The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE (38 page)

“Spare me your twisted religion 101, mister,” Annie says. “I don’t believe in God.”

“That is not surprising,” the priest says. “We find that a lot of you modernists suffer from this delusional malady of atheism. It is only natural that so egotist a cult would deny the existence of God. Worry not though, my child. The Inquisition is here to help. We can see you through your present darkness to the light of reason. If you like, we can schedule a few sessions while you are here with us.”

Annie Cooper recoils at the suggestion.

The priest shrugs.

“Some other time, perhaps,” Father Hermez says.

The Maronite Father turns his attention back to the entire group. “Well then, I leave you to your meals,” he says and then makes the sign of the cross in the air between them. “God love you, my children.”

15:14:13

Enrique Salinas is Vice-President Holly Villa’s personal aide and sometimes lover. She is not at all his type. Villa is twenty years his senior, her hair is too short, her frame too wiry; and her gender is not the one Enrique prefers to bed. Considering himself a flexible man, Salinas puts up with her physical shortcomings, finding them no harder to tolerate than her personality faults. While Holly’s ‘blunt and rough’ public persona is much celebrated by the media, the public image only hints at the acerbic, ‘ice queen’ her staffers know lies at its core. Yet, neither her callousness nor occasional cruel chastisements have cost her any of her staff’s loyalty. Their devotion to her is almost cultish, he thinks. Even Enrique’s own dislike for the Vice-President is mitigated by a certain admiration of the woman.

It is not for nothing that she is considered among the most powerful leaders in the country. Holly Villa earned that distinction early in her career as a fearless, in-your-face advocate for illegal aliens. She was a principle leader in the movement to take down the walls between America and Mexico at the turn of the century. Villa later led the negotiations with the United Nations that ended the short but brutal Border War between America and Mexico. The deal she struck was an act of pure political genius. The treaty not only hobbled the US Border Patrol by placing UN Troops on the border, it also made possible the enfranchising of a great number of Latinos living illegally in the country. The treaty, by way of war reparations, offered voting rights to any illegal that could prove they had been living in the States for ten years and paid a five thousand dollar fine for the border breach.

Predictably, Conservatives went apoplectic in their opposition. ‘It is amnesty on steroids,’ they cried! Senator Villa held her ground with complete aplomb. She cleverly tied the treaty to the International Monetary Fund’s bailout. At the time a third of the states were bankrupt and another third had economies that were hemorrhaging. Few Republicans, even though they privately hated the treaty, could publicly offer up anything more substantive than ‘grave concerns’ about the arrangement’s ‘long term ramifications’ for the country.
They needed the IMF bailout to hold the country together and, not to mention, keep their jobs.

The treaty was ratified. A year later, after a feverish get out the vote effort, La Raza and other Reconquista organizations were able to offer the Democratic Party two million extra votes. It was just enough to tip the election their way. Four years later, they now have another five million certified new voters with which to help keep O’Neill and Villa in office. It is thought to be more than enough to counter the recent swelling of the Republican’s voter rolls. By the time Holly runs for President in 2024, she can expect to count on ten million extra votes.

The vice-President is much more than the most powerful woman in American politics to her faithful aide. Holly is an invaluable asset to Enrique Salinas. Thus Enrique never lets it get to him when he finds himself the target of her ire. The Vice President is the lynch pin to his personal ambitions and Salinas will not let a small thing like his pride derail his plans. She has been extremely useful to his cause thus far. He therefore serves her dutifully, in and out of bed, to better position himself strategically. Once she is elected President of the United States, Salinas’ rise to real power can begin. When Villa secures a second term, the last stage of a long-wrought plan can be executed, making him a player on the geo-political board.

Enrique and his comrades plan to wrest the old Mexican territories from Washington. Unlike others in the Reconquista movement however, Salinas and his people have no plans to cede the lands back to Mexico. He and his comrades intend to carve out an independent nation state for themselves out of the contested territories. They’ve been assured their application for statehood will be well received at the United Nations. Vice-President Villa has promised Enrique and other men, men she knows will hold her to her word, that as President of the United States she will not challenge their bid for secession.

