The Red Sword of Allah

By Gregory Kilgore

September 11, 2001 was a wake-up call for the United States. Now, years later, people are getting sick and dying from what seems like any and all processed foods with each victim having differing symptoms. The food supply has been poisoned by an underground army of terrorists who have been working in the countrys food industry.

The Director of Homeland Security has called in Dr. Bradford Wilson to help head the effort to battle the unknown attackers. Any food that has been processed or handled in the nations food industry is now becoming a symbolic last meal and Brad must find out the who, what, how and why of the deadly attack. As Brad leads the investigation, the fight becomes personal and draws him into an anger and hatred where he finds that anyone can become a killer.

In time, the country finds the answers and begins to turn the tide, only to discover that this attack was but a precursor to the death stroke of the Red Sword of Allah that is now coming straight at them. They are now faced with saving the entire human race.

The foretold Islamic Apocalypse is now a reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440154904

Gregory Kilgore

Greg Kilgore is also the author of The Red Sword of Allah. As a senior executive in the specialty retail industry for more than twenty years, he authored commentaries both internally for large corporations and externally for a number of business periodicals. Kilgore and his wife reside in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Northern California.

Book preview

Copyright © 2009, 2012 Gregory Kilgore

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-5489-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-5491-1 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-5490-4 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 7/3/2012

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Prologue

Salt Lake City, Utah - September 12 at 8:15PM

I feel like crap, Brandon said sitting upright in his favorite recliner, his stomach making rumbling noises.

I feel like I’m going to puke and I’ve got cramps like you wouldn’t believe…Oh shit, I’ve got to… With this Brandon bolted for the bathroom with a mixture of panic and disbelief on his face.

Samantha was sitting on the forest green couch, watching Real Housewives of Atlanta, which was her regular Tuesday night entertainment and looked up seeing only his ass and heels running down the hallway between the laundry room and the spare bedroom… you OK honey? She called with an obligatory tone of voice, not wanting to miss anything.

Brandon and Samantha had been married for two years, both working very hard to make their mark in the business world. They had decided early on that kids would have to wait. Money, security, a nice home, along with Brandon’s career success which had to be enough to carry them financially and allowing Samantha to stay home with the kids, were the agreed upon priorities. That was the plan.

Only in their mid twenties and they had already purchased their first home. They had only put five percent down on the eighteen hundred square foot, two bedroom ranch and still had fairly sparse furnishings but time would take care of that. They knew that the debt they had driven up over the last two years was but an investment in their future and real estate was always a good investment.

Tonight they had done their typical Tuesday night thing and met for a glass of wine, an appetizer which was half price during ‘Happy Hour’ at Black Angus, followed by dinner. As per usual, they finished eating and returned home to fall into the nightly routine; Brandon working on his PC and Samantha watching several reality television shows that she was hooked on. She would change into her comfortable clothes, set her 145 pounds into the couch with her diet soda and keeping her baked potato chips within easy reach and loose herself in the supposedly ordinary lives of the carefully choreographed existence of the mundane. She wasn’t sure why, but this new type of voyeurism made her feel good about herself, and she would often find herself giving advice to the television set about how to deal with these ridiculous problems.

Brandon had tried to sit through these programs a few times, but quickly recognized it for what it was…crap. It was just too much…especially when Samantha would start giving advice and talking to the TV.

He had felt a little indigestion on his way home which was not surprising after eating the entire ‘Sampler Plate’ at Black Angus; then the entrée. He decided to sit in his Lazy-Boy and relax a little before heading into the master bedroom where he had a small desk and his lap-top. He had sat in the family room for his obligatory five minutes of television, watching crap with his wife when he started to feel even queasier and then suddenly felt the onset of cramps rolling through his intestines. After ten minutes, trying very hard not to say how stupid he thought this program was, his indigestion started to erupt into full blown nausea and terrible, painful cramps.

Brandon was six foot two inches tall, weighed 165 pounds and was particularly hairy, except on his head which had a Friar Tuck type bald spot. He was generally soft spoken and had an easy going disposition that lent itself to his IT job. He had always loved technology and now it was his livelihood.

Now, after only a short time in his favorite chair, Brandon’s lanky body was sprinting to the sanctuary closest to the family room where he barged head first into the bathroom, closed the door, turned his head back toward the back wall and vomit projected like an RPG of food chunks into the wall just to the right of the toilet. At the same time his bowels let go with what he thought was the worlds most voluminous fart only to discover he had released liquid and mucous through his Jockey shorts, his dress slacks and out into the outside world. His slacks became a cascade of smelly wetness terminating at the ankles just before he fell to his knees at the stool. With his head bent and drooping into the porcelain caldron of refuse, he began his long bought with the dry heaves, while intermittently blowing out wet and nasty farts. He was feeling woozy and had cold sweats.

