Authors: Joel Narlock
Ross clicked off and slammed his phone on the table.
The waitress appeared with a coconut shrimp appetizer.
“Are you okay, mister?”
“Bring me some scotch, please,” Ross said, opening a bag of pumpkin seeds. “Good stuff. I saw a bottle of seventeen-year Balvenie Doublewood. Lots of ice.”
“Little family dispute, eh?” A man’s voice spoke through the wooden slats in the next booth. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Ross was about to politely tell the eavesdropper to mind his own business, but he recognized something about him.
“This is really embarrassing. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“We all go through it, pal,” the man said, standing up and boldly taking a seat at Ross’s table. He extended his hand. “I’m Jack Riley.”
“Tom Ross. I was at your presentation on the fourth. I really enjoyed it.”
“Most people do.” Riley opened his cell phone. “I thought I recognized you. NTSB, right? I hope you don’t mind. I like to have a broad range of contacts.”
They exchanged data.
“Nancy Petri was wrong,” Ross said.
“I’m used to it.” Riley smiled, eyeing the appetizer. “Politicians give me a headache. Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.”
Riley dragged a shrimp through the plum sauce. “What’s with the nuts?”
“Pumpkin seeds.” Ross flicked one across the table. “I got hooked as a kid.”
Riley frowned at the morsel, then touched it to his tongue. He made a pained face and placed it on a napkin.
“A little phone argument?” Riley ventured. “Your wife?”
“Ex-wife. It’s complicated,” Ross said. The waitress brought a fresh cocktail. He took a hefty swallow. “So, did you fly for the Air Force?”
“Nah, I’m not a pilot. I was in charge of Gulf War technical teams that trekked out into the desert and set up satellite receivers. We were based out of Langley. We made sure everybody could sync up with whiz-vee.”
Ross paused thoughtfully. “That’s a military radio communication system.”
“Wideband Secure Voice is
the
avionics radio communication system. ARC-164 is a UHF frequency hopper that’s totally uncrackable. Every aircraft we fly has it. We tried to upgrade once, but it was too perfect. It’s the same system the president uses.”
“Hmph. Sounds impressive.”
“Impressive and top-secret. After the war, several units mysteriously appeared inside some Saudi F-15s accidentally installed by some of our own incompetent contractors. I irritated the chain of command and probably ruffled the wrong feathers. I never was very tactful with bureaucracy. After that, I figured my chances at reaching major were nil, so I got out.”
“And now you’ve got your own bureaucracy at Homeland Security.”
“Not exactly.” Riley chuckled. “One secretary and two assistants.”
“You’re joking.”
“Apparently you weren’t listening very well during my presentation. I evaluate threats and point the appropriate federal enforcement agencies in the right direction. I’m the guy who makes sure that everyone and everything gets plugged in. Other than traveling my butt off day and night, it’s a great job. I get to work alone and still carry a pretty big stick.”
“Besides attacking football stadiums and theme parks, what else do you think al-Qaeda might do? Be honest.”
“You don’t want to know,” Riley said. “Trust me.”
“I do,” Ross said adamantly. “Tell me the truth.”
“With all respect to Jack Nicholson, you can’t handle the truth.”
“Try me.”
Riley shrugged. “They’ll make a statement. A very poignant statement.”
“Like what?”
“Well, Mr. NTSB . . .” Riley swallowed his third shrimp and washed it down with some water. “I’m torn. I used to believe that terrorists were dead-set on getting educated on everything from chemical to nuclear warfare. Now I’m not so sure. After 9/11, we’ve ramped up our defenses and our security coordination to the point of mega-overkill. They’re the best in the world. I’m starting to think that terror groups know they’ll never match our capabilities and will simply fall back on what they do best: plain old-fashioned, senseless murder. The kind that makes a huge statement and simply can’t be stopped. Here’s a good one. Ever been to Arlington National Cemetery to watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns?”
“Sure, many times.”
“Ever been searched on the way in?”
“No.”
“Me either,” Riley said. “On the hour, every hour, a sergeant brings a replacement guard out to relieve the active guard. At one point during that solemn ceremony, all three are standing together, front and center. If I wanted to make a statement, I’d step over the flimsy rope line, walk right up, and detonate myself. What a despicable yet effortless way to completely disgrace the entire US military, huh? Or how about ordering my US sleeper cells to pick random but prominent members of Congress? Shadow them day in and day out. Memorize their routines and schedules. Learn their neighborhoods, homes, and patterns. Then, on a given date at a given hour, execute them and their families in a horribly brutal way. Chop their heads off and send the video everywhere.”
