by J B Black
“You ready?” Reb asked.
Jake brought out the MP5 submachinegun he kept concealed under his blanket, cocked it, put the selector switch on full auto, and said, “Ready when you are.”
They walked over to the entrance to the building. Reb put his left hand on the door handle and said, “When I open the door, I’m going to go left. You go right.”
“Gotcha.”
* * *
When Reb and Jake entered the building, all conversation ceased and everyone looked in their direction. Reb took his position just to the left of the open doorway and Jake moved a few steps to the right.
They were in a low ceilinged, dimly lit room. Reb looked from left to right, taking a quick inventory of the situation.
On the far, left side of the room, two Taliban, who were facing each other, were getting up from the table they were seated at. Their AK-47 rifles were leaning against the sides of the table and the men had started to pick them up by the forestock. They were about fifteen feet from where Reb was standing.
In the middle of the room—about ten feet away from where Reb stood—four tables had been pulled together end-to-end to form one long table. There were four Taliban at that table—all facing Reb and Jake—and they were in various stages of getting up from their seats. They were just beginning to pick up their rifles, all of which were laying on top of the table with the barrels pointed in both Reb’s and Jake’s direction.
On the far, right side of the room, there was another table with two Taliban still seated at it, facing each other. The man with his back to Reb appeared to be talking on a cell phone.
Reb looked back to his far left at the two men starting to get up from their table, raised his shotgun, grasping the forestock to operate the pump action with his left hand, and squeezed the trigger.
In the close confines of the room, the boom of the shotgun blast was deafening. The blast hit the man with his back to Reb in the right shoulder blade in a two inch grouping and seven of the nine pellets punched all the way through his chest cavity and out the front of his chest where five of the pellets continued on their flight and impacted with the other man hitting him in the chest. Blood sprayed in all directions and both men at the table went down.
Jake opened fire—full auto—at the men at the table on the right side of the room hitting the man who was talking on his cell phone in the upper back. As that man fell to the floor, the other man flipped the table over to use it as a shield.
The remaining four Taliban at the long table in the center of the room were now on their feet firing their AK-47s on full auto in spray and pray mode at both Reb and Jake.
With his finger still holding the trigger closed, Reb turned the shotgun toward the man standing at the far left of the long table. The man was firing in Reb’s direction. Reb could hear bullets whizzing past him and felt a tug on the left sleeve of his tunic as one of the bullets passed through the fabric.
Reb racked the pump action to eject the empty shell and feed the next round into the chamber. When he slammed the slide action all the way forward, the hammer fell at the same time and the shotgun fired again. The blast hit the man dead center in the chest and hurled him backwards.
After shooting the man who had been on the phone, Jake pivoted to his left and saw that the man standing at the right end of the long table was shooting at him. Jake pulled the trigger and, starting with the man at the end, sent a burst of fire down the line of the three men still standing at the table.
Jake hit the man at the end of the table with several rounds in the upper chest—killing him instantly. The other two men—who were shooting at Reb—were hit and wounded, throwing off their aim. Jake’s 30-round magazine was empty.
Jake ejected the spent magazine and reached for a loaded one hidden underneath the clothing he was wearing.
Reb was turning to his right to engage the next target at the long table when he felt a burning sensation in his right upper arm—he’d been hit.
Reb gritted his teeth, ignored the pain, and slam-fired the next round in the shotgun. The Taliban—who had shot him in the arm and was still spraying bullets at Reb from his AK-47—was hit in the face. He was knocked backwards—showering blood, skull fragments and brain matter onto the man still standing next to him, who was also firing his AK-47 on full auto at Jake.
There were only two Taliban left in the fight. The one hiding behind the overturned table and the one still standing at the long table blasting away at Jake. The rest were either dead or mortally wounded and out of the fight.
The man still standing at the long table had emptied his 30-round magazine and was inserting a loaded magazine into the receiver.
The man hiding behind the overturned table—without exposing himself—stuck his AK-47 over the top of the table, pulled the trigger, and sent a hail of bullets in the general direction of Jake—who was trying to reload his MP5. The man behind the table emptied the magazine, and hit everything but Jake. However, one of the rounds hit Jake’s MP5 and damaged it so that Jake couldn’t get the loaded magazine to go into the magazine well.
Jake looked up and saw that the man standing at the long table had gotten a loaded magazine into his AK-47 and was pulling the bolt back to cock the rifle. The way that the man was staring at him, Jake knew that he was his next target. Jake gave up on trying to get the MP5 working and grabbed for his sidearm.
Reb’s right arm hurt like hell and blood was running down his arm soaking his tunic sleeve as he racked the action and swung the shotgun right to engage the last Taliban standing at the long table.
The Taliban had cocked his rifle and was raising it to an aimed firing position. Out of the corner of his eye, Reb could see that Jake was struggling to get at his sidearm.
Reb shouted, “Watch out, Jake.”
The Taliban looked Reb’s way, hesitated for the briefest of moments, then decided that Reb was the more immediate danger and started shifting the aim of his rifle toward Reb.
