CHAPTER 11: Rebranding
Being the captain for the operation wasn’t so bad. The Al Qaeda people did their level best to create a premature paradise for Abdullereda on Earth. They stuck him in a proverbial garden flowing with wine and virgins, some of each gender; they appealed to Abdullereda’s mortal desires—vice.
He had as many women as he wished: Western women kidnapped in Europe and the United States, some as young as twelve; Muslim women who volunteered themselves for the jihad; Muslim women of the wrong sects or proclivity whose families were slaughtered but they were allowed to live because of their youth and good looks; African women and girls captured in schools or villages, or simply swept off the street because they had no chaperones.
Women, girls—he was offered boys, but declined—alcohol, whatever he wanted Abdullereda got. After a few weeks it became somewhat routine. He wondered why they were doing this, not that he was complaining, but he did wonder. At the conclusion of one of his five daily prayer sessions, a cleric informed him why in no uncertain terms.
“If you do not successfully complete your mission you will assuredly go to Hell,” he told a stunned Abdullereda.
“But I thought this was to prepare me for Heaven,” the dumbfounded pilot replied.
“Some of it is certainly,” the cleric agreed. “The virgins will be there, but the Dhimmi certainly will not be. They will be in Hell with you however if you fail.”
That caused Abdullereda some concern. The difference between the beautiful but sullen, drugged, half-alive Western girls—none of whom performed except out of fear—was in marked contrast to the Muslim volunteers. Those girls felt like they were doing their part in the jihad, which Abdullereda appreciated; they were very thorough and very motivated to please.
The cleric cautioned him, “The Westerners are largely too fearful in this world, but beware! When they are in Hell with you they will seek their revenge.” He looked down at the pilot’s crotch.
Abdullereda was especially fond of blow jobs, and the cleric knew that. What he insinuated was terrifying as it would be repeated throughout all eternity. He nodded to the pilot, and said fervently, “The price of failure is severe and not limited to the fires of Hell. Your family will suffer through more than dishonor; they will be complicit. You have children do you not?”
“Yes,” he said carefully.
“Do not let your sins fall upon your children,” the cleric told him. “The one way, the only way you can fully expiate your sins now is to follow through with the operation and conclude it successfully. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Captain Hussein answered. He gathered his things and made to leave the bordello, telling his spiritual leader, “I must go to the simulator and practice the mission.”
“Excellent,” the cleric told him.
Abdullereda headed back to his quarters where he had a very advanced version of ‘Flight Simulator’ hooked up to an Airbus A380 control mock-up. The jihadists were very thorough in their preparation. As he sat down at the controls the Malaysian felt the need to purify himself, but not through prayer.
He called his son.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line, seemingly far away by the connection.
“Abdulla, it is Abdullereda, your father,” he said. “How are you son?”
“Do not call me that!” Abdulla exclaimed, confused. “I thought you were dead. I rejoiced! How is it that you’re not dead? I heard it all in the news. Mother called me, trying to tell me to be sad, to grieve. I could not. After all the times you abandoned us I was ready for an end to it—now this!”
“Abdulla, I understand how you feel; I understand you are not proud of your father. I am trying to change that,” he replied.
“How are you going to do that?” Abdulla asked, sounding angry and yet like all children desperate for their parents to be someone they could look up to, to respect.
“I know I can never make it up to your mother by being a good husband, so I will free her of myself and make sure that she is taken care of for the rest of her life,” he said.
“By faking your death; that is a coward’s way out is it not?” the son said, rejecting the explanation outright.
“No, I will not be faking my death,” Abdullereda said resolutely. “I have learned something from my son. The son has taught the father an important lesson.”
“How so?” Abdulla demanded.
“When your mother told me that you had emigrated to Paris to join the jihad and topple the West from within I was shocked. I had always sympathized with our jihad; but here was my seventeen year old son doing something about it! You took action while I, your father, who should have served as the example for his son, was polluting my soul in search of money and flesh; just like a Western whore! You shamed me Abdulla; you shamed me as your mother’s tears never could. So I have finally found my courage and done something about it.”
“What have you done?”
The son’s voice held just enough hope in it for Abdullereda to continue, to reach for reconciliation. “You know your mother is taken care of financially now; the airline will pay her more than she needs. So I hope to gain forgiveness from you. I have not taken this airplane for me or for your mother but for our holy jihad. I cannot give you the details, but you will see it in the news soon enough.
“There will be great destruction Abdulla. The Zionists will suffer a great defeat, a defeat that will bring about their total annihilation. You can say with pride that it was your father that committed the great sacrifice that began their downfall!”
“You will martyr yourself?” the boy asked breathlessly, hoping against all his experience that his father was being truthful now. “I can’t believe it. After all your lies how can this be true?”
“The testament to my martyrdom is already in the news,” Abdullereda told him. “They know I was the captain. It’s in all the papers, but you know I am not dead as they think. I did not crash the airplane. I slew the dog Christian that was my first officer and took the airplane,” he did not mind stretching the truth for his son a little bit. Abdullereda had a lot to make up for in his son’s eyes.
