BLACK OPS AMERICAN JIHAD
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
WITH FRED AUSTIN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado, 1928
“I’m not sure I can still do this,” Smoke Jensen said. “That’s asking a lot for an eighty-two-year-old man.”
“Mr. Jensen, you are the most fit eighty-two-year-old I’ve ever seen,” Billy Love said. “And I think movie audiences all across the country would enjoy seeing a real gunfighter, instead of Tom Mix and the others like him.”
“Oh, I enjoy a good Tom Mix movie,” Smoke said as he pulled his pistol and checked the loads in the cylinder chambers. “And I enjoy a good Zane Grey novel.”
“I’ve often wondered just how accurate those were,” Love said. “I mean, if you would believe the movies, there were all these clean-living, hard-riding, fast-shooting cowboys just riding around the West to put things right.”
Sally Jensen laughed. “You have just described my man,” she said.
“Now, Sally, don’t go building me up. I swear, you are as bad as Libbie Custer. To hear her talk, George Custer was the greatest military genius since Alexander the Great,” Smoke said. He put his pistol back in his holster, pulled it out a couple of times to test it, then looked over at the newsreel producer.
“Are you ready?” Love asked.
Smoke stretched his right arm out in front of him, palm down, and put a steel washer on the back of his hand. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Wait until you hear me say action,” Love said. “Then make your draw.” He looked over at the cameraman. “Roll camera. Speed. Slate it.”
A man, holding a small blackboard on which were printed the words SMOKE JENSEN FAST DRAW, stepped in front of the camera, opened, and snapped shut an arm.
“And, action,” Love said.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Smoke turned his hand, allowing the washer to fall. As the washer was falling, Smoke drew his pistol and shot at a tin can, sitting on a fence post. The bullet sent the can flying, at about the same time the washer landed with a clang, on a pie pan below.
There were several ranch hands gathered around to watch, and they applauded.
“Fantastic!” Love said excitedly.
“You were wonderful,” Sally said, kissing her husband of over fifty years on the cheek.
“It wasn’t bad for an old geezer, was it?” Smoke replied with a broad smile. “Of course, nobody was shooting back at me.”
“And I imagine that’s happened a few times,” Love said.
“More times than I care to remember.”
“Mr. Jensen, I know this is just a newsreel, but I have some friends in the movie industry. Suppose when I get back to Hollywood I talk to a few of them? I think a picture about your life . . . I mean a real picture, would be great.”
“A real picture?”
“We would have to doctor it up a little for dramatic effect,” Love admitted.
Smoke shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know, will you?”
“I will.”
A slender young man came over to them. “Mr. Love, it looks like there might be some weather coming in. I’d like to take off before it gets here.”
“All right, Paul,” Love said. “Tell the camera crew to get their equipment aboard and I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man walked away and said something to the cameraman. The cameraman nodded, and he and his assistant started striking the equipment and taking it to the closed-cabin monoplane that sat about fifty yards away. When the newsreel producer, Billy Love, had made arrangements to come interview and film the legendary gunfighter he learned, happily, that Smoke Jensen had a landing strip right on his ranch.
“Mr. Jensen, it has been an honor and a privilege to meet you,” Love said, sticking his hand out. “This will be in theaters all across the country within three weeks. I thank you, sir.”
Over at the airplane the assistant to the cameraman stuck a crank into the side of the engine cowling. He began cranking, and as he did so, Smoke could hear a high-pitched whine beginning to build up from the inertia starter.
“Clear!” the pilot called.
There was a chirp as the inertia starter was engaged, then a cough, and then a roar as the engine started. The propeller began spinning in a silver blur.
“Good-bye,” Love called as he hurried to the plane and got in.
The plane turned, sending a blast of wind behind it, kicking up bits of recently mowed grass and tiny grains of sand. For a moment Sally’s skirt fluttered in the prop wash as the pilot swung the plane around, nose to the wind. Smoke put his arm around her and pulled her to him as they watched.
The pilot opened the throttle to full, the plane started down the long, sod strip, gathering speed until the tail lifted from the ground. A moment later the plane was airborne. It climbed to a couple hundred feet, then made a 180-degree turn and came back over the field. Smoke and Sally waved up at it as it passed overhead, then began climbing much higher until it gradually disappeared in the West.
Later that evening, Sally sat on the sofa beside Smoke. “Happy birthday,” she said.
Smoke chuckled. “I thought we agreed to quit counting them after I turned eighty.”
“You can’t stop time, Old Man,” Sally teased. “Besides, Mildred baked a cake, just for you.”
“I hope she’s not going to put all the candles on it. It would be a fire hazard,” Smoke said.
Sally pointed to their six-year-old grandson, who was sitting on the floor, playing with a toy airplane. “There’s someone who won’t have to worry about counting birthdays for a while.”