“Before my second term is over,” she assured them. “You will have a country of your own!”

Her offer of help is not unconditional and it’s certainly not selfless. Salinas knows that Holly Villa expects to go from American President to the mother of a new nation. His people do not begrudge her the ambition, for they figure she will bring her native California into the mix, giving their new country much needed access to the sea.

They are so close.

Washington’s influence over the states is waning daily as the country dies its slow death. The decline of the Federal government’s control is most pronounced in the Southwest. Great portions of it are already ripe to fall from the Union. Reconquistas have worked for decades to create the conditions conducive to cessation. For three generations now, the Reconquista movement has drummed, through teachers and textbooks, their message into schoolchildren at every age level. The movement has also been busy working its members into key offices and positions of influence, a process helped along by the mass exodus of whites during the Border War. As a result, Mexican flags fly atop the American colors throughout much of the southwestern states, enraging many an American.

It is fuel to Enrique’s ambitions.

Normally, it is. Tonight though, regardless of how many Mexican flags he spots as they make their way eastward across Interstate 8, Salinas feels like he is running on empty.

Enrique stares dumbly at the old black and white movie playing on the small television raised on a column between the seats in the back of the limo. The film is Frank Capra’s,
‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’
The movie began playing after the broadcast of the Mass. Salinas is the only one in the car who had never seen it, but he recognized the title, referenced by the last mysterious facebook posting. The movie is starting up again after just having ended. He stares at the tolling Liberty Bell that begins the film, wondering what its repetition might mean.

The vice-President reaches down and turns the television off. Villa snorts contemptuously. “They’re throwing it in our faces,” she says. “Just like the Mass.”

“I don’t understand,” Enrique says. “What are they doing?”

“The movie was supposed to be cut from this year’s holiday playlist,” she answers. “The FCC decided that it had too much religious content. Christian groups raised a lot of noise over the ruling last August, trying to get it overturned. They were denied. And now they’re rubbing it in our faces by playing it over and over again.”

Salinas blames the American government’s incremental approach to secularization for their present fix. The time wasted in half-steps and half-measures has given these Christians the breathing room to organize. It would have been
better if The States had followed Mexico’s lead and just shut the churches down. Yes, it would have been bloody, no doubt bloodier than it was in Mexico, but they would’ve had the advantage of initiative. They would’ve prevailed as surely as President Vargas did. As things stood now, they were on the defensive and in the dark to boot! All their plans were in jeopardy.

Across from him, Holly Villa flips the intercom switch. “Jimmy, we’re going to stop in Santa Fe.”

“Yes, Madame Vice-President,” the driver responds.

Enrique Salinas is relieved to hear of the detour. A stop in Santa Fe means a sit down with,
The Tribe
, the inner circle of La Raza Nation Separatists.

DC could wait. They were headed for a war council.

12:11:10

Aguas Pietras, Mexico

Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim is a long way from his home of Najaf, Iraq.

Ahmed left his war-torn country nearly a year ago. He is now less than twenty kilometers from America’s southern border. Al-Hakim crossed seas and jungles to build a nuclear bomb right on America’s doorstep. This he has done. The bomb is built and sitting in the back of a van in the garage of his host’s villa. All that remains to complete his mission is to transport it across the dessert border, pick up the nuclear material waiting for them just outside of Midland Texas and detonate the bomb during the Rose Bowl celebration in Los Angeles on New Year’s Day.

His year long journey began with a summons to a personal audience with the Imam, Nouri Al-Faisal in Basra, Iraq. Never in his wildest dreams would Ahmed have imagined receiving the honor of dining with so great, so holy a servant of almighty Allah. Imam Al-Faisal was the great defender of his people. He not only chased the American military out of Sunni Arabia, but he also kept their Shiite rival, the Ayatollah Muqtada Al-Sadr, from turning Iraq over to his masters in Tehran. Al-Sadr could do as he pleased in Baghdad, but except for the occasional direct flight to Iran, the fat rat of an Ayatollah rarely ventured outside his compound, let alone his city. Al-Faisal, and in his own small way, Ahmed made sure Iran’s Shiite lapdog knew little peace outside his bunker.