“What then father, what then?” the boy pleaded.
“Allah be praised it is paradise itself to hear you call me father!” Abdullereda said with tears in his eyes. “I have commandeered the aircraft for the jihad; but my mission is not complete until I take down Zion itself!”
“My father the lion of Islam will strike at the heart of Zion itself!” Abdulla rejoiced.
“My son, I will,” Abdullereda said with heartfelt emotion. “All I ask is that you forgive me. Let me hear it with my mortal ears before I enter into martyrdom.”
“Father with all my heart I forgive you! I celebrate you! Your name will be on my lips with pride!”
Tearfully father and son parted. Abdullereda threw himself into his work. He had sinned enough. His son ensured that his heart yearned for martyrdom. To redeem himself in his son’s eyes was a greater gift to Abdullereda than any harem or hoard of gold.
CHAPTER 12: Idyll
Jeremiah Slade was tired. The long flight from Kuwait City to Paris and then Paris to Washington D.C. took more out of him than the mission. He wondered how the airline pilots did it day after day, month after month, year after year.
He pulled into driveway of the turn-of-the-century Victorian outside of Langley, Virginia in his decade-plus silver Jaguar XK. It was used of course, very used, just like the house, but it was Slade’s. It was a reminder to him of good advice about open windows.
In front of him was the lifestyle the CIA recruiter reminded him about so long ago. Slade didn’t regret the lifestyle; he embraced it. He was a man who always wanted responsibility and this fit to overflowing.
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Slade climbed the steps to Victorian farmhouse with a picturesque round tower complete with witch’s hat. The broad wrap-around porch shielded the front rooms from the harsh eastern winters
.
The residual tension of his mission washed away under the eaves of the house—which was not the source of agent Wilson’s concern either—like the Jag, Slade bought the house cheap and brought back to life through years of labor. It served its purpose.
Before Slade could reach the front door it opened of its own accord. Helen, his cousin, appeared in a comfortable print dress and apron, as if from the set of “Leave it to Beaver” or “The Andy Griffith Show.” She smiled and greeted Slade at the door with a hug, sliding her shoulder under his arm and snuggling closely. She gave him a long, appreciative squeeze and led him into the house.
“Hello Jeremiah, how was the trip?” she asked, her bright blue eyes smiling beneath tousled blonde hair. She was the only person in the world, his parents included, who called him Jeremiah. She’d been through so much he let her have that.
“Boring but productive,” he answered. As far as Helen was concerned, Slade worked for the government at the State Department; a logical follow on from his military time. She had no idea his business was as dangerous as it was violent; but then, Helen didn’t care. She owed Slade; at least in her mind she did. One night, thirteen years ago she returned home from a weekend visit to the nursing home where her mother lived to find that her husband had left her.
He was gone with all the furniture—even the baby’s crib. Their six kids, ages four to six months, were sitting on the bare living room floor huddled in a blanket, watching a small twelve inch black and white TV—dad had taken the big color TV with him. Helen couldn’t be shocked, she couldn’t panic, not in front of her children, three from their marriage and three adopted from her sister, who succumbed to breast cancer, but all of them were her kids. They didn’t realize what had just happened. Helen insulated them from the travesty and dealt with it privately. She was Mom.
At least the bastard left the food in the refrigerator and pantry. It was a good thing. She soon found that he cleared out the bank account and hadn’t paid the bills in months.
An eviction notice was posted on her door the next morning. The power was shut off. The water was shut off, and Helen had to sneak buckets of water from the neighbor’s hose. She wasn’t working, she’d barely recovered from a hysterectomy a few months before.
Helen was destitute with six children.
Helen had literally no one to turn to. Her father was dead; her mother was in a nursing home, her sister’s husband had remarried and they hadn’t spoken in two years. All she could think of was to call her cousin Jeremiah. They’d been close. Secretly, she’d always regretted they were cousins, especially when he went into the military like her father did. Helen didn’t want a great career or to party; she wanted what her mother had: to raise a family, live in a comfortable house and be a wife to a steady, caring man.
That dream ended that snowy day when her husband left her in Duluth, Minnesota. As proud as Helen was, she was desperate. She called Slade at midnight, having stared at the phone for days trying to get the courage to call.
He took emergency leave and showed up the next day. In an hour they were eating a family dinner at Perkins and then it was off to a comfortable hotel with a pool. The next day they flew to California, where Slade had just been assigned to Test Pilot School.
A few days later they picked out a cinder block house on base and moved in. Helen and her kids had a home again.
Slade took it all in stride, but Helen, whose empathy for people was a true gift, knew that the timing of her crisis was especially bad for Slade. Test Pilot School was a grueling year long program that demanded complete commitment, but Slade never said a thing about it.