Oh fuck, just fucking kill me, he groaned into the bottom of the toilet.

Samantha had the volume up enough on the TV to miss the Brandon Tyler show in the guest bathroom at the end of the hall. After the end of her show, however, she shifted her attention to the missing husband and wandered down the hall to the bathroom door.

Brandon…you in there? She asked at the door, while at the same time noticing a horrible stench…an odd odor that was almost enough to make her gag.

Brandon, are you in there? Are you all right? She called again as she began to open the bathroom door.

She looked, looked again and was not sure what she was seeing. Brandon was sitting with his back against the wall in front of the stool staring straight at her with a puzzled look on his face. His skin was pale and looked like plastic with a slight yellow cast and his eyes were red and yellow where the white should be. She then saw the walls covered with some kind of disgusting substance and the white linoleum floor that had what looked like runny chocolate pudding all over it. Curiosity went to rage, thinking that she would have to clean up this mess.

God damn it Brandon, what the hell… She then looked once again at her husband’s face and finally it registered that something was seriously wrong.

Brandon speaks. I think I’m feeling better.

Samantha is now completely confused, caught between fear, disgust, and anger at the mess he had made.

What the hell is wrong? She blurts out, displaying all of these emotions. What in the hell happened?

I don’t know, Brandon said in a pitiful voice.

Sorry about the mess, he said as he started to rise on uncertain feet. I think I’m ok now.

For ten seconds they just stared at each other.

Do you want me to call a doctor or somthin’? Samantha asked, not knowing what to do.

No, I don’t think so…I’m feeling better, I think, he said.

Who the fuck’s going to clean this mess up? Samantha bellowed as she finally came to her senses.

Chapter 1

Dr. Bradford Wilson was the Assistant Director of the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) – West Coast, and the Director of the Office of Food Defense and Emergency Response (OFDER). As such he had been the primary mover in establishing the Active Field Guidelines and Intelligence Gathering Procedures which provided data used by both the Homeland Security Office and Department of Defense.

Under the Homeland Security Presidential Directive #9 (HSPD-9) which establishes a national policy to defend the nation’s agricultural and food system against terrorism, Brad’s group (OFDER) was chartered with the collection and assembly of the actionable pieces of data, as well as, the emergency response procedures that would be used to investigate and then respond to any potential threat.

Up until September 11, 2001, Brad had been living what appeared to be the American dream, with a large home in the Buckland area of Atlanta, a successful career as a doctor, and what appeared to be a wonderful family.

Brad had come from a very middle income, Midwestern family. His dad, who was really his stepfather, was a professional handyman and his mom worked at the First National Bank in Davenport, Iowa. Brad’s real father had left him and his mother before Brad could remember.

His mom had re-married Charles Charlie Wilson two years later. Brad had always appreciated the fact that Charlie and his mom worked very hard at their respective jobs, as well as at home…and yet had always made time for their family.

It seemed that every weekend they would do things as a family; whether it was a picnic lunch and fishing the Mississippi River for catfish; shopping, lunch and a movie at Northpark Mall; driving to Cedar Rapids to visit his grandparents, or going to a minor league baseball game across the river in Moline…they were always on the move, doing things together.

Brad had grown up in a very happy family, with very little to complain about and even as a child knew how lucky he was.

His parents had saved their money and had encouraged Brad to go to college with the understanding that if he decided to go, they would pay the tuition, provide a modest car and pay for room and board as long as he maintained a better that C average.

After high school, Brad had attended the University of Iowa in Iowa City which was only an hour from home and along with a full class load got a part time job to help pay the bills and take some of the load off of his struggling parents. Even with the job, Brad had maintained extraordinary grades, graduating with a 3.94 GPA, after which he borrowed money from a government program to continue on to Medical School.

When at the University of Iowa, Brad would go home or occasionally drive to Cedar Rapids to see his aging grandparents, every weekend spending time with his family trying to recapture and continue the life he had enjoyed growing up. After college, however, Brad had decided to move to San Francisco and the University of California, School of Medicine for his medical education, leaving Iowa and his family behind.

In medical school, Brad worked his ass off, ignoring any social life, and in spite of the loneliness and guilt he felt, again graduated with honors.

