The Britteridge Heresy: Jon's Trilogy, #2

By Dale Amidei

As the 2008 troop surge fully engages the insurgency in Iraq, a vengeful terrorist intends to take the fight to America. He begins with the State Department team who helped turn the tide in Al Anbar Province. Simultaneous strikes on targets abroad and stateside deliver the message nothing is forgiven.

Rumors surface of pending attacks intended to impact the will of a wavering public. The State Department and military personnel closest to understanding the intent of the attackers come together in an attempt to find and stop those already responsible for wreaking domestic havoc. A terrifying plot of revenge is uncovered targeting not only individuals, but the sense of security for an entire nation.

Jon Anthony is disturbed to discover the only thing able to distract his pursuers from the plot is an intense desire to see him die. The momentum of a nation's war effort will hinge on offering himself as bait for a vicious enemy.

Approx, 85,400 words / 288 pp. print length.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Single Candle Press
• Release date: Aug 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984025121

Dale Amidei

Dale Amidei lives and writes on the wind- and snow-swept Northern Plains of South Dakota. Novels about people and the perspectives that guide their decisions are the result. They feature faith-based themes set in the real world, which is occasionally profane or violent. His characters are realistically portrayed as caught between heaven and earth, not always what they should be, nor what they used to be. In this way they are like all of us. Dale Amidei's fiction can entertain you, make you think, and touch your heart. His method is simple: have something to say, then start writing. His novels certainly reflect this philosophy.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Closing Circles

Qinshan, Haiyan, Jiaxing,

People's Republic of China

November 14, 2007

Li Zhou Chu entered the Qinshan Radiological Materials Facility through the secured doorway reserved for management and government inspectors, with a small two-wheeled dolly in tow. The guards behind the desk rose as they always did, and he nodded as he usually would. He was a regular visitor to this facility and sometimes the VIP escort of various politicians and foreign officials who frequented this place. He was not to be questioned by watchmen or workers. His place in this society was the giving of direction, not information or advice. If there was any certainty at all to be found in the PRC, it was in the people here knowing precisely what was expected of them.

Li Zhou Chu did. What was expected of him today was his end of a transaction. A client very well funded and referred had proposed it six months ago. This one did a lot of business in China, both overt and discreet. It was the latter type of enterprise occupying Li today.

Via their operations the nearby nuclear power plants of Qinshan produced a number of by-products:  some needing disposal, some requiring transfer into very long-term storage, and others of use elsewhere. These last were often the most valuable. The concept still translated well even in a managed economy and for the same reason human nature transcended even the most stringently structured diametric philosophy. Capitalism was thriving in China as was corruption. It was the junction of those two trends defining Li Zhou Chu.

He gowned up in the dressing room near the entrance, donning the blue bunny suit everyone wore here; he then put on a hairnet, mask, face guard, and pair of shoe covers taken from the wall racks holding these disposable items. He checked his watch to ensure a timely arrival. The smoothness of the operation would speak of its normalcy. It was his goal to have nothing remembered of what was to occur today.

He placed his identification card in a protective holder and hung it from his neck using one of the many lanyards here with the rest of the dressing room supplies; it was now the only item differentiating him from the dozens of workers in the plant. Li stepped through the interior door of the dressing area and into the facility itself, his empty dolly rolling behind him.

He strode with confidence down the concrete walkways until he reached the center of the huge facility. It was a very short ride on a raising platform to the elevated work area with rows of engineers performing the difficult, precise job of containing a very dangerous product. Li Zhou Chu saw the numbered workstation he sought and recognized the man who labored there. Li arrived and stood silently nearby, not wanting to disturb the process.

The engineer looked at him with the eyes of a worker, one who did what he was told. There was only the barest hint of a man who even in this political environment was willing to do what he could for himself. He would say nothing, ever, Li Zhou Chu thought to himself. Such a man knew very well the consequences if it was ever discovered otherwise.

The last of eighteen units carefully filled via remotely controlled tongs and measuring containers; the receptacles, leveled and transferred, moved one by one into a heavy leaden cylinder. With ten grams of powder so meticulously sifted, the heavy cap of the cylinder screwed into place. The source material shielded behind a sliding cover as the cylinder inside the enclosure received its covering spray of black sealant and rotated beside a heat source to cure the plasticized coating.

