When Pigs Fly

By B.M. Bull

When Pigs Fly is a book that intertwines a romantic killing spree with the release of oppression and tyranny on a stage that wraps around the world. This book depicts a super power that deceives and manipulates as they struggle to grasp power borrowed from very wealthy groups aiming to ruin the exceptional ism of America and all but stop the voting process. the characters are rich with personality and personal conflict and the story line is crisp and will make you laugh if you are not already crying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456716431

B.M. Bull

About the Author: Born somewhere in Texas, raised in Mississippi, attended seven schools and jumped ship in ninth grade at the age of seventeen. I lived hand to mouth through my twenties knowing that everything would work out no matter how bad I treated all of the opportunities afforded me. I was a liberal and the government was on my side. in 2003 I woke up and started realizing that the views sold to me by a slanted media and see through Hollywood stories are only props for a nation deeply in trouble. My frustrations rose instantly as I became one of the angry right wingers. eventually I strayed away from that to become centrally located watching both sides work to squander our nations future. Now I am working to find a way to entertain as the ship goes down.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One:

The Mosque

Chapter Two:

Ben Gleck

Chapter Three:

Hakim al Muhammad

Chapter Four:

Hank Bernie

Chapter Five:

Sal Hoar

Chapter 6:

Bo Seiburn

Chapter 7:

Rod Sandal

Chapter 8:

Chancy Surgosie

Chapter 9:

Brock Kosada

Chapter One:

The Mosque

SEPTEMBER 2001

SOMEONE had to fire the first shot, so it may as well have been Smith.

Matt Smith had everything he needed: intel, the ways and means, the skills and training, opportunity...and just as importantly, he had the motivation.

The terrorist attack against the United States on September 11, 2001 was vicious and without cause. Matt lost a few friends that morning, but more than that, he lost a sense of security. It was worse than the thief breaking into your home, where you feel violated and helpless. Multiply that by a thousand, and that’s how Smith felt.

Someone had to do it. Someone had to fire back. Someone had to answer the first call of retribution. So, Matt did.

After the attacks, intelligence agents and their assets delivered intel with extreme urgency. The Government scrambled to find answers. Everyone, the families and loved ones of those who died, the media, the highest and lowliest ranks in government, the public, business owners, even foreign nations, almost everyone was a stakeholder in those attacks, and they all wanted, nay, demanded an explanation. So the Intelligence agencies in general, including those of foreign governments, and the CIA in particular, did what they could, as fast as they could.

Data came from all corners of the globe. In some cases information was volunteered by sympathetic sources; in other cases, information was forced out. Some of the intel was actionable, much of it was not.

Matt Smith was based in California when some actionable intel finally came. A week after the attack, Smith’s section chief caught up to him at the gym. I heard there’s good fishing three clicks up Windy Creek.

Lures? Matt asked.

Flies, go after the bastards. The trick is to put the fly right in the hole where the big ones are hiding.

I like the sound of that...and my schedule is free, Matt said cheerily.

Let’s make it zero-six-hundred tomorrow.

Yes, sir! Matt enthused.

Working in covert ops means speaking a lot of code. The gibberish is strictly for plausible deniability. If worst comes to worst, and the Section Chief ends up before a Congressional hearing he can literally say, ‘hey, I was talking about fishing.’

A few minutes before daybreak the next morning, Smith drove three miles to a grove of trees near the creek to meet his section chief. The SC hadn’t brought his rod and reel, but neither had Matt. This was, of course, a different kind of fishing trip.

Intel came in yesterday out of Chicago. Several key planners in the attack last week are staying in a mosque, we’re going in with extreme prejudice.

How solid is the intel? Smith asked.

We’ve got eyes inside, he’s our source. Accuracy is 100 percent. Location has five confirmed bad guys, one of them the Joker.

He’s known by many nicknames. To his followers he was known as the Sheik, to the Army, and those searching to kill him, he was known as the Joker. Smith raised his eyebrows to silently ask if by Joker he means THE Joker. The SC only nodded in confirmation, then handed a sealed folder to his operative. No markings or lettering tarnished the surface of the manila folder. Without further word, the commanding officer left, disappearing amongst the trees leaving Smith alone.

Everything from that moment on was simply implied and needed no explanation. First and foremost, that conversation never happened. He could never ever, under any circumstance suggest that it did. Breathing a word of it, even under oath in a court of law, was tantamount to treason, and was punishable by death. If the mission went bad, and Matt got caught, he’d stand trail; if he even hinted that he was acting under orders, or was on a mission, sanctioned or otherwise, he’d wake up dead. First rule of black ops is to protect the secret.

