by J B Black
“Imam, I’m not sure that is the analogy that I would use for future reference,” Hassan said.
“Forgive me, Sinbad”, Abdul said. “I’ve been around these Americans for so long that some of their sayings have rubbed off on me.”
“Imam, I will look forward to receiving your call after the night prayer service tomorrow evening. Praise Allah.” Hassan said before ending the call.
After the phone call, Hassan left his office at the Institute and went home with a feeling of accomplishment and the certain knowledge that Allah was using him as his instrument to punish the Butcher of Lashwan.
CHAPTER 11
NSA Headquarters
Fort Meade, Maryland
Friday, April 16, 2010
11:15 p.m. Eastern Time
Rich Carson was a short, chubby, prematurely balding, twenty-nine year old computer nerd who wore black horn rim glasses and had a master’s degree in electrical engineering from Georgia Tech. He was in his assigned cubicle on sub-level 7 at the NSA Headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland working the graveyard shift. Rich was listening in on a conversation of a member of a Mexican drug cartel who was in Los Angeles, California talking to another member of the same drug cartel who was at the cartel’s headquarters in Mexico. Rich was what he and his co-workers jokingly referred to as an “eavesdropping specialist”.
The dress code for the graveyard shift was casual. Rich and his co-workers took full advantage of it by wearing just about anything they wanted to that was comfortable. In Rich’s case that meant wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the American flag and the words PROTECTED BY THE 2ND AMENDMENT, khaki-colored cargo shorts, camo-colored crocs, and a ratty looking baseball cap with the NRA logo.
Rich had just opened his third bag of potato chips when he heard a warning beep in his headphones and turned his attention to his computer monitor where an alert icon was busily flashing between red and yellow on the screen. Rich clicked on the icon so he could start monitoring another ongoing conversation that had priority over the one he was currently listening in on.
The screen on Rich’s computer monitor changed to display the new intercept and was split horizontally. The information displayed in the upper half of his monitor told Rich that both of the individuals he was listening in on were flagged ULTRA—a designation reserved for serious threats to national security. He saw that it was a two-party conversation with one of the phones using a cell tower in Washington, DC and the other phone using a cell tower in Pensacola, Florida. The party in Washington was someone who went by the name Sinbad and the other party, in Pensacola, was someone who went by the name Imam. They were obviously code names.
In the bottom section of the split screen of his monitor, the sophisticated voice recognition software developed by the NSA was generating a text transcript of the conversation in real time as Rich listened in to the conversation on his headphones. Based on the text transcript typed out so far, Rich could tell they hadn’t been talking for long.
When the two men started talking about a plan to assassinate someone by the name of Reb Rogers, a former American soldier who had served in Afghanistan, Rich heard a warning beep go off in his headphones again.
A new message was being displayed on his monitor.
Rich saw that Reb Rogers’ name was displayed with instructions to forward the recording of the conversation along with the transcript of the conversation to an agency he’d never heard of—the Federal Bureau for Internal Security.
“Damn, I wonder what this Reb Rogers did to warrant this kind of attention,” Rich said out loud to himself as he returned to eavesdropping on Sinbad and Imam.
As soon as the conversation between Sinbad and Imam ended, Rich felt someone tap him on the shoulder and almost shit his pants he was so absorbed in the conversation he had been eavesdropping on.
When he turned around he saw his boss standing next to a man he’d never seen before wearing a black suit.
“Rich, this is Special Agent Tom Green of the FBI,” his boss said. “He’s the FBI liaison agent on duty here tonight.”
Rich watched as FBI Special Agent Green flashed him his FBI Badge and credentials.
“Rich,” his boss went on, “Agent Green needs to speak with you regarding the ULTRA flag conversation you’ve just intercepted.”
“OK, boss,” Rich said, warily, while surreptitiously activating a recording device to document the conversation.
The FBI agent said, “The bureau has an ULTRA flag on any conversations involving either Sinbad or Imam. I understand that another agency has a flag on someone else who was mentioned in the conversation you’ve just intercepted.”