After the requisite amount of time, the worker performed a 360-degree inspection of the result and then moved the container to a transfer lock. He used the set of tongs hung outside the access port to place the cylinder in the final spot of the third layer of six standing beside him. Finished for the day, he nodded to Li Zhou Chu.

Li eased the base plate of his dolly under the stack of cylinders. Casually reaching into his pants pocket through the slot in the disposable garments he wore, he palmed the wad of cash waiting there. A brush pass slipped it into the other man's hand. The payment disappeared just as quickly into the engineer’s own pocket, and their business was complete. The inspector who tallied the daily inventory was already taken care of as were the guards who would allow Li passage out of the plant today. There was more than enough money to share, and Li’s patron had made it clear necessary business expenses comprised a portion of his compensation.

It was a satisfying arrangement. It was commerce, the way of the future in his country. Capitalism was thriving in China, and he was the only purveyor of this particular product. The rewards were as great as the risks he took to procure them, in the manner of business everywhere.

Alexandria, Virginia

Friday, April 4, 2008

It was Friday in Alexandria, and the workplaces of the city and of the Capital were emptying out for what promised to be a rainy spring weekend. Jon Wayne Anthony arrived at his apartment shortly before six in the evening. It had not been a bad drive home for a Friday. Neither had it been a bad week. He had finished and submitted the last of a series of reports on the principal imam of a major mosque in Baghdad and his own opinions on how the man’s teachings would affect the ongoing sectarian violence in the Iraqi capital. As was usually the case, Anthony delivered his piece ahead of schedule and found it well received.

His second annual review was less than three months away; he had every reason to believe it would go just as well as his first, which was stellar. Nothing was out of place in his life. On his writing desk in the living room of the one-bedroom sat a sheaf of paper reminding him there was, however, something remaining unfinished.

Anthony’s career with the State Department had come at the cost of interrupting his postgraduate studies, already two years past this winter. He had not planned to return, but as time progressed, the idea of abandoning years of work sat less well with him. Twelve months into his withdrawal, he had allowed Dr. Stephen Mills, his former advisor, to talk him into returning on a distance-learning basis. One by one, he fulfilled the remaining additional requirements of his resumed program. Just this morning he saw an e-mail had arrived from Dr. Mills confirming his doctoral dissertation as being the last of those.

He had archived his original on the backup drive attached to his personal laptop, with another copy on a memory stick locked in his file drawer at work. A reduction of the bases of major cross-cultural theological thought, it delved into what he saw as the core principles naturally guiding the human spirit into the condition its Creator wished it to assume. It had been a departure from what the upper echelon of the Department of Theological Studies at the Ivy League Britteridge College was used to seeing from its doctoral candidates. The end result was his hiatus from higher education and entry into government service. The 2006 adventure ending in Al Anbar had moved him from a consultancy to an analyst's slot on the Iraq Desk. It had given him the opportunity to escape the crushing burden of his student loan debt over the last couple of years. It had not closed the failed circle of pursuing his doctorate.

Anthony took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, sitting on his worn leather couch to stare at the stack of paper on the nearby desk. An unclosed circle was a powerful force, he thought to himself. It was something undone and incomplete, a gravitational influence continually drawing one back on task. Dr. Mills must have felt it too. It was within their reach, and even though Anthony had no objective reason to pursue it, he knew to do so was unavoidable. They had until the end of the current semester.

His return had restarted the clock on his program, and this was the last of the six years Britteridge College allowed for the fulfillment of doctoral requirements. His rejected dissertation had been shelved; the current one—an account of his utilization of the same principles in the field with the State Department team in Al Anbar Province—was nearing completion. The first and second drafts were finished, and he was on the final edit before he would have the preliminary copy delivered to Dr. Mills. Sometime after, Anthony would have to face the same men who had jettisoned his first effort at a defense. It was not something to which he looked forward, but it was the opinion of his advisor the current tome would pass muster. It would have to, Jon thought, or the circle would remain forever incomplete. He knew already how intolerable that could be, and forever was a long, long time.

Haditha,

Al Anbar Province, Iraq

Sunday, April 6, 2008

A cemetery was a place for memories, but only if the decedents had someone left for their memory to reside in, he thought to himself. He walked behind his guide slowly and reverently lest an errant step would have him tread on the resting place of one of the departed faithful.

