by Gavin Reese
Mikey met Billy’s gaze with disdain in his eyes. “Yeah, he’s clean. This time.”
“Well, get on up here, then. Beers ain’t gonna drink themselves. Billy, come tell me how you been.”
Billy defiantly strode toward Cleveland, unconcerned about waiting for the others. Fuck them, he thought, those fuckin’ pricks. They’re newer here’n I am!
Upon reaching the carport, Cleveland held out a cold can as though offering an apology. “You know we got to be careful in these times, right? I hope you understand we can’t hardly be too careful these days.”
“I know, Cleveland, I just didn’t expect it, that’s all, but it ain’t no thang. I’ll come out here naked if you need me to.”
“Whoa,” Cleveland laughed, “keep that two-inch poon stabber on lock down, and we’ll be just fine. How’s things goin’ with your brother? Is he gonna help, ‘cuz we’re just ‘bout outta other options.”
Billy stood still as he contemplated his choices. Faced with the possibility of being humiliated as an untrustworthy snitch in front of the man he idolized, he allowed his ego and character flaws to overcome his good sense. “Yeah, he’s gonna do it. He seemed to believe the kai-oat story, so I think we got some steam back in our sails.” Amid the immediate congratulations and celebration of the gathered Chosen Few, Billy voraciously drank his beer to quell the growing knot in his stomach. What the fuck did I just do?
Thirty-Six
Duke’s residence. Maricopa County, Arizona
Duke sat in one of the red vinyl dining chairs his Uncle John had “left to him,” and leaned on the matching circular, red-and-white Formica table with both elbows. He rolled his right wrist over and looked at his watch, despite having a fairly accurate awareness of time. That fucker’s late again. His cellphone chimed, and the assigned ringtone immediately informed Duke that Cleveland finally called. Normally an unhappy person, tardiness always made him more so. He firmly believed that being only five minutes early meant you were actually ten minutes late. He placed his blue metal coffee cup down on the small kitchen table and opened the antiquated cellular flip-phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s me. Got some good news for you. Looks like we’re maybe ahead of schedule, the fall guys’re lined up, and they’s gonna help Abba-Dabba take the blame.” Cleveland sounded like he expected praise and gratitude from his mentor. “Aloha snackbar.”
“That’s enough, you’re getting’ a little loose for a goddamned cell phone, aren’t you?” Duke’s gruff bark showed no appreciation for his subordinate’s efforts. “Meet me at the third place, at an unreasonable hour.” Duke hung up before Cleveland acknowledged the order; not a dialogue or an inquiry as to his subordinate’s availability, Duke expected Cleveland to follow the order without question or reservation. He paid Cleveland to keep The Chosen Few mobilized, motivated, and on task, as well as to do whatever Duke needed, when he needed it.
He thought about Cleveland’s statements, and what they meant for his imminent bombing plans. Having orchestrated a simple, but multifaceted false flag strategy to lay blame on multitudes of others, Duke knew each subsequent step required the successful completion of the previous. The most important aspect of the aftermath operations, he concluded, the veritable lynchpin, was to ensure the feds, the local cops, and the public all had someone else to blame and hold accountable for the devastation and death. Duke hoped to create a web of lies sufficiently plausible to allow him and his conspirators, ultimately, to take strategic political advantage of public outrage for the new 9/11.
Sipping at the black coffee in his blue metal mug, Duke pondered the probability that he had done enough to make his first, and foremost, scapegoat believable. Is it enough to mimic their ISIS and Al Qaida designs, spread pre-blast chat-room propaganda, and make false Internet claims of responsibility after the bombings?
He considered the possibility, necessity, and potential liability of also sending untraceable, written and audio-taped communications to local news stations. I could never believably present myself as a sandnigger, but I could pretend to be a radicalized American inspired by ISIS and Al Qaida. Say I’m the leader of an Al Qaida cell inside the United States, take credit for the bombing, and threaten the imminent destruction of downtown infrastructure in additional American cities. “Shiiit,” he said aloud and chuckled, “I’ll bet I could put something together that’d make those spineless Washington fucks close Gitmo.”