Ahmed Aziz Al-Hakim has never known peace himself. His earliest memories were of jihad. He has always been at war, first against the Americans, now
against the Shiite heretics; and, always and ultimately against the very world itself. Jihad demanded it of him and Ahmed is ever eager to serve its cause.

“Holy war,” as the Imam Al-Faisal repeatedly pointed out at Mosque services, “Is the surest path to the truest peace. True peace is only possible through submission to almighty Allah. When
Dar al-Islam
, the House of Islam conquers
Dar al-Harb
, the House of War, and all men submit to Allah, the world will know true and lasting peace. Not until then.”

The great Imam welcomed Ahmed warmly to his Basra home.

“Ahmed! Ahmed! Truly Allah smiles upon me with your visit,” Al-Faisal said on their first meeting. He grasped Ahmed with his two great hands, kissed his cheeks and embraced him as even his own father never had.

Leading Al-Hakim into his house, the Imam continued. “I am told, Ahmed that you are as clever as you are devout.”

“Those are judgments for Allah the Merciful to make, your holiness.”

Al-Faisal laughed. His purple lips and great white teeth parted the shroud of gray-streaked beard. “You’re humble and wise as well. Good. Still, it would not be immodest of you to admit that you have a real talent, a gift from Allah, for numbers, electronics and the constructing of ingenious weapons.”

“I admit that I enjoy working with my hands, Imam but…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

“Of course not, my son,” the Imam said. “Speak freely, by all means.”

“It’s just that my heart yearns to do more than build rockets and roadside bombs,” Ahmed Al-Hakim said. “I wish to strike at the enemy directly, in battle.”

“This too I have heard said about you brother, Ahmed,” The Imam said with a generous smile.

They stopped before a table with glasses and a pitcher of iced tea. Al-Faisal poured them each a glass and bid Ahmed drink. It was cold mint tea and perfect after the three hour bus ride through the dusty, sun-drenched dessert. The Imam refilled Ahmed’s glass after he drained it.

“Thank you, Imam.”

“My pleasure, son,” Al-Faisal said. “And my honor it is to serve one eager to fight on the frontline. I heard tell of your courage during the last pilgrimage.”

Ahmed bowed, humbled by the master’s compliment. Al-Faisal referred to an attack on a United Nations convoy last spring. He and a dozen others blended in among Shiite pilgrims and attacked trucks full of Western soldiers as they passed. They managed to kill all eighty infidels and escaped without losing a man of their own. Al-Hakim had never felt more alive than during that raid. As content as he was to serve their jihad by building rockets and improvised explosives, Ahmed would prefer to spend the strength and energy of his youth fighting as he did that afternoon.

“Your loyalty to your orders,” the Imam Al-Faisal continued. “Your obedience was just as important as your courage. You did not allow the others to fire on the pilgrims. I understand you threatened to shoot Khalid if he disobeyed and harmed a single one of them.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Why?” The Imam asked. “Were not those Shiite pilgrims your enemies too?”

“Our orders were specific, Imam,” Ahmed answered. “We were to spare the pilgrims.”

“Yes, yes,” Al-Faisal nodded approvingly. “It was necessary to spare them to firmly fix the blame on them. You no doubt guessed as much.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“And it all worked out,” the Imam said. “The attack rid us of scores of Western occupiers and fooled them into retaliating against Al-Sadr instead of us.”

“I’m happy to have been of use,” Ahmed said.

“And you are eager to be part of more such exercises?”

“Yes!”

“Good,” the Imam said. “I have a task for you that would serve our jihad mightily.”

“Anything father,” Ahmed said, turning squarely to face the holy man. “Anything that you would have me do to strike terror in the heart of Al-Sadr, you may consider it done.”

Al-Faisal laughed.

“No, my son,” he said. “Leave Muqtada to me. I would like you to strike at the great Satan.”

Ahmed Al-Hakim was stunned.

“The great Satan?”