But the Taliban was right-handed and, by the time he got a quarter of the way turned toward Reb, Reb had already slammed the slide action all the way forward firing the shotgun.
The Taliban was only halfway turned toward Reb when the nine pellets of double-aught buckshot punched a two inch grouping through his throat—almost decapitating him and killing him instantly.
The last Taliban had his back against the overturned table and had a firm grip on his AK-47. He had replaced the empty magazine with a fully loaded one and he was taking a deep breath—steeling himself to engage the gunmen who were slaughtering his fellow Taliban.
Reb started walking toward the overturned table firing the last three rounds in the shotgun at the table as he advanced.
Reb was less than ten feet from the table when he fired the last round in the shotgun. There were three holes in the tabletop and the last Taliban hiding behind it was no longer a threat.
From start to finish, the gun battle had lasted less than ten seconds.
Reb slung his shotgun, barrel down, and draped his blanket over his shoulder to conceal it again.
Jake walked over to Reb and said, “We need to get that arm of yours looked at, buddy.”
“Let’s make sure all of these bastards are dead first.”
Reb drew his .45 automatic from the holster on his hip, thumbed the safety off, and, starting with the two men at the last table, he and Jake went back down the line making sure that each one of the Taliban was dead.
When they reached the table on the far left side of the room, both of the Taliban who had been at that table had ended up on the floor face down. Reb nudged the Taliban who had been facing his way when he first opened fire. The man moaned. He had been hit in the chest by several pellets that had penetrated the other man at the table and he was bleeding profusely.
Using his foot, Reb rolled the Taliban over onto his back. The man moaned again. His eyes fluttered open and he stared up at Reb.
Reb stared down at the man and said, in Pashto, “Hope
you got plenty of pussy in this life, because that bullshit about the seventy-two virgins … it ain’t happening.”
Reb pointed his .45 at the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
Reb removed the earplugs from his ears and waited for Jake to do the same before saying, “These sick sons of bitches won’t be murdering any more little girls.”
Jake nodded his agreement, then looked around and said, “What’s that noise I’m hearing?”
As Reb’s ears adjusted to the sudden quiet, he too heard a weird buzzing noise.
He looked around trying to figure out what direction the noise was coming from and started walking back to the right side of the room. Jake followed him.
The buzzing noise got louder the closer Reb got to the table on the far right where the two men had been seated facing each other.
As he and Jake walked up to the table, Reb remembered that the man with his back to him had been talking on a phone when they came in. He followed the buzzing noise over to the man’s body where he found a satphone laying on the floor near the dead man.
Reb picked the phone up and held it so that both he and Jake could hear what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Someone—a female speaking English with an American accent—was shouting: “Denis. Denis, please answer. What was all that noise? Denis, what’s happening? Goddammit Denis, why won’t you answer?”
“Hello. Who is this?” Reb asked in English.
“Is Denis there?” the woman asked.
“Ma’am, I regret to tell you that the only folks here are a bunch of dead Taliban who murdered a school bus full of little girls,” Reb said matter-of-factly. “Was your friend, Denis, in the Taliban?”
“Who the fuck are you?” the woman demanded.
“Someone who thinks there’s something bad wrong with anyone who thinks it’s okay to burn little girls alive, ma’am,” Reb said.
“You bastard. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that you rot in hell for this.” The woman broke the connection on her end and the phone Reb was holding went silent.
CHAPTER 4
Burj Al Arab Hotel
Jumeirah Beach Road
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
11:45 a.m., Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Hassan Younis couldn’t believe that he was staying at one of the world’s most fabulous hotels as he looked out over the azure waters of the Arabian Gulf through the floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom in his hotel suite.
Twenty-four hours earlier, Hassan had been in his cubbyhole of an office at the Institute for Palestinian American Relations in Washington, DC wondering if he would be able to raise enough donations to keep the doors of the Institute open for another month.
Hassan was a thirty-four year old Arab who had been raised in a refugee camp for Palestinians on the West Bank near Nablus. He had excelled in his classes at the United Nations funded school at the camp and had attended Harvard on a full scholarship where he’d majored in Political Science.
Shortly after graduating from Harvard nearly ten years ago, Hassan started the Institute for Palestinian American Relations—a non-profit organization that promoted the cause for an independent Palestinian state. Some of his more wealthy American classmates at Harvard had been kind enough to provide the financial support necessary for him to begin operations in Washington, D.C.
However, in recent months, with donations at an all time low, the Institute had been operating on a shoestring budget. Two days ago, when there was a knock on the door by an unexpected visitor, Hassan answered the door himself, not being able to afford the salary for a receptionist. Now, all of that was about to change.
The well-dressed man at the door had introduced himself as Mohammed al-Murrah and quickly explained to Hassan that he represented Faisal al-Waheed, a very wealthy Saudi Arabian businessman, who was impressed with the success Hassan had been having with the Institute for Palestinian American Relations. Mister al-Murrah informed Hassan that Mister al-Waheed had a proposition for Hassan that would involve a substantial donation to Hassan’s Institute should Hassan accept Mister al-Waheed’s offer.
