by J B Black
After putting Honey’s luggage in Reb’s master bedroom, Reb and Honey went by the bank, picked up the cash, and went directly to Rusty’s office at the marina.
When they arrived at Rusty’s office, Reb held the door for Honey as she walked in. As soon as Rusty saw Honey, he stood up and, for several long moments, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Reb entered the office behind Honey, closed the door, and said, “Honey Brown this is Rusty Gordon, he’s my next door neighbor. Rusty Gordon this is Honey Brown. You’ll be seeing her around—she’s going to be staying with me for the time being.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Honey,” Rusty said. “I knew that Reb had good taste when it came to boats, but I must say that his choice in the fairer sex is exceptional.”
Honey, who in her line of work was used to men staring at her, was not bothered at all by the fact that Rusty had been blatantly ogling her and said, “No offense, Rusty, but that’s the nicest thing a dirty old man has said to me in quite some time.”
Rusty fairly beamed at being called a ‘dirty old man’ by Honey and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Y’all make yourselves comfortable. Miss Honey, can I offer you some refreshment?”
“No, thank you, Rusty,” Honey said. “I’m fine.”
“What about you, Reb?” Rusty asked.
“I’m good, Rusty.”
“All right, then, down to business,” Rusty said, sliding some papers across the desk to Reb. There were notes attached indicating where Reb was required to sign and, after he signed in all of the required spots, Reb slid the papers back across the desk to Rusty.
When Rusty looked at Reb expectantly, Reb placed the small, zippered duffel bag he had been carrying on top of Rusty’s desk and slid it over to Rusty.
Rusty opened the bag and took out twenty-eight bundles of currency. Each bundle had a paper wrapper around the middle. The wrapper on twenty-seven of the bundles indicated that the bundle contained ten thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills. The wrapper on the twenty-eighth bundle indicated that it contained five thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills.
After verifying receipt of the two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, Rusty placed the cash in the large, old fashioned, floor safe that sat behind him. When the last of the cash was inside the safe, Rusty closed the door, turned the handle to the locked position, and spun the safe’s combination dial.
Rusty turned back around, opened a lower drawer in his desk, reached in and set a bottle of Macallan single malt whiskey and three shot glasses on top of the desk. After Rusty filled the glasses and handed Reb and Honey theirs, he raised his own and said, “To Reb’s Revenge.”
Ten minutes later, Reb was proudly giving Honey the fifty-cent tour of his new boat and he was really pleased by how much she seemed to like the boat. Right off the bat, she wanted to know when was he going to take her fishing.
The next day, Reb and Honey took the Revenge out in the Gulf for the first time, accompanied by Rusty. When Reb had mentioned to Rusty at the closing the day before that he might need some help learning how to operate all of the boat’s systems, Rusty volunteered to go out with them and teach them how to operate everything.
It was a fun outing. Not only, did they learn how to operate the boat, they got in some fishing, and they were able to watch Alabama beat Arkansas on the TV in the Revenge’s cabin.
The sun had already gone down when they returned to Slip D7 at the marina that evening. After they finished securing the Revenge in its mooring, Rusty told Reb and Honey that they were both excellent students. Furthermore, he told them he felt comfortable that they could operate the boat day or night without any further assistance from him.
For the next four days, Reb and Honey took the Revenge out everyday just getting to know the boat and learning how to get to the different fishing spots that Rusty had given them the GPS coordinates for. Reb and Honey discovered that they enjoyed each other’s company immensely and, like most newly acquainted lovers, when they weren’t fishing or eating, they were making love in whichever bedroom was the most convenient at the time whether at Reb’s condo or in the cabin of the Revenge when they were out in the Gulf.
