Crash Course: Volunteer Patriots Confront Deadly Terrorists

By John Gordon

CRASH COURSE is the story of three disaffected twenty-somethings and determined terrorist wannabes from Des Moines who intend to carry out a large-scale attack on San Francisco. They know the best day and the most effective method to create massive casualties and a long-term ecological disaster. Only Colin Hennessy, a downtrodden vagabond writer and a small flotilla of aging Coast Guard volunteers led by Jackson Boyd are positioned to thwart the Iowans’ plans. But the odds greatly favor the terrorists in a white-knuckle showdown pitting brute force against courage and guile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483593470

John Gordon

John Gordon has written and illustrated many children's books as well as worked extensively in most areas of illustration. When he's not writing or illustrating, he gives talks in schools and libraries and plays squash.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Chapter 1

October, 2015

A gunshot jolted Colin from his stupor. He had passed out from too many sloppy gulps of Captain Morgan. Dempsey, the pilot, was down and bloody. He looked dead. Hamit hustled to the controls. Azim and Muid guarded the crew and passengers. Everyone aboard was now a hostage, and they were headed toward a fatal collision with destiny. Colin secretly tried to make an emergency call to alert the authorities, but he had no signal. Damn. I just have to be patient and keep my head down, he concluded.

Six Months Earlier

Tork’s rusting Corolla was low on gas, and he was even lower on cash. But he had bigger problems. Though he was a decent mechanic, he hadn’t worked in eighteen months. His father had grown tired of funding his complacency.

Your non-life. That’s the term the old man used to describe Tork’s existence.

Get your ass off the sofa and get to work, barked his dad. He followed with, You need to man up and support yourself.

Tork’s father, TJ, prospered from his commitment to hard work. He experienced limited job progression during his twelve years at Hy-Vee Food Stores, the fourth largest business in town. A Spartan lifestyle eventually enabled TJ to save enough cash to open a sandwich shop on Terrace Street. Because of his sacrifices, he detested laziness, and he was disgusted by his son’s attitude of entitlement.

TJ’s wife, Mae, also wanted Tork to show more initiative. She was a petite, sweet, and capable woman who held an influential administrative job at Hy-Vee. Like TJ, she sought to improve herself and raise their living standards by taking night classes. She was justifiably proud of the Associate of Arts degree she earned from Central Iowa Community College.

She often encouraged Tork. There are a dozen grease-monkey jobs out there. Take one. You are a good mechanic. Though he loved his mom, Tork generally ignored her.

But she was right about his talent. When he was only ten, Tork dismantled a junked Chevy Nova in the chuck-holed vacant lot south of his house. At fourteen, he was doing oil changes and brake jobs for the neighborhood’s fleet of beater-cars. A couple years later, long-time customer Delmont Fraser acknowledged the Tork’s skill with wrenches by nicknaming him Torque. Delmont was a wise man, but he could not have won a spelling bee. Everyone picked up on Delmont’s version of the nickname, Tork.

When he was a burly eighteen-year-old with an unkempt shock of thick black hair, Tork took a full-time job at Benny’s Auto Emporium on Des Moines’ east side. Emporium was an exaggeration: Benny’s garage had just two grimy, cramped bays. However, Benny’s also had a reputation for quality work at cheap prices. Hiring the talented, enterprising teen kept a lid on Benny’s costs and attracted Tork’s neighborhood clientele. Tork enjoyed the work, but he pissed away his meager wages on beer and hand-jobs on infamous 112th Street West.

When uterine cancer took Mae in 2013, TJ and Tork were shattered. Not being religious, faith wasn’t a source of comfort for them. TJ channeled his grief into strengthening his business, believing Mae would want that. Tork quit his job at Benny’s and became isolated. He blamed his mother’s death on Hy-Vee’s stressful and seedy working conditions.

Eighteen months later in the spring of 2015, he was still seething about what he called the overall lack of corporate responsibility. It was a muggy June day when he occupied his preferred curb-spot outside the nearby Safeway. Tork told his only two friends, Javon and Dennis, Capitalism only makes rich people richer, and it destroys the rest of us. Tork’s listless, self-loathing classmates from Eisenhower High School’s Class of ’11 agreed emphatically, though they were hazy about the principles of capitalism.