“I guess not,” Smoke said. “You know, I was just thinking, watching that airplane take off, getting my picture taken for a motion picture show. There have been a lot of changes in our world, Sally.”
“There sure have been.”
“I wonder what the world will be like when young Pearlie there is my age.”
“Whatever it is, I hope he doesn’t lose touch with the past. Maybe you should have taken Mr. Love up on his offer to make a picture about your life.”
Smoke chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I was thinking of Pearlie,” Sally said. “And his grandchildren,” she added. “I want them to know about you. You’ve led a remarkable life, Smoke. Your descendants deserve to know about that.”
“Yeah, well, a movie that’s been ‘doctored for dramatic effect’ sure isn’t the way to pass my legacy on.�
�
“The cake is ready,” Mildred called.
“Oh boy, cake!” Pearlie said, getting up from the floor. “Can I have some, Mama?”
“Well, you’ll have to ask your grandpa about that,” Mildred said. “It’s his birthday cake.”
“Grandpa, can I have some of your birthday cake?” Pearlie asked.
“Well, I reckon so,” Smoke said. “I mean, if your grandson asked you for some of your birthday cake, wouldn’t you give it to him?”
Pearlie laughed. “Grandpa, it’s going to be a long time before I have a grandson.”
“Trust me, Pearlie, that day will come sooner than you think,” Smoke said. They were on their way to the dining room, but Smoke stopped. Sally went on a few steps beyond, until she realized that he had stopped.
“Smoke, sweetheart, are you okay?” she asked.
Smoke had a strange expression on his face, and he pointed to Pearlie. “He will, you know,” he said.
“He will what? What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Pearlie,” Smoke said. “He will have a grandson someday.”
“Well, yes, I suppose he will.”
“That’s it, Sally,” Smoke said. “I know now how I will pass my legacy on.”
CHAPTER ONE
Baltimore, Maryland, the present
His name was Arthur Kirby Jensen and he was a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army. He was a direct descendant, the great-great-grandson of the old, legendary gunfighter, Kirby “Smoke” Jensen, and he was not only aware of that relationship . . . he had a distinct reason to feel a very personal connection to that particular ancestor.
Slender, and deceptively muscular, Art was just a quarter of an inch under six feet tall, with sandy hair and steel-gray eyes.
Art was having lunch with his father, and the two men were seated at a table on the patio of the Crown and Horn Restaurant. From here they could see ships, trawlers, and yachts plying the sparkling blue waters of Chesapeake Bay.
Art’s father, Cal Jensen, was a retired FBI agent who still did enough consultation work with the agency to make Art wonder if he had ever actually retired at all.
“What do you hear from Grandpa?” Art asked.
Cal chuckled. “He’s as happy as a pig in the sunshine. The Confederate Air Force let him fly their B-17 again. In fact, they painted his name right under the pilot’s window. Captain Pearlie Jensen.”
“Well, why not?” Art asked. “What’s more authentic than to have their plane flown by someone who did fifty missions in a B-17 over Germany during the war? Oh, and by the way, Dad, I think it’s called the Commemorative Air Force now.”
“Well, whatever. The point is, your grandpa got to fly it. And speaking of flying, what time tomorrow are you leaving?”
“My flight leaves at 0900,” Art answered.
“I believe you said you’re going to Fort Ord?”
“Yes, to join the Seventh Infantry Division. We’ll be deploying to Iraq in another month.”
A waiter approached the two men.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “May I recommend fried oysters? The oysters you enjoy today spent last night in Chesapeake Bay.”
“Fried oysters sound good,” Cal said.
“I’ll have a hamburger,” Art said.
The waiter looked chagrined. “A . . . ham . . . burger . . . sir?” he asked in a pained voice. “You want a hamburger?”
“Yes.”
“But, sir, this is the Crown and Horn. Nobody orders a hamburger at the Crown and Horn.”
“You do have hamburger, don’t you?”
“We do not, sir. We are the Crown and Horn,” the waiter repeated haughtily.
“So you said.”
Cal looked at the menu, then pointed to one of the entrées. “What is this?” he asked.
“Why, that’s a filet mignon,” the waiter said.
“He’ll have that.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Grind it up.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Grind it up into hamburger,” Cal said. “My son is going to Iraq. If he wants a hamburger, then by damn I’m going to see to it that he gets a hamburger.”
“But, sir, that is twenty-two dollars,” the waiter replied.
“I don’t care what it costs, just do it.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter said.
“Damn, the FBI must pay well,” Art said as the waiter walked away.
“Well, they do pay better now that I’m a consultant,” Cal replied. “Are you taking your journal?”
“I never go anywhere without my journal,” Art said. “You know that.”