He was immediately scooped up by San Francisco General Hospital for his residency, and his life as a Doctor began. Excelling in his residency, Brad was offered a permanent position with the hospital and jumped at the chance. It was a very prestigious hospital and the offer that was presented to him was one that could not be turned down.

Brad was sitting in his office when the call came.

Brad…is that you? He heard the familiar voice of his mom.

Brad called his folks every weekend without fail, but never had he had a call in the middle of the day to his office. Alarm bells were going off and Brad choked out, Yeah Mom, it’s me.

There was a pause followed by a moan and a sniffle at the other end of the phone.

Mom…what is it? Is everything alright? Brad asked, already knowing the answer. His grandmother had been very ill and he immediately thought of his last trip to Cedar Rapids.

No honey…it’s not. You need to come home. It’s your father. He’s had an accident, she answered between sobs and sniffs.

Already terrified and ready for bad news, this struck him like a punch to the gut. He was not at all ready to hear that his dad was in trouble. Seconds ticked by as Brad tried to gain some composure to ask the next question.

Is he…is Dad OK? He managed to ask almost in a whisper.

No…he’s not. You need to come home. He wants to see you."

Brad got the first flight out of San Francisco, which was not until the next morning, making a connection through Minneapolis.

As Brad prepared for landing at the small airport servicing the Quad Cities, he looked out the window and saw the Mississippi River with woods along the shore lines and farm land beyond. The trees were free of leaves and the landscape seemed gray, bare, without life and instead of what he normally would feel when landing at his home; the countryside only added to his despair.

Brad had tried to call his mom from a pay phone in Minneapolis, but was told by the hospital that she could not be found. He tried their house and after ten rings gave up.

Arriving in Davenport, Brad rented a car from Hertz, drove to the hospital to find out what was going on; his stomach churning with fear and trepidation.

Hi, I’m Brad Wilson…my father is a patient here. Can you tell me where to go?

The nurse behind the desk made a call and asked Brad to follow her.

The hospital had dull blue carpet with bland beige walls, accented with warm white fluorescent lights which added a yellow cast to the already dreary ambiance. They walked down a long hallway, made a right turn and proceeded down another long hallway to a set of double doors without any markings. The nurse led Brad into a room where he immediately saw his mom and grandparents sitting alone in a dimly lit corner next to a small table and a homey light fixture with a faded lampshade. His mother had her head down and was shaking her head with her mother and father on each side of her talking quietly.

Brad walked up without them looking up.

Mom? He said quietly.

She looked up. Her eyes were red and her nose was running.

We lost him Brad. He’s gone, she said and then broke into sobs.

At first Brad was at a loss and just stood there in shock. A second later he found himself on his knees in front of his mom’s chair reaching out to hug her and bring her close. All four of them held each other as if in a huddle…all crying for a loss that would never leave them.

The scenes after that moment were completely surreal and in Brad’s addled mind he was floating through it as if in third person.

The next morning, Brad woke up in his own childhood bed and looked out the upstairs window over his back yard to their garage and across the alley to his old neighbor’s house. He was lost in memories as he stared at the small details of his life. About halfway to the garage were two ‘T’ like posts with his mother’s clothes line running between them. He remembered a hand pump in the kitchen sink, the wash tub where his mom did the laundry by hand on a washboard in a dimly lit cellar; then collected the clothing in a basket, walked out the side door and hung them out to dry in the sunshine.

He remembered the ghosts that had populated the back yard one night when he was very small. He had gone out in the back yard after dark and had seen three small ghosts sitting on the clothes-line posts, another one on the peak of the garage and a big one sitting in the elm tree off to the right. They just sat there looking at him, which at first made him afraid; then curious. His Dad came out and sat beside him on the second step going up to the back porch and looked as if hypnotized by the ghosts.

Dad…ghosts, Brad had said.

His dad chuckled and said shhhhh, back to him.

As one of them flew off, his dad whispered, They’re Barn Owls son. Amazing aren’t they?

Chapter 2

He was five foot seven inches tall with dark skin, black hair and mustache and very dark penetrating eyes. The skin was pock marked, the pours on his bulbous oversized nose were large and he had a duck shaped red birthmark on his neck just above the collarbone directly below his chin. The expression chiseled on his face was one of a stern, or even angry, school teacher. In fact, he was almost always angry and did not like people. They were like a virus decimating the earth with their greed and hedonistic attitudes.