Ross was visibly taken aback. “You’re really sick. I’m sorry I asked.”
“Get a grip,” Riley snapped. “And get ready, because that’s exactly how terrorists operate. Do you think we’re dealing with a bunch of punks in some make-believe game, or that our own homeland is somehow immune? Israel has been dealing with these monsters for years. A woman will board a bus or walk into a restaurant in downtown Tel Aviv and blow herself up along with everyone else. Or worse, she’ll send in her kid. Those two numb-nuts in Boston did horrific damage to other human beings, but they were rank, unsanctioned amateurs. Sure, they got lucky with timing, but that’s about it. They were untrained loners pretending to be jihadists. The next really coordinated statement will be so public and so shocking that it will be incomprehensible to every civilized human being. The United States is a huge hunting ground, and terrorists are cold-blooded predators, period. They prey on the weak and innocent. Life, to them, means nothing. They thrive on making their enemies as angry as possible solely for a reaction. They’d like nothing more than to whip us into a state of murderous revenge. It’s all about keeping the cycle of fear and violence alive.”
“Do you think something like Komodo could really happen?”
“Do you know any radical Islamic jihadists?” Riley volleyed back. Ross shook his head. “How about enemy combatants?”
“I know who they are. Soldiers who fight against us, right?”
“Captured soldiers,” Riley clarified. “Like those interned at Guantanamo Bay. The worst sit in their cages down there and do three things: eat, sleep, and chant. Day after day, every waking minute of every hour. Know what they chant? Verses from the Qur’an. Every word in every Surah . . . er, chapter—and then it starts over. They’re like broken records. Or worse yet, machines. Evil machines. Some live in a state of permanent psychosis—real Hannibal Lectors. The guards can’t take their eyes off them for a second because they’ll do anything to kill Americans. Most attended Wahhabi indoctrination schools, the kind where kids sit cross-legged all day long, rocking back and forth, reciting over and over until their minds are so fixated that they literally become religious robots. And you can bet they’re not memorizing anything about ‘love thy neighbor.’ Wahhabi Islamic ideology teaches two fundamental principles: Israel has no right to exist, and America has no morals or right to rule and is therefore the central enemy of Islam. Fortunately for us, those robots aren’t that smart. I mean, they don’t have the ability to strategically plan attacks. They’re more suited to ground work.”
“You mean suicide bombings?”
“Especially suicide bombings. Granted, they’re still completely brainwashed, but I’d rather deal with them than the super-terrorists that are coming.”
“Super-terrorists?”
“Uh-huh. The next generation of terrorists will be born and raised in the West and will give their lives over to the dark side of Islamic jihad. They’ll look and act just like you and me. They’ll be hip and have the ability to drift in and out of their murderous mind-set at will. The super-terrorist will do everything possible to destabilize Western political, economic, and social conditions at any cost. So far, we’ve been pretty lucky in keeping things off our shores. Sure, we’ve had a few bumps, but on the whole, we’ve been pretty safe. When most Americans think of terror organizations, who comes to mind? Al-Qaeda, right? Maybe Hamas and Islamic Jihad? And now the ISIS jihadist army in this new Islamic state. But there’s someone else who’s figured things out, and they’ve done enough recon here to single out and attack public places, news groups, sporting events, government buildings, and military installations.”
“That’s great,” Ross said. “Now that you’ve got me scared to death again, who is it?”
“Four letters, pal,” Riley sneered. “I-R-A-N. The young members of Hezbollah and the Quds forces have been quietly spreading out into the West and assimilating into everyday life. And they’ve got one thing on their minds: dying with honor, either in open battle or by suicide. There’s one verse in the Qur’an that they absolutely cherish. It’s Al-Anfal 60: ‘Prepare with all your armaments and force in your possession to confront the enemy so that your enemies and enemies of Allah will become fearful.’ ”
“Hold on,” Ross said, raising his hand. “If they’re so bad, then why didn’t you mention them in your Komodo presentation?”
“You want me to start a nationwide panic? Besides, no one would believe three thousand targets. I have a hard enough time convincing folks that twenty-five theme parks are at risk.”
“Three thousand targets?” Ross said incredulously. “I’m not sure I believe it.”