They were both dressed in nondescript Bedouin garb:  his companion’s was the everyday clothing of a local, and his own as close to the model as he could obtain. It was his first visit to this country, and Haditha lived up to his expectations of the place. He was a Saudi although his papers, too, were as close an approximation of a local's as money could buy. He had as much as any man could need. Until recently in his life, he had put it to no specific purpose other than living in the ways pleasing him most and the charitable obligations of Islam. Everything was changing now, but priorities took precedence, with his family's blood surely foremost among those.

This section of the graveyard appeared less well tended, he saw with disappointment, but then he realized it could not be otherwise. There were only roughly numbered stones here, not the monuments carved to the memories of those whose families had been able to attend their interment. Those markers stood a distance away, better swept free of the sands always trying to cover them and more often visited by loved ones. No, it could not be otherwise.

Consulting again a slip of paper, his guide found the stone he was looking for, pointing downward. His voice was low and solemn. He is here, according to the note I made at the time.

The Saudi looked into his companion’s eyes, appreciating the sentiment he saw there. A wad of bills appeared with a silver money clip still attached. He handed it intact to the man. I am very grateful for your help. Your business is finished here. I wish to be alone, if you will leave us.

The man took the money gracefully, neither counting nor even regarding it. He respectfully held it in his hands and gave only a brief nod. I am sorry for your loss. I wish God's peace be upon you.

And may it fall on you also. Farewell.

He stared at a stone marking the head of the grave now two years filled. Already it looked as it would for the remainder of the time there would be caretakers for this place. He knelt down as he listened to his guide's footsteps fading into the distance. The predawn twilight in the east provided enough illumination for what he needed to see. The head of the grave faced south-southeast as did they all, toward Mecca as was proper.

Ah, my brother, he whispered. He touched his forehead to the sand in front of the stone and kissed it, begging God for mercy on one of His warriors. It was a place for remembrance, so he allowed the memories of his older sibling to flood his eyes. Of such times there should have been more, and his tears wet the same ground his forehead and his lips had caressed.

I have something to leave for you, something we share, he murmured. The curved blade of the janbiyah appeared from where he had hidden it inside his clothing. He switched hands and thrust the needle-sharp point into the palm of his right hand without so much as a grimace, looking only to assure himself the blood flowed freely. He pressed his wounded hand against the stone and left it there so it, too, could weep for the mournfully departed.

"Brother … Brother," he whispered. The tears began again, running down his face into his short beard.

It is a place for remembrance, Omar Ali al-Khafji thought to himself again as his blood warmed the cold headstone. It was also a place of regret, and renewal. It reminded the people who visited here of the occupants of the graves having once been alive, and of the dead as who yet lived would become. The time between was so important; he realized he had already wasted too much of his allotment.

His older sibling—Muhammad Qasim al-Khafji, his stone should have read—had always been one to admire, just as an older brother should be. Always more fire, a more impulsive mind, and a greater need for adventure resided inside Muhammad than he himself had ever felt. His brother had listened intently at prayers, and the passions he found there had taken the man abroad. Travel was something Omar Ali had done only on a whim and then for pleasure instead of from any devotion. Muhammad had sent back letters through whatever safe channel could transport them, full of adventures. One day the letters stopped, and Omar Ali’s search for his brother began.

It had lasted a year although his family assumed the worst from the start. News would have come of any capture, and his brother had never failed to attend his communication. The trail had led to Baghdad and then to Haditha, where the story of a battle in the desert could still be heard from those who had been on the winning side. Those who had attended otherwise were only here, the lucky ones in graves bearing at least their names. The others had only a number; it was only happenstance his brother's status allowed remembrance of the man’s resting place.

He had sought to avenge heresy against God, Omar Ali was told, and fell in the fight. Al-Khafji learned of the Anbari tribal conference from men who had been there, as anger still festered over it in some segments of this place. The infidel refused to move off their occupied soil. Even now at the height of the struggle, it seemed nothing could convince them to withdraw their increased numbers. They had brought in their college teachers and their diplomats to twist the minds of the faithful. Then they had brought in even more of their troops and their bomb-resistant vehicles. Now hope was starting to waver—Iraq would be lost to the faithful:  those who should govern it as they always had, even through the darkest days of Saddam’s regime.

Al-Khafji knew now who and where they were, the ones who had walked away when his brother had fallen. The heretic returned to his homeland. The diplomat continued his influence from Baghdad. Omar Ali knew even which locals had sheltered them; those names and locations comprised information available for a price. He had better uses than whimsy for his money now; he would use it to repay debts, ones his enemies did not even realize they owed. They would not until the time to settle accounts overtook them.