Helen grew up in a military family. She knew the routine. She knew how military schools and assignments worked. She instinctively took on the role of running Slade’s household so that he could concentrate on his job. She made sure he was fed, his uniforms were always ready, and his house was clean, his coffee was fresh at four in the morning and that he had a gin and tonic when he returned at six in the evening; six, so that he could unwind with a drink but still have his regulation “Twelve hours; bottle to throttle.”
Helen took care of everything.
Slade was actually embarrassed by the effort Helen and the kids put forth to show their appreciation, but Helen sat him down and explained things to him.
“Jeremiah, when no one could or would help us you were there. You rescued us. You are supporting us; me, the kids, all of us. They have a roof over their heads and enough to eat; and they don’t have to worry about being abandoned anymore. We need to support you, and we will.”
It had been that way ever since.
Slade gave Helen and her kids a home. In return, Helen and the kids gave Jeremiah a family.
She was concerned, however, and she brushed his forelock of dark hair, just starting to get streaks of grey, saying, “You look tired. I know it’s hard on you over there. Why don’t you hop in the shower? I’ll have a drink waiting for you on the back porch.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Slade sighed, heading to his bedroom. Slade slept on one side of the house in the guest bedroom off his office. It was purely practical. He didn’t need much. Helen had the master bedroom upstairs and the kids had the other upstairs bedrooms.
As he walked down the hall, the old oak floors creaking with every step, a chorus of, “Hello Uncle Slade!” greeted him—the kids, now ages thirteen to seventeen, wouldn’t think of calling call him Jeremiah. That was for their mom.
“There are my rascals; how’s school?” he inquired, or tried to. Helen intervened.
“There will be plenty of time for catching up,” she chastised them all. “Your uncle is tired. It’s been a long trip. Let him relax for a while.”
“All right mom,” they relented, returning to doing what they were doing. Welcome home Uncle Slade!”
“Now Helen,” Slade softly chided, “You know I don’t mind. I miss them too you know; don’t tell them that of course! I don’t want them to get soft.”
She turned him by his shoulders and pushed him toward his bedroom. “You need to go relax and get washed up. You know the routine. Let me welcome you home, you’ve done your job, let me do mine.”
Slade’s room was like stepping back in time. A few hours before he’d been holed up in a mud and brick hovel with death all around him. Now he was in a period wall papered gentleman’s room furnished with dark wood, twin leather chairs and bronze fixtures. Everything, absolutely everything, was in its place. Helen took her job seriously.
Walking into his closet, Slade opened a hidden panel in his wardrobe. The rack of suits and sundry other clothes swung aside to reveal a flat black panel. Slade pressed his hand against it and a red light came on, scanning his face. The combination fingerprint, facial recognition scan and retinal scan opened up the inner panel.
Inside was a small arsenal of weapons. Storing his sidearm, he undressed, heading for the shower. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was done as a comfortable Victorian era cottage. It wasn’t overdone; it was tasteful.
Stepping into the shower, Slade allowed the hot water to seep into his sore muscles, letting it wash away the last vestiges of Iraqi sand as well as the even deeper, hidden stains of blood and death. He purposefully turned his mind back, away from the last mission, thinking of home; recalibrating himself to domestic life.
It was a careful but necessary balancing act. It was easy, tragically easy to get lost in Slade’s world. The adrenaline rush, the power, it was addictive. It was a simple thing to lose that sense of right and wrong when your entire working life revolved around doing wrong so that right would triumph. He’d seen it happen. So he turned that thought process off and thought about home, hearth and family.
Turning off the shower, Slade dried off and dressed in comfortable clothes that had been laid meticulously on the chair at the foot of the bed. He opened the door onto the back porch and sat down on the porch swing, looking out over the tree lined acreage to the slow moving river.
Helen brought him his drink and the kids joined him, filling him in on their lives since he was last home.
Jeremiah Slade was content, swinging idly on his porch, sipping his gin and tonic with a sedate smile on his face. He purged his mind of the images of burned children, slaughtered civilians and the red blossom of vaporized blood resulting from his bullet when it slammed through the fevered brain of a jihadist.
When those thoughts threatened to creep back into his mind a single word dispersed them. It was Helen, calling, “Dinner!”
CHAPTER 12: The Daily Brief
Normally the president took his daily intelligence briefing remotely by iPad. That allowed Oetari to read the report at his leisure, which meant that more than half the time the President of the United States simply blew off the report and depended on the world performing according to his view of it.
The insistence of Director Gann briefing the president in person on the disappearance of Malaysia Flight 666 was both irritating and surprising. The president walked past the directors of the CIA and FBI and toward the Oval Office with Chief of Staff Jeffries, Ms. Carrabolla and Freddy Waters in tow.
Director MacCloud stiffened as Freddy passed him. Freddy, for his part, turned beet red. “Come in gentleman, come in,” Oetari said, but then his secretary interrupted him.
“I’m sorry sir but President Ataturk of Turkey is on the line. Do you want to take the call now or later?
“I’ll take it now,” the president told her. “Excuse me gentlemen.” The president entered the Oval Office alone and closed the door. He put the president on speaker. “Mustafa my friend what can I do for you?”
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