Duke thought about his efforts thus far to use Billy McDougal and his brother, the Army vet, as backup patsies, in the event that the “foreign terror cell” didn’t survive police scrutiny and they needed to sidetrack the cops and feds with another plausible suspect. Duke greatly appreciated that Cleveland had suggested the McDougal boys serve this purpose, and he reminded himself that he needed to stop by the Buckeye Public Library in the next day or so. Time for the disgruntled combat vet to make a few more escalating rants.
Duke had no use or sympathy for military personnel who were so soft they couldn’t handle killing America’s enemies, and no remorse for using Jonathan as a back-up patsy to cover his own criminal liability. Better to weed this guy out now and let Big Brother waste valuable time building a federal case to prove the man’s guilt, he thought, got no use for him in my new America.
Lastly, and purely for self-preservation, Duke had planned to use one or two fake identities to ensure he personally escaped any initial police perimeters and could not be accurately identified by any eyewitnesses.
Standing up from the red chair and table with the blue coffee mug in hand, he drained its last remains and walked to the sink; he rinsed the metal mug with well water from the faucet and set it out on a dish towel to dry. Duke stepped to the counter, just on the other side of the dish towel, and retrieved his Colt Commander 1911 handgun and two extra magazines. He checked his pockets to ensure he had all he needed to leave the isolated residence, and prepared to meet Cleveland at the “third place.” This simply referred to the third in a series of five predetermined meeting locations and the “unreasonable hour” simply referred to the 4th Amendment, so “four o’clock.” He had no need for a better cipher, as Cleveland had proved too stupid and untrustworthy to avoid writing down complex information that cops could later find and use against them in court. Besides, he told himself, no one could legally identify me, anyway. Cleveland is the only one who knows I exist, and he only knows a fake name and a face. I’ll be in the wind long before he has a chance to sing.
Thirty-Seven
Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona
The RPG sliced past Jonathan’s head, barely missed the HumVee behind him, and slammed into some hadji’s mudhut across the street. He ran the few steps back to take cover behind the HumVee and frantically tried to call in air support, Cobras, Apaches, Spectre gunships, tri-planes with bricks, he didn’t give a shit what showed up as long as they got something NOW! Breathless and panicked, Jonathan could barely hear the radio operator over the inbound AK rounds, ricochets, RPGs, explosions, and the screams of his men. The lifeless body of his .50-gunner, Corporal Bryan Houser, hung half out of the HumVee’s turret, streaming blood down the closed driver’s door, and finally pooling and staining the sand beneath it.
Jonathan couldn’t get out on the air, couldn’t maneuver his squad, couldn’t stop the insurgent advance, which now included numerous enemy snipers who seemed to occupy the top of every nearby building. He tried in vain to tell his men to look up, to take out the snipers, while intermittently firing from behind the HumVee until his last M4 magazine ran dry. Transitioning to his Beretta, the pistol soon ignited its last round, leaving him nothing but a KaBar and a P38. Why won’t anyone fucking listen to me??!! Desperate to save his men, Jonathan left cover and stood, yelling, pointing at the rooftops as he looked up. Shoot! Shoot! Sniper on the roof! He saw the scoped rifle swing on to him, recognized Billy as the sniper, and, with no way to stop it, he helplessly watched the Dragunov flash.
Jonathan sat up in a panic, awake before the imaginary rifle sounded, his hands up and out to defend himself, his heart rate, pulse, and breathing all through the roof. He recognized his mother’s spare bedroom, which had once been his own, but still felt compelled to turn on the lights and scan for threats. Satisfied he remained alone and safe, Jonathan darkened the room, laid back down on the damp sheets, and kept the blanket and top sheet pulled back. The top of his pillow soaked with bourbon-laced sweat, Jonathan briefly wondered if someone hadn’t poured water on him. As he lay under the ceiling fan, his body quickly cooled and he tried to analyze his dream. Why the fuck was Billy the sniper, he wondered, I don’t think he hates me that much.