He could not leave it undone, he knew as he rose. At his feet on the stone, the drying blood cried out to see it through. He wrapped a handkerchief around his palm and took a last look. The day was close, and when it came, he needed to be well away from this place. Dawn would only mark the beginning of what he would do. His brother's struggle would go on. To match the contributions of Muhammad would not be enough. Omar Ali needed to surpass them, and Iraq was not the place. It was time to begin the first of his journeys to carry a purpose worthy of his family name.

Walter Reed Army Medical Center,

Washington, D.C.

Monday late shift, April 7, 2008

A hospital was a hushed place at night. Patients needed sleep, being disturbed only when the necessities of care demanded vital signs be collected or medication administered. There were people moving about, but those were staff. Doctors and family were scarce at this hour. Night nurses were more subdued than their day-walking counterparts. It was the rhythm of biology: people were tired at these hours even when they had not worked most of their twelve-hour shifts. Some of the staff had fourteen of those on the clock already and were not finished yet.

There was a gurney in Eight surrounded by somber orderlies and a chaplain. Using a sheet, the three covered a still form whose attendants prepared to transfer from the bed for the trip downstairs. It was never a good thing. A woman in scrubs bit her lip as she moved past. No family was present nor had they been during the patient’s short stay. It had not been a long career—only long enough to earn a Purple Heart in Iraq.

The house mom, or Patient Care Coordinator, continued through the double door to the corridor. From the hallway she heard the sounds and at first thought they came from a family member. It was too late, though, for visitors, being just before midnight. One of her people cried quietly in a deserted waiting room just off the ICU.

Cathy? she asked, standing in the doorway to the darkness.

Yes. Sorry.

Are you OK?

I will be. My private in Eight faded out. It just hit me really hard today.

"I heard. He had a tough fight, over there and back here. We did everything we could. You did too. You’ve been watching him like a hawk."

Yeah.

The supervisor walked a few steps into the dark and sat with her nurse, silent for a bit. It was not long at all before the thought dawned in the back of the woman’s mind.

"Oh, today. Cat, I’m so sorry. Do you want to go home? We can cover."

I’ll be OK. I just need a moment.

You’ve got it. If you change your mind page me.

Thanks, Angie. I’ll be OK, really. I’ll be back on the ward after my break.

The supervisor stood. Respecting her nurse’s needs, she put her hand on Cathy’s shoulder and squeezed, leaving her to deal with her emotion. Her nurse would rebound. This one always did. It was a necessary skill in patient care.

International (Green) Zone,

Baghdad, Iraq

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Lieutenant General Peter McAllen hit the light switch in his office at exactly 0600. He was maybe just a minute or two later than usual for a Tuesday, the middle of the Baghdad workweek. April was barely started; it had been an especially busy time for an intelligence czar in the nerve center of his nation's in-country efforts.

At the end of the prior month, the Sadrist conflicts plaguing Basra and Baghdad had been potentially resolved even in the Sadr City enclave. An agreement appeared to have a chance of holding despite another bad clash only a couple days ago. In the course of obtaining a cease-fire, however, the Prime Minister had come off as a weak and poorly prepared leader. It was an image Iraq's fledgling government did not at all need. Around one thousand police and Iraq military chose to sit out operations or had abandoned their posts altogether. There was still a long haul ahead of everyone here. The week's rocket attack into the Green Zone did not help anyone's morale.

Today General Petraeus would be appearing before a panel in Washington, doing what he could to prevent further drawdowns in the troop surge which, as far as McAllen was concerned, was living up to its purpose. They were on the verge of what they wanted to accomplish, but it was a finely balanced position, one able yet to tip either way. It was no time to lessen the effort.

So McAllen poured a mug of good coffee from the pot on the machine near his desk this Tuesday morning—reminding himself to thank his staff for having it ready as they usually did—and then sat down to work. His e-mail client was in his Startup group and sprang to life just after he logged in to his desktop. As always, items listed there in descending order of importance as determined by his night crew; some of the messages had reports attached. He would review all of them, but scanned the list first for subject lines jumping out at him.

Vengeance for heresies against Allah (Web posting) was one of those. McAllen grunted and opened it first though it was closer to the middle than the top of his Inbox in this morning's stack. The other side here did not muck about when it came to revenge. It was a question of balance in their mind-set, really. God or Allah help you if you got caught with your pants down once a Muslim malefactor figured you were due some time in the hurt locker.