When Hassan asked Mister al-Murrah what kind of proposition he was talking about, Mister al-Murrah informed him that Mister al-Waheed would be happy to discuss that with him in person, if he was interested in learning more.
Changing his tack somewhat, Hassan asked what dollar amount donation they were talking about. When Mister al-Murrah informed Hassan that his employer wanted to donate ten million dollars for the first year and similar amounts in future years, it had taken all of five seconds for Hassan to tell Mister al-Murrah that he would be very interested in meeting with Mister al-Waheed to hear what his proposition was.
The next morning, Hassan boarded Mister al-Waheed’s private jet to make the sixteen-hour flight to Dubai where their meeting was to take place.
Hassan looked at his wristwatch and noted that it was almost time for his meeting with Faisal al-Waheed. He turned away from the panoramic view outside his bedroom window, walked down the stairs to the lower level of the suite, and entered the lounge room where everything had been set up for the meeting.
As Hassan entered the room, there was a knock on the outer door to the suite. Before Hassan could answer the door, the door opened. Two men wearing white thawbs, white ghutra headdresses, and carrying MP5 submachineguns entered the room and made a quick sweep of the suite. When they completed their inspection, they went back into the hallway and took up guard stations on either side of the door.
As the two guards left the room, Faisal al-Waheed strode through the door. He was a tall man with a hawkish nose, a black beard shot with gray, and steely gray eyes under bushy black eyebrows. Faisal was wearing a black bisht, trimmed in gold thread, over a white thawb. His ghutra headdress was white with a black double rope cord to hold it in place on his head.
Mohammed al-Murrah followed behind his employer. He was dressed in a white thawb and a white ghutra headdress.
Faisal al-Waheed walked over to Hassan and offered him his hand. Mohammed al-Murrah said, “Hassan Younis, this is my employer, Faisal al-Waheed.”
The two men shook hands.
Faisal smiled and said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation to hear my proposition, Hassan.”
“I will be honest with you Faisal,” Hassan replied, “There’s not much I would not do for a donation in the amount that Mohammed mentioned to me. You have my undivided attention.”
“In that case, let’s take our seats and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
There were three very comfortable looking overstuffed armchairs arranged around a round glass-top coffee table. Sitting on the coffee table there was an ornate silver tray with a coffee service that included a carafe of coffee and three porcelain cups and saucers. An open laptop computer was sitting on the table, also.
Faisal and Hassan took their seats while Mohammed poured coffee for the three of them.
Faisal waited until Mohammed was seated and everyone had had a chance to drink their coffee before starting. He placed his cup back on its saucer on the table, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his hands in front of him with his elbows propped on the arms of his chair.
Faisal looked Hassan in the eye and said, “Hassan, I know that you are a Palestinian Arab who was raised in a refugee camp. I know that through your Institute for Palestinian American Relations you are fighting for the return of the lands the Jews stole from the Palestinians by lobbying the American Congress and trying to change the way the Americans feel about the Israelis so that eventually the Americans will abandon the Israelis. You and I both know that as long as the Israelis have the backing of America, there will always be a Jewish state occupying the former land of Palestine.
“Without the support of the Americans it is just a matter of time before the State of Israel is nothing more than a memory, a footnote in history.
“Given enough time, your approach to getting the Palestinians their lands back
from the Israelis might work.”
Faisal paused for a moment—still locking eyes with Hassan—before going on.
“Hassan, you said there’s not much you would not do for my donation of ten million dollars.”
Here it comes, Hassan thought to himself—bracing himself for what was to come next.
Faisal leaned forward in his chair and said, “Let me tell you a story. My younger brother is a General in my country’s air force. My nephew, my brother’s oldest son, grew up wanting to be a jet fighter pilot. My brother, the General, once believed that America was a good friend to our Kingdom. He inquired of his acquaintances in the American military about the possibility of his son attending either the American Air Force Academy or the American Naval Academy and later flight school to become a jet fighter pilot so he could help defend our Kingdom from our enemies. Arrangements were made and my nephew received permission to attend the American Naval Academy. And when he graduated he entered their pilot program to become a fighter pilot, what they call a naval aviator. He went to flight school in Pensacola, Florida where he spent more time in bars and strip clubs with some of his fellow pilots than he should have. He washed out of the flight program and came home a disgrace to his family and his country. My nephew is a broken man. The evil influences of America and Western civilization corrupted him.
“I want you to watch the video on the laptop computer on the table in front of you. It won’t take a moment.”
Hassan turned the laptop to face him and clicked on the video. As he watched, the camera panned across a beach crowded with thousands of people. Most of them were looking skyward. The camera then showed the sky above the people where several jets flashed by in close formation. Then the camera showed a banner that read 2008 Pensacola Beach Air Show Featuring The Blue Angels. Once more the camera panned over the crowded beach before stopping.