Jonathan wanted to fight, wanted to kill, wanted to cry, wanted rest, wanted peace. Dr. Martin instructed him to perform specific exercises to combat stress, but it had not lessened the frequency or intensity of his nightmares. Performing the Grounding Exercise made him self-conscious, but, initially, the Self Hug felt downright ridiculous. Once convinced to try them, though, Jonathan felt almost immediate relief from his anguish. In need of such at that moment, he sat up, rolled his legs out of bed, and placed his feet squarely on the floor. Jonathan sat at the edge of the mattress and crossed both arms over his chest, each hand reaching all the way back to its opposing scapula. He held himself tight and closed his eyes, even in the darkened room, and gently, slowly rocked back-and-forth. Lifting his head back to fully expand his airway, he then stretched his neck muscles by slowly rolling his head in complete, lateral circles. Jonathan began controlled Combat Breathing, which struck him as very ironic given his present environment. Slow four count in, hold for four, slow four out. Repeat. Again.
Jonathan brought up a mental picture of a safe place, the same one he used since his first meeting with Dr. Martin. His memory instantly transported him through time and space, back to the first month he and Colleen dated, to the early autumn of 2000. They had driven up the road to Mount Lemmon, above Tucson, to see the fall colors and had stopped in an otherwise abandoned pine forest campground. All alone, they’d been surrounded by the scent of pine and cool, October air. Jonathan sat on a cold concrete picnic table facing out, his feet on the poured bench in front of him. Colleen came to him, turned around, and sat on the bench between his knees. He bent down to hold her close, his arms across her chest, their fingers intertwined. In near silence, they sat listening to the birds and the forest, snuggling cheek-to-cheek, her light citrus-blossom perfume filling his nostrils and his chest. In that moment, Jonathan realized he was in love with her, and he wanted to grow old with no one else. They remained together there for a long time, saying nothing and conveying everything; in much the same position and physical sensation Jonathan now felt, alone in a darkened spare bedroom, on the edge of the sweaty, dampened mattress, struggling to retain whatever remained of his sanity, his life, and his love. Colleen and Michael were his everything, and he stood on the verge of losing all that mattered in this life.
Jonathan felt himself relax, his nerves soothed, his calm restored. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but the Self Hug again brought him peace. If he could have remained there on Mount Lemmon with Colleen indefinitely, smelling the intoxicating mix of her light perfume and cool pine, he would have gladly done so.
After immersing himself in palpable, restorative calm, he gently released his hands, opened his eyes, and sat in silent reflection, deeply breathing the quiet calm that had enveloped the room. Jonathan felt such intense relaxation, optimism, and calm that all he really wanted, in that moment, was sleep. He didn’t know how he would do it, but he felt confident he could beat all this. Starting tomorrow, he told himself.
Turning the pillow over, Jonathan gently lay back down and pulled the covers up. Sleep came almost immediately, along with a deep, intense peace he hadn’t known for months.
Thirty-Eight
Ocotillo Public Library & Workforce Literacy Center. Phoenix, Arizona
Duke had timed his arrival to ensure he avoided the few, isolated stragglers who came into the Phoenix Public Library’s West Southern Avenue location during the first half-hour after it opened. He had, rather, opted to join the unemployed masses who frequented that library and Work Force Center at least thirty minutes later, for fear of being too easily remembered by the staff before the larger crowds offered him far greater anonymity.
His first order of business, as usual, required him to find an isolated computer terminal that prevented anyone from surveilling his monitor. Especially today, he thought. After logging in to the library’s generic anonymous user profile, Duke brought up online copies of two Islamic jihadist publications used to recruit and influence Muslims around the world to commit violence in the name of their God and Prophet. How puny is a God you can’t depict, he wondered, and how mindless and gullible are its followers they’re willing to kill themselves, their families, their children, in the name of such a deity?
As new publication of these jihadi rags only came out every nine or ten months, Duke tried to use only a few lines from the 88-page document whenever he made these postings. He did, however, revisit the last few pages of the documents, which contained a fatwa hit list of sorts; people, almost always Westerners, whom its publishers and authors wanted someone, somewhere, to kill in the name of Allah. Putrid fucks, you sand niggers make it so easy to hate you.