“Believe it,” Riley said. “The Iranians are the ones who first started in-flight probing of our commercial planes. They provided the intel to those kids involved in the attacks in London—the ten aircraft that were targeted for mid-air destruction. I can’t tell you any more, but trust me; they’re here, they’re real, and they continue to operate today. They legally board US planes, cause some type of commotion, and then gauge procedural reaction and response. That’s information that they plan to use against us in some form of terrorist attack. If they get real lucky, they’ll expose an air marshal or some other law enforcement officer, and all we can do is give them a piddly wrist slap. The airlines are stuck too—no excessive questioning or racial profiling allowed. In fact, if they tried, the FAA would dole out fines. Hefty ones. The London carry-on bombers were either Iranian terrorists or trained by them.”
“Fines?” Ross mumbled around an ice cube. “What idiot made that rule?”
“The Secretary of Transportation. Political correctness gone crazy. No airline can question or detain more than one person of Middle-Eastern descent at a time.”
“So you’re telling me that these Iranian super-terrorists can plot God-knows-what evil, and we can’t do anything about it?”
“And the sad part is, we know for certain that they’re testing US aircraft security to sneak explosives on board, assemble a device, and detonate it in-flight. The components by themselves are harmless and perfectly legitimate passing through screening systems. Israel would lock those guys up in a heartbeat, and we worry about violating their rights. Isn’t the US Constitution great?”
“I’ll be so glad when we finally win this war on terror,” Ross said, sighing.
“Win the war on terror,” Riley frowned, shaking his head. “The five dumbest words in the world. Why? Because it’s impossible. It can’t be done. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m one heck of a patriot, but that’s the biggest line of political tripe ever. There is no such thing, yet everyone from the president on down speaks it. We’re
not ever
going to win the war on terror. That’s like saying we need to win the war on poverty or drugs or sickness. It’ll take every ounce of our collective will and energy just to survive and control it. The war on terror is really an endless battle of attrition on a world stage fought against an endless army of pop-up killers who hate us and want us dead, period. And that hate just keeps rolling and gaining strength every day. No prisoners, no bargaining, and no peace. Dead.”
“That’s what I don’t get,” Ross said. “Where does it all come from?”
“The hate? Good question. Sometimes even I get confused. But beyond all the socio-political and territorial issues, Americans do stupid things.” Ross bristled at that. “Easy, Sparky. I’ll rephrase it.
Some
Americans do stupid things. Two examples: music and zombies. Music from the guards at Guantanamo is a rather unique way of gaining information.”
“Music?”
Riley smiled. “You’d be surprised how effective a little rap music at prayer time can be. Especially the real raunchy stuff, like Ludacris or Lil’ Kim. It literally drives the detainees nuts. Some have negotiated information for silence. Even the US military plays its games. But the highest level of hate is online. God only knows how they stay active or how the operators stay in one piece, but there are websites that have done more to inflame Muslims throughout the world than anything I can think of. They’re probably not on par with occupying Saudi Arabia, invading Iraq and Afghanistan, or supporting Israel, but they’re close. It’s something you’ll never hear about in the media.”
Ross leaned forward. “Website atrocities?”
“Look, I may be a lowly government employee, but I have a basic understanding of what’s happening in the current geopolitical world. Westerners in general and Americans in particular are not exactly in good standing with a lot of Muslims right now. I think the term is
infidel
? You do know that Islam strictly forbids anyone to draw or otherwise create, show, or depict a likeness of the Prophet Mohammed, right?”
Ross’s mouth was already hanging open, but he managed a nod.
“Good. The reason we, the infidels, deserve a nonrefundable suite in hell is because we’ve done just that. We conceived ideas, we made videos, we wrote, drew, printed, unveiled, and even chuckled at photographs. In short, we made fun of Islam. Case in point: remember what happened after a Danish newspaper published those eight cartoons? One hundred people were killed in riots in Europe, Syria, Lebanon, and Iran. Fast-forward to now. Muslims are surfing the Internet and watching YouTube videos like everyone else. Mohammed’s once forbidden likeness is everywhere, from centuries-old art to comedic satire to utter filth.
Zombietime.com
has a click-and-view section called
Extreme Mohammed
. Check it out if you dare, but be advised. The content is far worse than any Danish cartoon of the Prophet with his turban morphed into a fused bomb. It’s really disgusting.