Fortunately, that wasn’t even a concern for the SC. Matt Smith would never betray his country, and the SC knew it. A battery of personality tests proved it. Loyalty is what drove Matt; loyalty and patriotism. That’s why he had the job he had. Black Ops forces within the Pentagon require such qualities before any candidate is considered.

Next, he was to memorize the contents of the folder on the spot, then destroy it. That meant fire. The folder contained photographs of the aforementioned five terrorists, all ragheads with beards, and an address scribbled on a sticky note. Using a lighter, he lit the corners on fire and let the flame take. The envelope and its contents were treated with a special chemical to promote maximum burn. Once the folder was a small pile of white ash, and completely destroyed, he climbed aboard his Jeep and returned to base to prepare.

Also implied was that Smith was to make all haste to the Windy City (the address from the sticky note) and execute the masterminds (the Arabs in the pictures). Matt could use whatever means he deemed appropriate to get there and carry out the mission. If we wanted to charter a private jet, rent car, or take the Greyhound, he could. However, he knew that he jump aboard an outgoing C-130 to Chicago and keep it off the records, so that’s what he did.

The method of killing varied greatly by how loudly brass wanted to roar, and be heard. In most cases it’s strictly ghost ops. That means they go in, kill, get out, and no one is the wiser. The death looks like an accident, or a suicide, or a heart attack.

This time it’s black ops, but with extreme prejudice. Brass wanted to roar loudly, and let the whole world know what happened, but without revealing all their cards. If something goes awry brass can deny any involvement. If the mission is successful they can still deny, or they can play dumb, or they can acknowledge. Smith’s mission, in other words, was to disguise his identity, but not the cause of death.

These camel jockeys were to be executed for crimes against America, and Smith was more than pleased to do the job. No, he was honored to get the first kill, and the big kahuna at that. Pride swelled within that he’d been give the mission.

The last implication is that Smith had carte blanche in his methods, so long as secrecy wasn’t violated. At first blush this seemed an easy mission: fly to Chicago, enter the mosque, identify the 4 hajis and the chief cave monkey, put a bullet or two, or more, in their heads and get out. Well, that was the idea anyway. But it takes a lot of work, planning, and skill to make it look that easy. He had his work cut out for him.

Meticulous planning is another requirement for the job, but so is being able to work an a high level of excellence under ambiguous circumstances; being able to plan the last detail, yet able to adapt on the fly when things go wrong. Matt scored in the ninety-sixth percentile.

+++++++++++++

THE convinient thing about military air transportation is that it’s just assumed that you’ll be carrying a weapon or two. They don’t even ask, and if they do, it’s just to confirm what they already suspect. Amongst a few other belongings in Smith’s duffel bag, Matt packed his SIG SAUER .45 mm, and Desert Eagle along with plenty of ammo for both.

That’s a beauty! The pilot gushed when Smith showed him the Desert Eagle.

Sometimes you have to be cold and stand offish, sometimes you have to be warm and friendly. Matt couldn’t leave any hint or indication that anything other than travel was on the agenda. That meant warm and fuzzy.

Yeah, won it off a pier queer in Kuwait in a poker game. Neither of us had anything, but he tried to bluff me with nine high; I took the pile with 10! Can you believe that? Betting this piece of art with nine as your high card!

Unbelievable, agreed the pilot.

Once the mosque had been adequately scouted, Smith would be able to get his hands on something else if he decided he needed it; but from his experience he knew the two handguns would suffice with extra clips. With his training, he could go in with no weapons, but brass wanted some bang, some real zest to this operation, so some type of gruesome weapon would be required, and the .50 calibre Desert Eagle hand cannon would suffice.

The flight to Chicago lasted three and a half hours, and Smith chatted with the pilot the entire way.

+++++++++++++

IT’S called the windy city for a reason. Moreover, it’s cold there, even during the summer, but also in mid-September. Smith dressed in civilian clothes, blue collar clothes. Jeans, T-shirt, light jacket, comfortable yet capable shoes, dulled colors. Then he adjusted his gait and posture, because soldiers have a habit of sticking out like sore thumbs, particularly highly trained soldiers in peak condition.

