing or two in their years of Intel sparring.

  “The report is wrong Bob. I’m asking if anyone on your side is looking into it to correct it and resend so people can stop jumping to conclusions that are wasting time and resources.” Rick didn’t bother to give the “we’re-fighting-a-war” speech. Bob was in it, too and more like Rick than other analysts, but as Bob neared retirement, he defended fewer and fewer positions. He resigned himself with sending reports and moving on. It had been years since he last championed a position.

  “Nah. They’re taking it at face value. I think ops is tasking a couple assets in theater to look at things, but they aren’t spun up at all.” Bob spoke calmly and slowly so he didn’t have to repeat himself, an all too common occurrence when talking over an encrypted line.

  “But they’re looking in the wrong place. I think the resources Da’esh are looking at are right here, not just in the U.S., but in DC!”

  “Whoa! Hang on there big fella. That’s a one hundred and eighty-degree shift from the on-hand intel. What do you have to back that up?” Bob was instantly skeptical. Usually, the conversations got stuck on trivialities like transliterating Osama from Arabic with a U (Usama) or O.

  “On hand Intel, Bob? That’s an analysis of analysis. I dug out the original conversation in Arabic and had some of our folks here look at it. The cover words aren’t for Europe, they’re for the U.S. Big capital? We’re not talking Berlin or Paris, but DC. The timeline is sketchy. The analysis says three weeks, but I don’t know. Nothing I saw suggested any kind of firm timeline.” Rick was instantly angry.

  There was information until it was analyzed, then it became intelligence. Analyzed intelligence was reduced to executive summaries that many analysts and all their bosses read. No one except CNN or Fox News was capable of connecting dots to form clear intelligence pictures and they were expert at doing it after an incident. They were nowhere to be seen when there was nothing but dots and no lines to connect them. Connecting dots from executive summaries? Not possible.

  The raw information built the foundation on which a sound analytical assessment rested. Rick hung his hat on the raw information. He had an inherent distrust for other people’s analyzes.

  He understood Bob’s reticence. Bob had become comfortable analyzing other people’s reports. It was like taking an average of an average. Over time, you might still be in the ballpark, but you’re nowhere near home plate.

  “Send me what you’ve got, Rick and I’ll take a look.” Bob sounded tired, but Rick felt hopeful. He wasn’t sure the Colonel was going to push the new analysis. Rick had been wrong once, and the powers that be would never forget it. At least he’d taken a position. No one else would, one way or another.

  He who takes no risks accomplishes nothing worthy. Rick wondered where that quote came from, but he lived by it. The intelligence corollary was depressing. Intelligence analysts who risk nothing got promoted, again and again.

  “Will do Bob and thank you. Maybe it’d be best if my bosses didn’t find out I backdoored them to the Company.” Rick looked around to make sure no one was listening to his conversation. You never knew when some analyst tried to play the field agent game.

  “Got you, Rick. I’ll give it a look and call you back later today or tomorrow.” Rick hung up. He looked at the STU-III, a phone linked to the world by a wire. At each end, the keys married up the encryption. Over that wire blasted something that sounded like white noise. Even if somebody tapped the line, they couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t decrypt the signal.

  It wasn’t necessary. Very few decisions were made solely by voice. There was paper on top of paper with more paper in support. All anyone had to do was copy the paper or see what was on the computer screen. That’s why the burn bags were incinerated in the basement every night. Reams of paper entered, ashes left.

  It was like a paper mill thunder dome. Rick laughed at his own joke, looking around again to make sure no one was watching. Once a year they’d carry someone out, finding them a home in the funny farm. The IC claimed its fair share of victims, and not from intelligence failures. The sheer magnitude of the work took its toll.

  And the civilian world didn’t help. Every time a military leader or a politician made a bad decision, and people died, it was an intelligence failure. The stress was enormous.

  Rick took it all in stride. Maybe his hair turned gray earlier than his dad’s, but his old man powered through an incredible career in the Air Force. He refused to be held back and became one of the best jet engine maintenance managers in the world. He built the shop and refined their processes until they could turn engines around quicker than the design team imagined, far quicker than the technical manual suggested.

  Rick pulled up his report and typed Bob’s email address into the
To line. The Top Secret email system had a few checks to ensure that it wasn’t cross-pollinated with an unsecure system. Rick cleared those hurdles. He attached his analysis and the original report and sent it with a subject line that put Rick’s opinion on display.

  “Right Conclusion 4 Bad Report.”

  He sat there looking at his computer. No emails he wanted to read. What did the Colonel ask for again? He was so wrapped up in the last report he couldn’t remember what the next one was supposed to be. He’d settle for trying to dig out more information, try to confirm his deductions.

  D Minus 21 – A Recruit?

  Friday. A day for prayer and reflection. Unless you were Mohammed Marsook, then it was just another day planning the demise of the western world. He lived by the rule that the targets had to be lucky every time while Allah’s Warriors only had to be lucky once.

  So many volunteers, but so few with skills. He couldn’t infiltrate a mindless zealot anywhere important. But this Kenyan had potential. Mohammed sat in the park, drinking in the coolness of the northern Virginia sunshine. He wore khakis and a button down shirt, preferring its nondescript comfort to anything traditional. He didn’t even carry traditional garb with him. He expected the unclean rummaged through his bag every time he came. He shivered, castigating himself for thinking about it. He chased the uncomfortable thought from his mind.

  Clay appeared from a bus on the other side of the park. It wasn’t lost on Mohammed that a man who ran a rental car counter didn’t have a car. Clay looked around and once he spotted Mohammed, made a beeline for him. For a college graduate and a smart man, he acted like a person who could only focus on one task at a time. Mohammed wanted someone who was more casual, blended in, acted discreetly.