“Yes, there was a flag by the Federal Bureau for Internal Security—whatever the hell that is—on someone by the name of Reb Rogers,” Rich said.
“I’m here to direct you to send everything to the FBI,” Special Agent Green said. “Furthermore, you are directed to not—repeat not—send anything to the Federal Bureau for Internal Security. The FBI will take responsibility for notifying the Federal Bureau for Internal Security about this intercept.”
Rich looked to his boss, who nodded that he should comply with the FBI agent’s instructions.
As his boss and the FBI agent watched over his shoulder, Rich turned back to his computer and sent the file of the conversation between Sinbad and Imam to the FBI only.
After the file was sent and his boss and the FBI agent walked away, Rich opened up a fresh bag of potato chips, got an ice-cold can of Mountain Dew out of his personal fridge, popped the top, and took a big swig before he went back to eavesdropping on the two members of the Mexican drug cartel.
CHAPTER 12
Aboard Reb’s Revenge
Out in the Gulf of Mexico
70 Miles off Seaside Beach, Alabama
Saturday, April 17, 2010
10:30 a.m. Central Time
It was a beautiful, sunny, warm, spring day with the high temperature expected to be in the 80s. Reb Rogers was seated at the helm of his 35-foot sportfisherman, Reb’s Revenge, enjoying the view of his girlfriend, Honey Brown, who was lounging in the bow of the boat getting some sun.
Honey was stretched out, face down, on top of a large boat cushion. She was wearing white thong bikini bottoms and Reb was thinking that she had the prettiest heart-shaped ass he’d ever seen.
Then she rolled over onto her back and the view couldn’t have been better from Reb’s point of view. The skimpy, white bikini top she was wearing was more for support than for concealment—it revealed enough cleavage that Reb promptly forgot about Honey’s gorgeous ass and concentrated his attention fully on her bosom.
Honey was a statuesque six feet tall and had an hourglass figure with all of the right curves in all of the right places. Her hair color was brunette and she currently wore her hair long—down to the middle of her back. She had big brown eyes and she earned a very comfortable living modeling plus-size clothing lines.
As Reb watched, Honey bent the knee of her right leg slightly and started slowly dragging her foot back toward her buttocks. When her knee was fully bent upwards, she lifted her foot and extended her leg straight up into the air as though she were practicing a ballet move. Still holding her leg up in the air, she rolled onto her left side and propped her head up in the upraised palm of her left hand. With her right hand, she lifted the sunglasses she was wearing up onto her forehead, smiled, and said, “Like what you see, sailor?”
Reb laughed and said, “Long legs, big tits, and, I might add, a perfect ass. What more could a normal, red-blooded, American boy ask for?”
“How about a roll in the hay?” Honey suggested, seductively.
* * *
Seven Months Earlier
Seaside Beach, Alabama
September 7, 2009
After he resigned his commission in the Army and returned to the states from Afghanistan, Reb spent a couple of days in Washington, D.C. visiting with his friend Jake Gant before going straight to Seaside Beach, Alabama.
He arrived on Labor Day, September 7, 2009 and checked into a beachside vacation condominium that overlooked the Gulf of Mexico where he had a reservation for a two-week stay.
The Qui Tam award money—twelve million dollars and change—had been deposited to Reb’s bank account before he’d left Afghanistan and Reb was itching to spend a small portion of it.
Reb’s first order of business was to find a place to live. For the past eight years, he had been a warrior living in whatever spartan quarters the military provided him. Now that he was a civilian—and had more money than he knew what to do with—that was going to change.
Reb looked through the local phone book, picked out a real estate agent and told her what he wanted. The next day he visited Seaside Tower, a fifteen-story, luxury beachfront condominium complex on Perdido Beach Boulevard with a three level parking garage, where he inspected Unit 1203, an ocean-view, fully furnished three-bedroom, three and a half-bath condominium unit on the twelfth floor above the three level parking garage.