Then, on Thursday morning, during breakfast, Reb asked Honey when had been the last time she had done any target practice with her pistol. When she told him that it had been more than a couple of months, Reb suggested that they find a shooting range and go do a little shooting. Honey agreed that was a good idea and, while she got dressed, Reb checked the local phone book for shooting ranges. He found a listing for an indoor range outside of nearby Foley and, after verifying that they were open for business, Reb and Honey drove up to Foley to the indoor shooting range. They rented a lane for an hour and each of them went through a box of ammunition. Both of them were a little rusty when they shot the first magazine of ammo, but, by the second magazine, they were shooting nice, tight groupings. Reb was impressed with how well Honey handled her pistol, a compact .380 semi-automatic—the same one she’d been carrying around in her purse the first night they’d gone out. It was obvious she had received excellent training from someone. Reb’s only concern with the .380 was with its stopping power or lack thereof, which he kept to himself.
Reb’s only disappointment at the range that day was the fact that the indoor range was for pistols only and he didn’t get a chance to shoot the AR-15 he had brought along with him.
Friday evening, after another day out on the water on the Revenge, Reb and Honey were relaxing in the hot tub out on Reb’s balcony watching the sun go down in the west when Sarah Smith, Honey’s business manager, called to let Honey know that she had a modeling assignment in New York City that would start on Monday morning and run through early Friday afternoon. Sarah went on to say that she had booked another assignment for Honey beginning the following Monday that was also in New York City. That assignment would run through the end of that week. And, to wrap things up, Sarah said she had booked another weeklong assignment after that for Honey and that assignment, too, was in New York City.
Honey’s usual arrangement for a modeling assignment was for the other party to pick up the tab for the cost of a private business class jet to fly Honey to the location of the modeling assignment and, at the end of the assignment, fly her back by private jet to her point of origin or elsewhere within reason. Seeing Reb’s look of disappointment that she might be gone for a full three weeks—and not sharing his bed during that time—Honey told Sarah that, since there were three separate clients involved, to make the necessary arrangements for her to be flown back to the airport in Gulf Shores at the end of each assignment so that she could spend the weekends with Reb. Honey was rewarded by a big smile from Reb when he heard her say that.
Reb and Honey enjoyed the rest of their weekend together and, late Sunday afternoon, Reb took Honey to Jack Edwards airfield in Gulf Shores where she was met by a private jet that flew her to New York City.
CHAPTER 19
The Course at Andrews
Andrews Air Force Base
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
4:00 p.m. Eastern Time
It was a beautiful spring day in the nation’s capitol and Jake Gant was playing golf with Major General Robert Bryson. General Bryson was the Pentagon’s liaison to the Federal Bureau for Internal Security and Jake, as Deputy Director of the FBIS, was the General’s contact at the FBIS. The two men were on the green of the seventeenth hole of the east course at The Course at Andrews Air Base playing for ten dollars a hole.
Jake was watching the General sink his second putt of the hole, to tie the game up even, when his phone started ringing.
The General retrieved his ball from the cup and gave Jake a dirty look, like he knew what was coming.
“Sorry, General,” Jake said, as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket, “but this only rings when there’s a national emergency somewhere.”
“This is Gant,” Jake said when h
e answered his phone.
“Sorry about interrupting your golf game with General Bryson, Jake,” retired Lt. General Garrett Davidson, Director of the Federal Bureau for Internal Security said, “but something has come up.”
“Must be pretty damn serious, Boss, for you to call while I’m playing golf with General Bryson. What’s going on?”
“Jake, there’s been a hit on the flag we have placed on our friend, Reb Rogers,” General Davidson said. “How quickly can you get to the office?”
“I’m on my way, Boss.”
Gant put his phone back in his pocket before turning to General Bryson.
“General, I really hate to call it a day,” Jake said. “But something’s come up and I’ve got to go meet my Boss back at the office.”
General Bryson laughed and said, “Jake, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d arranged that call just to avoid losing the next hole to me. Be sure to give General Davidson my regards.”
* * *
As soon as Jake walked into his Boss’ office, General Davidson looked up from what he was working on and motioned for Jake to take a seat in one of the armchairs in front of his desk.