With the language, grammatical and syntax errors copied from the publications, Duke took his borrowed hatred onto social media sites and, under carefully chosen user names, planted the ‘evidence’ he hoped would soon help elevate him into a position of political power:
@AmericanJihadist911: “Mujahid’s Notes, Age of the Arizona Assassins. Hidden bomb check car bomb check pressure cooker check. Allah Akbar”
InspiredAmericanMuslim: “Whoever intends Lone Jihad faces a fearful mountain of ice before him. Fear not, ur burning truthful resolute destroys such ice”
@AmericanSheik911: “US defeat + Da’Awah + defense=Khilafa”
911JustTheBeginning: “Falling towers 2 beautiful 2 b forgotten. We WILL see such beauty again soon, and such beauty will spread across the Devil’s Lands!”
Well aware that almost every social media site used end-to-end encryption, Duke held no fear that law enforcement had any real opportunity to identify and apprehend him before the operation’s success. He did, however, hope that his webs of deceit helped to secure his safety during what he expected would be a lawless aftermath as they pursued his phantom leads. As close as this is getting, it’ll soon be time to make a few phone calls.
Thirty-Nine
Desert hills south of Cleveland’s residence. Tonopah, Arizona
Jonathan had been watching the isolated desert property for almost four hours, and had regretted last night’s whiskey consumption for the most recent three. After arriving just before dawn, he’d set up a concealed hide on a reasonably adjacent hill just south of the Tonopah-Salome Highway. The hill upon which he sat overlooked the property where he’d watched Billy drive onto the tree-lined road two days ago, and hadn’t require heroic effort to ascend or find a decent hide just below its summit. Jonathan had intentionally waited two days to return and again surveil the property, and parked his mother’s car almost a mile west of the hill and hiked through dry washes to get there.
Outdoor temperatures pushed one-hundred-degrees by mid-morning. Jonathan’s only savior had been a few additional hours of shade provided by the hill’s summit. Now, however, the late morning sun rose overhead and baked his hide. While no stranger to heat or desert combat operations, while hungover, he struggled to stay alert and vigilant. He did enjoy, however, the distraction that this project offered him from his otherwise depressed existence. Jonathan liked again having a purpose, a mission, and an objective, even if not as grand as those of his recent past.
Another hour passed before he reaped anything useful. Catching movement through the binoculars and, after zeroing in on it, Jonathan
recognized what must be the house Billy had visited. Its flat paint blended in with the surrounding desert foliage, which nearly concealed the home from his view. Had a white male not walked around the carport carrying reflective metal in his hand, Jonathan might not have seen it from this distance. He watched the male, dressed in dark tan overalls despite the oppressive heat, enter an old, medium-brown Jeep Wagoneer, and begin traversing the rough driveway toward the paved road. Jonathan stayed in place and, as the old SUV reached the end of the drive, saw it had an Idaho license plate on the front bumper. He wrote down “X5639P”, based on a scribing method his company’s sniper teams had used to differentiate letters and numbers.
The Jeep turned west onto the Tonopah-Salome highway, the main thoroughfare for traffic in that area, and soon faded from sight. Jonathan parked too far away to allow any expectation of following the Jeep today, so he patiently sat and waited to identify anyone else leaving the property. After another two hours of inactivity, he decided to walk out instead of waiting for nightfall, but had to exercise additional caution to extract himself in broad daylight. No sense getting spotted now that I have something to pass on to Wall and Landon, he thought.
Forty
Mrs. McDougal’s neighborhood. Dry Creek, Arizona
“Hey, momma, is Jonathan there?” Billy sat in his idling truck a few blocks north of his mother’s home. His childhood neighbors moved away long ago, so he felt no concern anyone else would recognize and approach him.
“No, he’s out, I think at the VA.” His mother sounded suspicious, and Billy understood she knew he never called for benign reasons. He also knew she refused to directly question him without specific cause.