He was Jose’ Carillo, a Mexican American citizen who had grown up in a middle income neighborhood of San Diego in a relatively happy home. Jose’, in spite of this, was always able to see the dark side of everything…even as a child. As he matured, the bad things he observed in this life became even more malevolent and Jose’ became more cynical…more angry.

In 1993, at the age of 21, Jose’ had been able to channel his fledgling sociopathic personality into a new beginning. He had become a proud new recruit in a very special group called MEChA, at his then college, UCLA. MEChA was and is an acronym for ‘Moviemiento Estudiantil Chicano de AZTLAN’, a Chicano student movement that believes that the Southwestern United States were stolen from Mexico and disclaims the Treaty of Guadalupe Hildago at which time the United States supposedly paid Mexico $15,000,000 for the five states.

The group was founded in 1969 and continues its crusade; the sole purpose to infiltrate the U.S. Government and educational system. Through a barrage of propaganda and lies they convince naïve young students that they must re-conquer (reconquista) through violent revolution the land stolen from them and overthrow the United States.

During his first year at UCLA, Jose’ had been easily convinced that the United States was as evil and sadistic as Germany’s Third Reich had been, and therefore, must be destroyed.

Throughout his high school years, Jose’ had been treated like a leper by most of his classmates and over time became more and more angry and reclusive. He was never physically formidable, was a D student, not very good looking, and for some reason was unable to connect with people. He could tell that even when he tried to reach out and be friendly to someone, the person would in a short time, become uncomfortable and leave. They just automatically disliked him.

Inside his very active mind he would imagine many horrific scenarios that would exact a sweet revenge on these inferior lemmings that mistreated him. As he walked around school, he would see most of the other students as his enemies, occasionally watching them as they watched and laughed at him. Jose’ wanted so much to hurt them…to cause them pain.

After graduating from high school, Jose did not begin college immediately but wandering from job to job not sure what direction he wanted to go in life.

Every new job, however, seemed worse than the last. Jose’ would go to work, and would immediately see the distain and suspicion that his co-workers and bosses had for him. Again, as in high school, he tried desperately to fit in and get along; all of them were nice to his face, but the minute he walked away he would look back to see them laughing or secretly talking about him.

In the job before changing courses and going back to school, Jose’ took a job as a laborer at Best Value Bottling Company in the mixing room, where the company created and distributed a number of highly successful carbonated sodas. He worked hard at trying to make friends, but finally after six months of continual torture at the hands of these corporate mongrels, Jose’ started to strike back with small acts of vandalism. He found that the little things he was secretly doing, would give him great satisfaction. His revenge was sweet and gave him a feeling of power; power that unfortunately, only he knew about.

In these first acts of retribution, he would use a turkey baster to fill balloons with his own urine, come into work with his prize and then dump it in the mixing vats. He would collect his piss, first into a quart container in his apartment and every day he would insert the baster into the jar to collect the urine. He would insert and seal the baster into the opening of a balloon and squeeze. After tying off the small piss filled balloons which were compact and pliable and were easy to hide, he would go to work.

Jose’ would do his job, and when no one else was around would take one of these small bio-weapons from his baggy pants and with his small pocket knife pop the balloon over the mixing vat creating a whole new taste sensation. For awhile it was great. All of his senses were alert, his adrenaline was pumping, and he felt incredibly powerful.

After a few months, Jose’ realized that these acts were not overt enough. No one but Jose’ enjoyed the fact that he was getting even. Revenge is not revenge unless the recipient knows you’re fucking with him. It was time to step it up a notch and be noticed.

In the center of the bottling facility was one of several single stall restrooms for the employees which had a handicapped sized toilet area with a sink and mirror outside the stall. It also had some locked cabinets for, he assumed, cleaning products under the sink.

During one of Jose’s sit down session on the chipped and filthy toilet, he had an impulse to capture his very sizeable turd in a paper towel. He gathered it carefully so as to keep it in pristine condition and not get it on himself. He then laid it on the floor beside the stool. After wiping himself and pulling up his pants, Jose carefully picked up his smelly sea cucumber and with equal care laid his foot long in the sink. He rolled it off the towel into the sink basin, threw away the paper towel and went to the locked bathroom door and listened. He heard nothing, unlocked the door, peeked out, saw that the coast was clear and made his escape.

Two weeks later, after hearing all the reports about the event, it was time to strike again. This time Jose’ laid the pile of shit on the counter and with paper towels smeared shit all over the mirrors, the counter top, the toilet seat and every where else he could add some décor. Once again, he made his escape. It was a true masterpiece.