“Jake, we’ve got a situation,” General Davidson said in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
“What’s going on, General?” Jake asked.
“I’ve spent the better part of the day with the Director of the FBI going over one of their cases and what I learned is some very scary shit. Here’s what I’ve got.
“There’s an individual—we only know him as Sinbad, the code name he goes by—who, the FBI believes, has been working on setting up a network of mosques throughout our country and recruiting jihadist cells within these mosques.
“The NSA started intercepting this fellow Sinbad’s phone calls for the FBI back in May of 2009. Each time Sinbad makes a call using his code name, the person he speaks to is referred to as Imam. There have been quite a few different Imams throughout the country that Sinbad has been speaking with since the NSA started intercepting his calls.
“The FBI believes that Sinbad is communicating with actual Imams at different mosques located throughout the country. They think that the Imams are recruiting members of their own mosque to join jihadist cells and that the end game is the creation of a Caliphate here in North America.
“The FBI thinks that Sinbad is the ring leader and provides all of the funding for this network. The FBI is guessing that he has doled out millions of dollars to these jihadist terrorist cells for training, weapons, and other equipment. At this time, the FBI can only speculate about where that money comes from.
“So far, the FBI hasn’t been able to identify who Sinbad is or who any of the Imams are because of the restrictions placed on surveilling mosques by the Soetoro administration. Most of Sinbad’s calls originate in Washington, DC; and, for that reason alone, the FBI is convinced that Sinbad is based out of Washington. As for the Imams, they are all over the country. We’re talking about Los Angeles, Chicago, Philadelphia, St. Louis, and, of all places, Pensacola, Florida that we know about.
“Jake, here’s where we come in. Last night, the NSA intercepted a call between Sinbad and an Imam in Pensacola, Florida that raised a couple of flags. Flag one was for the FBI because it was a Sinbad and Imam call. Flag two was for us because Reb’s name came up in the conversation.”
At the mention of his friend’s name, Jake sat up a lot straighter in his chair.
“Sinbad identified Reb as being the Butcher of Lashwan,” General Davidson said, pausing for a moment to let that sink in for Jake before continuing, “and he told the Imam to activate a jihadist cell to kidnap Reb, video tape Reb confessing that he was responsible for killing the Taliban at Lashwan, then behead Reb, and then post the video on the internet as a recruitment propaganda piece. Sinbad gave the Imam Reb’s name and his address and sent him some photos of Reb.
“To make a long story short, after some wrangling, I was able to convince the Director of the FBI that our agency’s charter puts us in a much better position to put Sinbad’s network of jihadist cells out of business since we have fewer rules and regulations to deal with—no problems with Miranda, for instance. We now have all of the FBI’s files on Sinbad and company. Any further communications between Sinbad and any of his Imams that are intercepted by the NSA will be flagged to us.
“Which brings us back to Reb.
“You and I both know that two, three, or four jihadis are going to be no match for Reb.
“Jake, what I need you to do is fly down to Seaside Beach to make sure that Reb doesn’t kill all of these jihadis who plan to assassinate him. The problem we have is that there is more than one mosque in Pensacola, Florida. We need to keep at least one of the jihadis alive so we can backtrack this jihadist cell to the Imam who’s sending them after Reb.
“Then, if we’re damn lucky, this Imam will lead us to Sinbad so we can cut the head off the snake before it can do any serious damage to our country.
“The Imam in Pensacola told Sinbad that he’d send the jihadi cell to capture Reb tonight after the night prayer service at his mosque is over.
“The night prayer services in Pensacola begin at 8:51 pm. If we allow half an hour for the prayer service and add thirty minutes as the shortest travel time from the closest mosque to Seaside Beach, then the earliest the jihadis could show up a Reb’s doorstep would be around nine-fifty local time.”
The General looked down at his wristwatch and then back up at Jake again.