When he drove up to the building, Reb noticed the decorative, slatted privacy screen on the street side front of the building that blocked the view of the entrance breezeway on each floor from prying eyes.
Unit 1203 was in like-new, move-in condition. From the moment Reb walked through the front door he had a spectacular view of the Gulf of Mexico through the plate glass rear wall.
Among the many features that Reb liked about Seaside Tower, what sealed the deal for him was that the Condominium restrictions did not allow for short term residents—meaning that Reb would not have to put up with new neighbors every week or two weeks during the peak vacation and holiday periods. Everyone living at Seaside Tower was a full-time permanent resident, the majority of whom were retired and the others, who were still working, were employed locally or in nearby Pensacola, Florida.
Reb made an all cash offer that day and his counter to their counter was accepted the following day. The deal included an expedited closing and Reb was able to move out of the rental unit where he had been staying and into his new home at the end of the two-week rental period.
Reb moved into his new home on Monday, September 21, 2009. The morning after moving in, Reb decided to have breakfast at a diner he’d heard good things about. The diner was located at the marina across the street on the lagoon known as Cotton Bayou. He walked down the breezeway to the west elevator where there was an older man waiting for the elevator.
“Morning, young fellow,” the man said. “Did I see you come out of unit 1203 just now?”
“Yessir, I just moved in,” Reb said.
The man stuck his hand out and said, “Well, I’m Rusty Gordon, your next door neighbor in unit 1202. It’s nice to meet you.”
Rusty was an older gentleman, in his mid 60s. He had a thick head of unruly red hair, a bushy red mustache, and a twinkle in his green eyes. He was shorter than Reb—five foot-eleven, had a wiry build, and the weather worn look of someone who had spent a great deal of time outdoors. He was wearing a black polo shirt, blue jeans, sneakers, and a black ball cap emblazoned with an embroidered patch that read Rusty’s Marina, Seaside Beach, Alabama.
Reb shook Rusty’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Rusty. I’m Reb Rogers.”
“Where’re you from Reb?” Rusty asked, as they waited for the elevator.
“Most recently, I was in Afghanistan,” Reb said. “I just got out of the service.”
“I guess you were over there helping fight the war on terrorism or whatever they’re calling it these days?”
“Yessir, I was over there for eight years in the Army,” Reb said.
“I was in the Army myself,” Rusty said as they got on the elevator. “Served in Vietnam. Always nice to meet a fellow vet.”
When the elevator door closed, Rusty asked, “Where’re you headed Reb?”
“I thought I’d try breakfast at the diner in the marina across the street,” Reb replied. “I hear it’s pretty good. Have you eaten there?”
“It’s the best damn food anywhere around here,” Rusty said. “And I should know, I’m the owner. That’s why it’s called Rusty’s Marina. You’ll be my guest for breakfast at the diner this morning, Reb. My way of thanking you for your service to our country.”
“Thanks, Rusty. I appreciate that.”
While they were eating breakfast, Reb said, “Rusty, I’m thinking about going into the charter fishing business and I’m going to be looking for a boat. You wouldn’t happen to know of any good deals that might be available, would you?”
“You planning on taking large groups out for more than a day at a time or you planning on taking just a few fishermen out for half-day and full-day fishing trips?” Rusty asked. “I’d need to know that before I could make a recommendation.”
Reb thought it over while he finished chewing a mouthful of waffles covered in melted butter and real maple syrup. After swallowing and taking a sip of coffee, Reb said, “You know, I think I would prefer taking just a few fishermen out at a time on half-day or full-day charters.”
Then, giving it just a little more thought, Reb said, “And I’d like the boat to have a kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, and a place where I could sleep on board if I decided to stay out in the Gulf overnight.”
“Here’s the thing, for these small party charters going offshore like out to where the oil rigs are, where the fish are, you’ll need to maximize the amount of time that could be spent actually fishing,” Rusty explained. “You want a boat that can get to the deep water fishing spots in a hurry and get back to port in a hurry so that your clients get to spend more time actually fishing instead of boat riding. And you want a boat with a cabin area. The perfect boat for you would be a Scout 350 Abaco with twin Yamaha 350 outboards.”