Dennis was reasonably smart, though cautious and introverted. He was also relatively handsome and agile. He seemed to move effortlessly. Javon was short and overweight. His round face and missing front tooth resembled a poorly cut Jack-o-lantern. Javon made it through high school by cheating. Though he was often caught, the teachers at Eisenhower were glad to move him forward and, eventually, out.

Despair and Tork’s outlaw views of an American rigged system nudged the trio toward the most obvious, violent, and accessible outlet for their anger: gang membership. Actually, it was Dennis’ idea.

The three cautiously approached Carl Townsend, a mean Eisenhower dropout whom they knew to be a gang member. Carl knew Tork, Javon and Dennis were not gang material, but he agreed to introduce them to a few of his fellow club members. The informal meeting was held in a musty basement on squalid Third Avenue. Outsiders called it Turd Avenue. Tork, Javon and Dennis knew this was Hell Fire territory—a patch of occupied turf they normally avoided.

For a while, the HF members treated Tork and his friends with crude hospitality. They spoke of injustice, pride, and unity against the corrupt government and other Des Moines gangs. Tork energetically nodded his agreement. Javon and Dennis mimicked his actions, though they didn’t feel the rage.

The potential recruits were given cans of Colt-45 and stale Fritos. Bolo, a beefy, tattooed bouncer at Sally’s Sewer bar, six blocks away, conducted an apparent interview/sales pitch. He declared the importance of your brothers on the streets and the death that awaits those without protection. Three other buzz-cut HF members, including Carl, sat to Bolo’s left. Tork felt that these preliminaries signaled common ground and friendship.

He was wrong. The gang-bangers were simply jerking around Tork, Javon and Dennis, like a pack of alley cats playing with mice before biting them in half. Bolo feigned a curious tone and expression, and said, So tell us why we should let you join the ‘Fires.

The boys fidgeted until Tork spoke. He spouted the usual, generalized venom. We think this place is rigged to screw over us average guys. We wanna do somethin’ about that. We wanna join a group of bad-asses and bust the system up.

Bolo had planned to humor the boys for an hour to let them believe he was serious—the tomcat granting the doomed mouse a bit of hope. However, he decided the three were not worth another five minutes of Hell Fire time.

In a sarcastic tone, Bolo said, So you punks think you’re bad-asses?

Well….

Bolo lunged toward the boys as he challenged them. Well what, punks? You wanna show me how bad you are? Bolo was starting to enjoy this. He wondered if he could get them to shit themselves.

Well, no Mr. Bolo. We just thought –

You thought nothin’ bitches. Bolo pulled a Glock 19 from the back of his belt. I’m gonna show you what ‘bad’ is.

Wait! Wait! Javon screamed. He instinctively held out his hands to stop Bolo’s approach.

Bolo engaged the chubby Javon in a brief stare-down until Tork commanded, Outta here guys. With that, the three bolted from the room. They scrambled up the basement steps, and nearly knocked the screen door off its hinges when they exited.

They piled into Tork’s Corolla. Its tires screeched an emphatic farewell to Bolo’s Gangland House of Terror. Tork, Javon and Dennis exchanged adrenaline-fueled observations and insults until they were back in their own neighborhood. With uncharacteristic insight, Javon observed, We probably don’t fit the gang profile.

CHAPTER TWO

Chapter 2

Next, they considered joining radical Islam. Tork read about it online and shared his overly simplified conclusion. They hate the same crap about this country we do. Tork offered more information about the hell-raising the radicals were achieving in the Middle East and elsewhere. He decided it was a call to action. That prompted the three to loiter outside the Al Shomal Mosque on East 12th Street in hopes of mixing with the faithful.

After an hour of small talk outside the building, a small, middle-aged Muslim man came outside to greet them. Hello gentlemen. My name is Hosni, he said. His face was pleasant and his demeanor was friendly. May I help you? he asked.

