The Resurrection of Osama bin Laden: A Novella

By C. M. Smith

The author and his editor from The Mossback Review went to Las Vegas in June 2012 to cover the off-year Conference for Young Conservatives. The conference was a bust, but while in Vegas they happened upon a much larger story, one that had the potential to bring down a presidency.

We all know that fiction titled “Operation Neptune Spear”. That’s the story of how SEAL Team Six rode top secret stealth helicopters deep into Pakistani airspace to the city of Abbottabad, where they assaulted a walled compound and killed Osama bin Laden.

If the details of that mission seemed too fantastical to be true, that’s because they weren’t true. But those in power at both ends of the political spectrum had good reason to go along with the official story. The author and his editor, however, refused to be complicit. This is the story of how they picked up the trail on the Las Vegas Strip, fended off rivals from Fox News, outmaneuvered rogue agents of the CIA, and followed their leads to the outskirts of Khartoum. What they managed to uncover will leave you wondering if you can ever believe anything that comes out of Washington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. M. Smith
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310586781

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The Resurrection of Osama bin Laden: A Novella

By C. M. Smith

Copyright © 2015 C. M. Smith

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This ebook may not be re-sold or copied in whole or in part in any form. Thank-you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by C. M. Smith

Las Vegas originally appeared in The Mossback Review, Fall 2012

Khartoum originally appeared in The Mossback Review, Winter 2013

CONTENTS

PART ONE: Las Vegas

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

PART TWO: Khartoum

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

PART ONE

Las Vegas

One

It all started two months ago, in June, at the off-year Conference for Young Conservatives. It was billed as the most inclusive gathering yet, with campus Tea Party chapters and many conservative minority groups represented. The Young Republicans and the College Republicans were also there, of course. They hold their national conventions in odd-numbered years, so in the even years like 2012 they get together with other groups for some cross-pollination.

A cynic would say the conference was open to anyone who wanted to party in Las Vegas, but when I arrived I wasn’t yet a cynic.

I’m a member of my school’s chapter of the College Republican National Committee, but I didn’t attend the conference in that capacity. I went instead, with my editor, as the senior writer for our school’s conservative quarterly, The Mossback Review. My editor had this idea that I could take away enough material from the conference to write the definitive article about the future of the Republican Party.

I wasn’t yet cynical, so I believed him.

I was eager to take on this project so I dedicated my summer to it. The published article would be the credential that would jump-start my career in journalism. I went to Vegas prepared with a broad outline; my piece would herald the triumph of Conservatism over the outdated moderate, compromising Republicanism of the past. It would be written with an angle toward the future, toward the party these young people in Vegas would one day be leading. I would interview some of these brilliant young minds to breathe life into my article. I held great hope that it would be a comprehensive yet concise profile of my generation, and one day be considered a key document in the history of the young conservative movement.

Like I said, I was completely devoid of cynicism at this point. I’d never been to Vegas before.

So we went there, me and my editor, and we got our press credentials, and my spirits were high, soaring in fact, but by the end of the first day it wasn’t going well. It took only two days for me to become a cynic.

But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me go back. We arrived a day early and checked in to the Mandalay Bay, our host hotel. It was suggested that conference attendees bring two business outfits and everyone was already wearing their first; there were young men suited up everywhere, at the bars, at the game tables, hitting on women, at room parties up in the hotel, and as the night wore on the level of debauchery grew. Any attempt at intelligent conversation was futile.

The second suit, I said to my editor, is for when you puke on the first.

Let’s just join the fun, he said. You’ll get everything you need at the conference starting tomorrow. Until then, let’s live it up in Vegas.

Of course my editor already was living it up, and was very drunk when he said that. His future success also rested on my article, but he didn’t actually have to write it like I did, so it was easier for him to live it up. We were sitting at the bar and he’d just finished his third or fifth Rum and Coke. He signaled to the bartender for another and held up two fingers this time. My friend here is ready to join the fun.

I joined him but limited my consumption to a couple drinks. I wanted to have a clear head in the morning when the conference began.

After what I saw last night, my editor said the next morning as we checked into the conference, I think you’ll do best by sticking to the speakers.