Reb smiled and, knowing the answer before he asked the question, asked anyway. “You don’t happen to know of one that’s available, do you?”
“I do,” Rusty said. “I just happen to know a guy who’s got a like-new 2008 Scout 350 Abaco with twin Yamaha 350 outboards that’s for sale.”
“What would a boat like that cost?” Reb asked.
“The one I’m talking about was purchased brand new less than a year ago and the owner paid four hundred thousand plus taxes for it.”
Reb gave Rusty a look that said that was a little bit more than he wanted to pay for a used boat.
Rusty said, “Two months ago he put it on the market for three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Then a month later he dropped the price to three fifty and last week he told me he’d take three hundred for it.”
The expression on Reb’s face changed indicating that he was now more interested than he had been to begin with.
Rusty leaned forward and said, conspiratorially, “Reb, just between you and me, I’m pretty sure that the owner would probably take two seventy-five for it in a cash on the barrelhead deal.”
“Is there something wrong with the boat?” Reb asked.
“Hell, Reb, you don’t think I’m stupid enough to recommend a boat that’s got something wrong with it to my new next door neighbor, do you?” Rusty asked, in false indignation.
“There ain’t a damn thing wrong with that boat. The problem is that the owner is a construction contractor over in Mobile whose business is experiencing some serious cash flow problems and he just needs to raise a lot of cash quickly. And, like most of those crazy construction contractors do, he’s selling off his big boy toys to get him over the hump. It ain’t the first time it’s happened to him and it won’t be the last.”
“When can I see it?” Reb asked, accepting Rusty’s explanation for the reason behind the good deal.
“Soon as you’re through eating,” Rusty said, amicably. “He keeps the boat moored here over at slip D7.”
After they finished eating their breakfast, Rusty took Reb over to see the boat. Reb was impressed. The boat was a real beauty and beautifully appointed. Above deck everything was spotless and looked brand new.
Down bel
ow, in the cabin, it was what Reb had imagined a yacht would be like. Rusty pointed out that there were two sleeping areas, an aft berth and a forward berth. He told Reb that the kitchen was called a galley and that all of the appliances were stainless steel. The galley had a separate refrigerator and freezer. There was a glass cooktop for cooking and a microwave oven. All of the countertops were made of Corian. And there was a convertible dinette to eat meals at.
Reb asked about the bathroom—Rusty told him that it was properly called the head—and was surprised at the size of it. In addition to the toilet, there was a vanity with a sink and a Corian countertop, and there was a shower. Reb stepped into the shower and found that he had plenty of headroom to shower standing up.
Rusty told Reb that all of the interior wood was either teak or holly. Reb was really taken with the paneling, flooring, cabinets and dinette table. Rusty pointed out that the cabin had a sound system, a flat screen TV, and was air conditioned.
Rusty pointed out some papers to Reb that the owner had left laying out on the dinette.
Reb picked up the papers, glanced at them, and asked, “What’s this?”
“The owner had the boat checked out by a marine mechanic and that’s his report that certifies that the outboard engines, the generator, and all the other systems on the boat are in excellent condition,” Rusty replied.
Reb asked, “Can we take the boat out for a spin to see how it handles?”
Rusty held out some keys and said, “Sure we can, I’ve got the keys right here.”
They went up to the helm and Rusty instructed Reb on how to operate the boat. A short time later they went through Perdido Pass and then were out in the Gulf of Mexico with the twin Yamaha 350s running at full speed pushing the big boat along at more than 50 miles an hour.
When they got back to the marina, Reb asked, “How do I go about making an offer?”
Rusty said, “Just tell me what your offer is and I’ll run it past the owner.”
“Tell him I’ll make him an all cash offer of two seventy-five if he’ll throw in all of the fishing tackle and everything else that’s currently on board the boat,” Reb said.