Well, sir, we wanted to learn more about Muslims. Tork was nervous and somewhat disarmed by Hosni’s gentle presence. "I read online that we don’t have to be A-rabs to become Muslims. Is that true?"

Hosni disregarded the crude pronunciation and replied, Certainly not. The Muslim faith is one of inclusion. We welcome people of all races and nationalities.

Tork smiled and responded, Well then, Mr. Hosni, could we come into the building and have a look around. We are definitely interested in being Muslims.

I am afraid that would not be possible right now, replied Hosni. You see, we have some guidelines about attire within this holy building. You seem like nice young men, but we would prefer that you wear more modest clothing—long pants and long sleeve shirts—when entering. It is a sign of respect. I hope you understand.

So, if we changed out of our cut-offs and t-shirts, you would give us a tour? Tork asked.

Yes, of course. Why don’t you come back tomorrow a bit before noon. Not only can you see the building, but you can also observe a prayer session. How does that sound?

The boys nodded first to each other, then to Hosni. Tork said, That would be great. Thank you. We will be here at 11:45 tomorrow morning, and we will wear the right clothes. Awkwardly, they bowed and walked away, excited and jabbering. Hosni watched them depart, then he stepped back into the mosque.

The next day, Hosni greeted Tork, Javon, and Dennis warmly. As they stood in the foyer, Hosni said, "Welcome to this open and welcoming place. Westerners call this a mosque—actually a word with French origins. We call this a masjid, the preferred Arabic name." He added that this mosque opened an hour before each of the five daily obligatory prayer times.

As they slowly walked, Hosni continued, Our proud religion goes back to the seventh century, so you will see Arabic script on the walls that tell very old Islamic stories. He stopped at the door to the main sanctuary and directed the boys to remove their shoes and place them on a rack.

In a courtyard, Tork, Javon and Dennis were shown a fountain where a cleansing ritual called wudu—washing ears, face, hands, arms and feet—was required before entering the hall for prayers. The wudu reference prompted more hushed snickers and sarcasm from the boys. Wudu you think of my clean feets? whispered Javon. Dennis answered with, Nice. Wudo you think of my clean elbows? Hosni heard the last remark and winced. The boys didn’t notice.

Hosni mentioned that upon entering the mosque for prayer, believers must step in first with the right foot first and say, Oh Allah, open the door of mercy for me. After that, he added, there is some circling by those present and shared prayers. To the boys, it all sounded like hocus pocus.

The large prayer room had no furniture, though the walls were covered with Arabic script and intricate patterns. There were shelves of Islamic books and stacks of Qurans, plus individual wooden racks for the opened Qurans to be read while seated on the floor. The Quran is never to be placed directly on the floor, Hosni explained.

As the tour progressed, the visitors pretended to be deeply interested. When Hosni wasn’t looking, however, they exchanged do-you-believe-we-are-actually-in-a-mosque glances.

Hosni pointed out the room’s features. Except along the back of the room where visitors could sit, there were no chairs or benches. There were colorful rugs on the floor, in rows directing the prayers toward a platform called a minbar. That was a point from which the Imam, The most holy dude, as Tork called him, led the prayers. Dennis softly called it the "minibar," and they snickered and high-fived. Near the minbar was a roof-like facade called the mihrab. It indicated the direction in which all should pray—toward Mecca. To their disappointment, the boys couldn’t come up with an offensive parody of the word mihrab. Dennis and Jevon also had no clue that Mecca was in Saudi Arabia. Javon speculated, I think it is just somewhere beyond north-central Illinois. Tork knew better, but he kept silent.

As the group headed toward the courtyard, Hosni showed the boys a place to donate money. Neither his tone nor body language suggested any pressure to do so.

As worshippers entered the mosque for noon prayers, Hosni guided the three back to the chairs in the sanctuary. There were informal greetings among the faithful, then they aligned themselves on the mats. They started their formal worship by raising their hands and chanting the phrase, Allahu Akbar, meaning God is great. After that, there were more hand movements, sitting, bowing, standing, kneeling,