“I know. But things will be different in Iraq. There’s a possibility you could lose it over there. You might want to make a copy and take that instead.”
“I’ve got copies made,” Art said. “But reading the copy isn’t like reading the actual journal. I mean, the entries are in Smoke’s own handwriting. There is something almost surreal about reading the words in his hand. It’s like he is talking directly to me.”
“I know,” Cal said. “I just thought I’d mention it. By the way, how is your mother?”
“She’s fine,” Art said. “I had dinner with her and Lester last Sunday.”
Cal sighed. “Lester is a good man,” he said. “I’m glad Edna found him. Lord knows, I was no good for her.”
“It wasn’t you, Dad, it was your job,” Art said. “That’s the reason I’ve never married.”
“Oh, Son,” Cal said, “I hope you aren’t staying away from marriage just because I failed with your mother.”
“It’s not that. I’ve seen too many of my friends fail at marriage just because of the stress of the military. As you know I’ve only been back from Afghanistan for six months and I’m getting ready to go to Iraq. Right now we’re getting back-to-back assignments in Afghanistan and Iraq, and we are monitoring other hot spots around the world. It is difficult to maintain a marriage and manage a military career. If I tried to do both, I’m not sure I could do either.”
“You sell yourself short,” Cal said. “I’ve never known anyone more capable than you.”
The waiter returned then, carrying a tray. He put the oysters in front of Cal, then, with a great show, removed the silver cover to display Art’s meal.
“Your . . . ham . . . burger . . . sir,” the waiter said. The hamburger was artfully plated with thinly sliced strips of grilled zucchini, the dark grill lines perfect diagonals against the pale green. In addition to the grilled zucchini, there were four grilled cherry tomatoes, still on the vine. A small painter’s palate of mustard and ketchup completed the display.
After lunch, Art drove his father home.
“Can you come in for a few minutes?” Cal invited as they sat in front of his apartment.
“I’d better not, Dad. I’ve got a lot of things to do before tomorrow.”
Cal nodded, then reached across the car to shake Art’s hand.
“You take care over there, Son,” he said. “And drop me a line now and then.”
“I’ll send e-mail.”
Cal shook his head. “No, not e-mail. I mean, yes, send me e-mail, but I want some real mail too. This e-mail stuff isn’t like real mail . . . it isn’t something you can hold.”
“Why, Dad, I never knew you were so old-fashioned,” Art said. “All right. I’ll send you snail mail and e-mail.”
Fort Ord, California, one month later
Several preset charges were detonated, the explosions loud and concussive. Bullets popped and whined as they passed just inches over the heads of a group of soldiers who were crawling on their bellies through the infiltration course.
Art, who was one of the soldiers on the course, rolled over on his back to pass under the lowest strand of barbed wire at one of the hasty fortifications. As he did so, he could see the tracer rounds whizzing by just above him. A nearby explosion went off, and his face was stung with dirt and packing
wad from the charge.
After negotiating the wire, Art turned back over to his stomach, then resumed his transit through the course. Although there were several men and women on the course with him, Art was more than twenty yards ahead of the next person. Passing under one more barbed-wire barrier, he wriggled on out of the course until he was well beyond the framed machine guns, which were firing a steady stream of tracer rounds over the other participants who were still engaged.
“Up here, Colonel!” the sergeant who was conducting the course shouted. He was holding a stopwatch, and he smiled broadly as he showed it to Art. “Do you realize you just set a course record?”
“Did I?” Art replied. “Well, there’s nothing like machine gun fire and explosive charges to hurry a person up,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“What I want to know is, why did you do it in the first place? You certainly didn’t have to.”
“I’ll tell you why he did it, Sergeant,” General McCabe said.
“General!” the sergeant said, coming to attention and saluting. “I’m sorry I didn’t send someone to welcome you. I didn’t know you were here.”
“That’s quite all right, I didn’t announce my intention to come,” General McCabe replied. He smiled as he returned both Art’s and the sergeant’s salute.
“Colonel Jensen went through the course to provide an inspiration for his men. And it is no surprise that he did as well as he did. Yesterday, he fired expert on the combat firing range, and two days ago he maxed the PT test.”
“Sumbitch,” the sergeant said. “I can’t wait till we get you over to Iraq, Colonel. You’re goin’ to kick some Habib ass.”
Art laughed. “I’ll kick one in the tail, just for you, Sarge.” Then, to General McCabe, he said, “General, did you have anything? I’m going to head back to the BOQ and take a shower.”
“No, nothing in particular,” General McCabe said, taking in the infiltration course with a wave of his hand. “I just thought I’d come out and watch for a few minutes. Oh, and Ann wants me to remind you not to forget that you are having dinner with us tonight. We thought we might try out that new restaurant over in Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
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