The whole facility was now alive with the talk about these disgusting events.

Another two weeks went by, but before Jose’ could strike again he was called into his bosses office and laid off without any explanation as to why. The management just said they needed to cut back and he was being let go.

Those pinche culeros had no right.

Now, several years later and Jose’ was part of a vast movement. He was ‘somebody’ and took great pride in the movement; seeing himself as one of the leaders of a great revolution.

In a massive riot in ’93 that caused more than a half a million dollars in damages to the UCLA campus, he and his brothers took over several buildings demanding full departmental status for Chicano studies.

People listened to Jose’ and would show him respect.

As he moved forward, Jose’ noted that each MEChA attack on campus was met with very little resistance and with each victory he and his fellow revolutionaries would take one more step toward their ultimate goal.

Jose’ was also at Cal State Northridge later that same year when Professor Rudy Acuna, one of Jose’s heroes, militantly screamed, Take back your history, promoting violence and advising Chicanos to become much more militant about defending their rights.

You are living in Nazi U.S. We can’t let them take us to those intellectual ovens, Acuna shrieked.

In a short time, Jose’ lost interest in anything other than his cause and fighting the corrupt American system. He was a rising star and destiny was calling his name; he was to be a great revolutionary.

Jose’s family, who were hard working immigrants from Mexico, after months and months of fighting with him, told him to leave their home, saying that until he gets his head straight, they did not want to see him.

Jose’…please. You need to go back to school. You’re so lucky to be in this country, his mother pleaded.

You’re wrong and you’re a fool to want me to give up what I believe in. You’re a fool to believe in this country…look around for Christ sake. The Gringos treat you and Dad like shit. You do their stinking laundry, cut their grass…what the fuck is wrong with you people. Can’t you see…

Get out of my house. Don’t come back, his father yelled.

PLEASE…No, his mother cried.

GET OUT…you are not my son…GET OUT, his father yelled.

Jose’ left the small three bedroom ranch house in which he had grown up, looked back over his shoulder as he approached his blue Firebird only to see his Father’s shoe fly over his head into the street. His father standing on the porch, one shoe on and one shoe off shaking his fist at his son and cursing. Jose’ drove away and never looked back. He had stormed out of his house, called his girlfriend to let her know he was getting a place of his own and that he was now free of all of his shackles.

Instead of supporting him, his girl friend, a manic depressive named Carol also dropped him and said he had completely lost his mind.

Later that week, his boss fired him from his part time sales job claiming he had an attitude problem. This he would freely admit. He would admit he had an attitude.

Yeah…I got a bad attitude. You know why? It’s because I’m surrounded by stupid people and living under an oppressive United States government that wants to control my fucking life and tear away my heritage…you fucking loser asshole, Jose’ said in a calm voice to his boss.

Get the fuck out a here. I’ll send your final check. Just get out, his boss said in an equally calm voice.

You’re a looser Jose’ and you always will be…now get the fuck out of here.

I’m going to make a difference and you will know my name, was all Jose could come up with as he walked out the door.

These fools had bought into the false American Dream, believing that being absorbed into the American way of life and abandoning the culture and language that made them who they were was OK. It was an abomination and as far as Jose’ was concerned, these traitors to their heritage should be exterminated right along with the rest of their gringo friends.

After his second year of useless classes, Jose’ quit college and went full time working with his MEChA brothers to conquer the American educational system. Through this effort he knew they would find an accepting audience and could reform the young minds into a militant army that would later fight the capitalistic evils that were so clearly opposing them.

At the Michigan State University MEChA Conference in 1997, Jose’ was a driving force. The cover page of the program, which he had helped design, was a huge drawing of Emiliano Zapata holding a rifle on his knees and the theme was National Revolution.

Americans were stupid. Americans were cowards. Americans were lazy. They were easy prey for the all-powerful predators like himself. Political correctness was the weapon of choice and always found its mark.

Jose’ thought it hysterically funny that most American chapters of MEHhA were getting their funding, in large part, from the schools (tax funded), as well as, many sympathetic students and University Professors. They were protected by groups such as the ACLU, various teachers unions, and most effectively, most of the media sources.

The few people that spoke against them were quickly and easily silenced in the name of political correctness. All they had to do was scream racist racial profiling, or anti immigration or have a group of immigrants speak as if they are offended and bring law suit after law suit against anyone who even thinks about telling the truth. The defenders of the old America will fold up their tents and skulk off into the night to watch their