We were seated on time, in straight-back chairs that were surprisingly comfortable. My editor wasn’t looking too bad considering how much alcohol he’d consumed the night before. I haven’t used his name for reasons that will be obvious later, but I should, for reasons that will later prove very relevant, describe his appearance. At 6 ft 5 in tall he didn’t fit the chair as comfortably as I did. His rail thin body, maybe 160 pounds, was curled forward; his posture had developed a slight but noticeable hunch from years spent inhabiting a world designed too small for him. His thick, wavy black hair and dark complexion suggested ethnicity, but he liked to claim Italian heritage. His face was dominated by a long Roman nose and his eyes were as dark as eyes get. When focused, these eyes could be intimidating, even to me, but as we waited for the conference to begin they looked tired and bored as he gazed around the room.

When the first speakers took to the podium, the seats around us were mostly empty. As they droned on, the stragglers began to arrive. Walking in front of us, many looked pale and hung over, and some wore business suits that were already badly wrinkled. The morning’s slate of speakers stepped up and spoke, one after the other, and none of them were any good at all. We were both expecting better.

This afternoon, my editor said, the quality should improve. These are not the marquee time slots.

There was a break for lunch around noon. This was a good opportunity to mingle and make some contacts, but since none of the morning speakers seemed worth interviewing, we headed over to Bamboo for Chinese.

We were almost interviewed by Fox News on our way there, but more on that later.

The speakers after lunch were no better than those from the morning. I was bored out of my skull. It was one stick in the mud after another, a parade of sticks in the mud. Attendance was dropping quickly as hangovers diminished and the lure of the game tables became too much to resist. But we sat through it all, holding out hope for the day’s keynote speaker.

Even as I sat there, I swear to God I didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of cynicism. The keynote speaker was a lawyer just a year or two out of law school who was clerking for Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. Surely he’d be worthy of a profile.

But no.

This guy is too full of himself, I said to my editor.

Yeah, he’s a turd. You’d think with his credentials he’d be capable of independent thought.

Exactly.

We need to get out of here. Let’s take the Tram over to the Luxor. I hear they have an excellent buffet.

Fifteen minutes later we were deep beneath the pyramid, seated at our table like living pharaohs before plates piled high with shrimp, pizza, roast beef, and French pastries.

I don’t think I’ll be able to write the article you had in mind, I said.

My editor nodded. I’m starting to think the same thing. Maybe all the serious young conservatives are going to the GOP convention in August. This crowd is just here to party in Vegas.

After multiple returns to the buffet, we were stuffed so full it hurt. Not wanting to move far, we stayed at the Luxor and moved to the game floor. My editor played some craps while I watched. I didn’t have money to waste gambling so I was content being his sidekick at the tables. After a while we found a bar where we could spend some of his winnings.

While you were prepping for your article, he said, I was boning up on craps. I expect to win big during this trip.

But the odds are always against you, aren’t they?

Not always. There’s some side bets that offer even odds. With a little luck I should be able to stay on the plus side.

I nodded. Since he was buying the Rum and Cokes I wasn’t going to argue.

After a few drinks I went to the men’s room and while there I overheard a pair of rumpled suits, I presume from the conference, talking with great excitement about a news story: Osama bin Laden was still alive. When I got back to the bar and mentioned this to my editor, his eyes lit up. He got on his smart phone immediately to see what the story was.

This, he said, is a dream come true.

Why? I asked. He was the most hated man in the world. Why would we want him alive?

Are you kidding me? My editor’s bleary-eyed stare conveyed contempt.

I shrugged.

You kill me, Chris — you, who I brought here to write the article my future depends on — you absolutely kill me, but I’ll explain it if I must.

Please do.

It’s this simple: a living Osama is a kick in the gut to Obama. We need to erase this blot on our country’s history we call the presidency of Barack Hussein Obama II. It hurts just thinking about it. How this immigrant Muslim ever got sworn in I don’t know, but there he is, tarnishing a long line of real men leading from the Oval Office. This story could start to make it right.

So if bin Laden’s death was faked, Obama’s re-election chances are nil?

Yes. We can limit this mistake to one term, then repeal all of his legislation. But it means more than that. The one thing we thought we could never take back, that one ‘accomplishment’ he has flaunted the most, is the killing of Osama bin Laden.

I was nodding. I see your point, but—

"There are no buts. The fact that he was able to claim such a victory is the greatest of all the tragedies we’ve endured during this dark period. Liberals actually cheered at the news of bin Laden’s death. They did more than just cheer. They reveled in it. Grinning ear to ear, they rejoiced and jumped up and down and they danced. Liberals — these are the same people who think it’s unethical to kill animals for medical research, research that will save human lives. These are the same people who avoid eating honey because we steal