“Jake, it’s ten after five right now. There’s a jet standing by at Andrews to fly you down to Jack Edwards Airport in Gulf Shores, Alabama. The flight time is expected to be around two and a half hours putting you there around seven fifteen local time, assuming you’re wheels up in the next half hour or so. That should give you and Reb plenty of time to prepare a trap for these would-be assassins.
“You’ll need to contact Reb, fill him in on what’s going on, and make sure he understands that we need at least one live jihadist who can tell us which Imam we’re dealing with.
“If we can get to the Imam, we’ll have a shot at getting to this Sinbad character and rolling up his network of terrorist cells before they have the chance to establish a Caliphate here.
“Oh, Jake, one last thing. The file on the Lashwan incident was classified.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that,” Jake said. “Sounds like Sinbad has a friend in the government who’s a traitor.”
“Exactly, so, when we find Sinbad, we’ll want the name of his friend so we can deal with that problem while we’re at it.”
CHAPTER 20
Hangar 45
Andrews Air Force Base
Saturday, April 17, 2010
5:45 p.m. Eastern Time
Jake Gant drove into the hangar at Andrews Air Force Base. A G450, on permanent loan to the FBIS from the Air Force, was waiting for him. The jet would transport Jake to Jack Edwards Airport in Gulf Shores, Alabama—just a short drive from Reb’s condominium residence in Seaside Beach. Jake pulled up near the jet’s open stair door. The steward—an Air Force sergeant in civilian clothes—came down the stairs to help Jake with his bags, as a uniformed enlisted man took his car to a restricted parking area.
After leaving General Davidson’s office, Jake had gone down the hall to his office. There he grabbed the two bags he kept packed for those times he had to leave town on a moment’s notice with no time to go home and pack. The travel bag was packed with a four-day supply of clothing and a toilet kit. The go-bag contained the weapons, ammunition, and other gear that Jake felt he might need in the field.
On the drive over to the Air Base, Jake had tried calling Reb a couple of times. Both times, Reb’s phone rang several times and then rolled over to his voicemail. On the second try, Jake decided to leave Reb a message, “Reb, this is Jake. Something important has come up. Call me as soon as you get this.”
Jake was the only passenger on the jet. As soon as his bags were secured, the steward—one
of the three-member Air Force crew comprised of the steward, the pilot and a co-pilot—closed the stair door, while Jake took his seat next to a window and fastened his seat belt.
No sooner than he was buckled in, the pilot announced over the PA system—for Jake’s benefit—that they were cleared for takeoff. The pilot then taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway, set the brakes, and wound up the engines for takeoff. At the point where Jake wondered if the brakes would continue to hold before they burned out, the pilot released them, and the little business-class jet sprinted down the runway like a race car until the pilot rotated and pointed the nose skyward. Jake always enjoyed takeoffs and was watching out the window at the landscape below shrinking as the jet gained altitude.
When the jet leveled off and was on its flight heading, the steward came back to where Jake was sitting and asked him if he’d like something to drink.
“Coffee would be good,” Jake said. “By the way, steward, is there some way that I can make a call while we’re in flight?”
“Yessir, I’ll get you a handset for the satellite communications system,” the steward said.
The steward returned shortly with Jake’s coffee and the satellite handset he had promised. After the steward showed Jake how to place a call, Jake tried Reb’s number again and got Reb’s voicemail again.
“Reb, this is Jake. I’m en route to Jack Edwards and should arrive around seven thirty your time this evening. Ground transportation is waiting for me when I get there and I’ll meet you at your condo. If you get this, you can call me back at this number, zero nine eight … eight eight one nine … six two … three zero … five seven … four one … three two … anytime before seven thirty. After that, call me on my cell. Bye,” Jake said.
Forgetting all about the coffee he’d asked the steward to get for him, Jake decided to get some sleep figuring it was probably going to be a long night once he got to Seaside Beach. He lowered his seat back and, within a few minutes, he was sound asleep.