The message contained a link to an Arabic-language website cached on a secure military server and to another with an English translation of the same. It was not atypical but still held his interest longer than the usual Web spouting often passing before his eyes. Two years is far too long to wait to avenge heresies against Allah, and we pray for His forgiveness, it read, and We will take the fight to the very home of the infidel blah, blah, blah. McAllen leaned back and sipped his coffee. The posting was more specific in its timeline than most and therefore likely to originate in an event, not a need for online participation. It was a warning.

Being as he had acculturated to the Islamic mind-set long ago, McAllen paid attention to warnings. Islamic law prescribed a fair notice before an attack, and it was exactly what the posting on this website constituted. Someone's ass was on the line.

His mind travelled backwards over the course of the previous two years. Waiting two years referred to spring 2006. The Al-Askari Mosque bombing had been shortly before this time frame but had been a sacrilege, not a heresy. Someone had offended the traditions and beliefs of Islam early in 2006, and the enemy thought the offense now cried out for balance. McAllen considered the possibilities as he sipped his mug again. Heresy, he remembered; they had called it the Britteridge Heresy.

McAllen sat up, thinking the caffeine must have just kicked in. He opened up his e-mail archive for 2006 and scanned the messages chronologically. Sure as hell, he thought. There was the assignment of one of his people to oversight for a State Department team, and a mission at the same time gone horribly wrong and yet bearing fruit in the region no one could have ever foreseen. Two years past. Heresy—it had to be. McAllen leaned back again, smirking. He knew which man would be ideal to follow up on this one. He lifted his telephone handset and mentally prepared some fresh meat for one of his favorite dogs of war.

The operative’s morning workout had been a good one. It was a requirement of his position to be in excellent physical condition, but more importantly it was a personal requirement he had long ago set for himself. Besides, he enjoyed it immensely. He had done his calisthenics and laps around the wire with the other early risers, of whom there were many. He felt strong and fast, alert without resorting to anything other than exertion and sweat. It was barely after 0600, and he was back from the showers here in the U.S. Air Force perimeter located just outside the guarded grounds of Baghdad International Airport.

The officer entered the small modular quarters and set his kit down in its place next to the lockers. It would be a day in the field, which meant wearing civvies. He opened the appropriate compartment and began to change out of the fresh set of exercise clothes he had worn for the walk back here. The Iraqna cell phone clipped to his waistband—always in silent mode during his waking hours—buzzed.

Freeing the unit, he looked at the display and instantly thumbed the button to answer the call. Yes, sir, he said.

Lieutenant Colonel Jon Colby? the gruff voice on the other end said in greeting. It was McAllen not asking but telling him something.

The Colonel stared at the lockers, his mind going into overdrive. Haven't heard the name in a while, sir, he said a second or two later.

I'm bringing him back, son. I've got some work he'll be interested in.

The officer shifted

Reviews for The Britteridge Heresy

[anna_erishkigal · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Border Patrol agents found a Quran dropped at an illegal border crossing...[*shiver*]In reviewing a suspense novel, I tend to judge according to the following factors:1. Sympathetic protagonist(s) *****2. Believable motivations for the antagonist(s) *****3. Realistic 'threat' *****4. Well developed supporting characters *****5. Well researched background *****6. A sense of a ticking clock *****7. Some sort of 'twist' *****8. Satisfying resolution *****9. Other factors ****Everything about this novel about a terror plot on home soil met or exceeded my expectations. Kameldorn from Book 1 is back with a new identity, while the mild-mannered Jon Anthony bravely stuck his neck out after surviving an attempt on his life. I loved Jon's new friend, Mary, ["What is it with American's and their obsession with guns!"] while Farrar is back and shone in a new light. Everyone, from the frustrated DHS agents to the motivations of the villain was satisfying, and even though I never have any TIME to read for pleasure, I ended up blowing off WORK to finish up this book because, dang it! The clock was ticking and I needed to know how it ended!I always try to say something less-than glowing, so if I have one complaint, it is that I am a secular woman (my Facebook religion is listed as 'Mutt') and all of Dale Amidei's writing has a heavy Christian message. [*heretic eye-roll ... yes, mother, and I'll eat my broccoli, too*]The next-to final scene where Jon comes face-to-face with the villain was particularly gratifying. Broccoli ... not so bad covered with cheese sauce :-PThis is the second book of this series I have read and I have already picked up the third.