With those slight adjustments to physical appearance he didn’t stand out, he could be anybody. He didn’t come from the office, but maybe he took the day off; he could just as easily be a factory worker, or postal worker.

The mosque in downtown Chicago on State Street doesn’t have security cameras, and there aren’t security guards either. That’s just because no one knows they’re even there. The mosque is housed in an average looking mid-rise building, surrounded by other mid-rise and high rises. On the ground level is a Foot Locker; next door to the right is a satellite campus to DePaul University; to the left, Bank of America. Across the street sits a McDonald’s, a Dunkin’ Donuts, and a Payless Shoes. Again, all those are all at ground level. The offices above housed lawyers, accountants, and community organizing agencies. Below the streets and sidewalks, the subway runs its course.

No one ever looks up. And unless you know where you’re going, or have a reason, no one ever goes beyond the ground level stores. So Matt did a little shopping during his initial scouting of the mosque, going from store to store as a cover while he got a lay of the land.

As it happens, the only direct entrance into the mosque and upper portion of the building is from the alley in the back of the building. Even then the casual observer wouldn’t know it, but for the occasional Arab looking man coming and going from a very plain and ordinary looking door.

Normally, this would be the end of the surveillance, strangers can’t go down alleys they don’t belong to. Still, this alley was also the only entrance into a restaurant Smith was dying to try, and the alley frequently saw foot traffic from the patrons of the restaurant. For now though, the restaurant would have to wait. The alley went all the way through to the next street over, Jackson Street. However, it didn’t continue on in the next block, rather it ended at Jackson...and conveniently, there was an Arby’s at the other end. Smith walked the long way around.

Sitting in the Arby’s window booth, munching on a roast beef sandwich and curly fries, Matt had the perfect view up the alley. He sent a text message on his cell then waited for the reply.

Watching the alley, Smith made a few observations. The homeless man across the street at the foot of the alley wasn’t quite as homeless as he led on. Underneath the facade of ragged clothes the signs, though subtle, were there. First, his skin was too clean; second, from time to time his guard would slip, and his movements looked more like a jungle cat than a malnourished muscle-atrophied street bum; lastly, all the other street bums asked for handouts from the passersby, not this bum. His eyes were alert, not glazed over with drugs and alcohol, and they registered everyone that passed by with alarming finesse. Smith’s training and instincts told him this was a sentinel, his experience told him there were more.

Smith knew he’d been seen by the bum entering Arby’s. He’d have to move out, as lingering longer than normal might raise suspicions with the sentinel across the street. He exited the fast food diner with his phone to his ear pretending to have a conversation and turned left walking back toward State Street and the subway. ...No, I just grabbed a bite to eat...okay, we’ll I’m heading back to the shop...sure, I’d love to talk to Hannah...hey sweetie, how’s your day....what was that honey?... Matt turned the corner and was out of eyesight and earshot of the bum, but he carried on the conversation in case other sentinels were watching. Most likely not, but better safe than sorry.

+++++++++++++

MANY block away, Smith sat at an internet cafe. Eyes fixed on the computer monitor, his phone beeped alerting him to an incoming text. Just the one he was expecting. A meeting was set with the insider, the ‘eyes inside’ as the section chief had put it; they’d meet at the restaurant in the alley that night at 8:30.

Back to the computer screen, an image of the mosque’s building, surrounding buildings, streets, alleys...everything was in full color splendor. The image came from a satellite operated by a non government entity known as Global Imaging, they supplied photos to real estate developers, mapping companies, and very covertly to the Department of Defense. As one would expect, the image quality supplied to the DOD was amazingly more sharp and clear than what the public sector saw. What no one knew was that the DOD designed and built the satellite, and then under the anonymity of the Department of the Interior’s National Park Service, granted the equipment and similar resources to Global Imaging.

Matt’s trained eyes didn’t take long to memorize the image. Having already been on site personally made the image more meaningful. Another image revealed the blueprints of the building, and yet another showed the architect’s design for the interior layout. Before long, Smith had studied and memorized several pictures. He knew the entry point, how to get to his targets, and how to get out. Timed right, he could execute the mission in time to catch the subway, speeding him away from the scene.

Next, he bought a few airline tickets. His path home would be a circuitous one with layovers and missed flights, and under different names. Anyone trying to track or follow him would have a very difficult time indeed. The last leg of the trip would be a cargo plane from Hill Air Force Base in Salt Lake City to his home in Southern Cal. If anyone following Smith was skilled and lucky enough to track him very far, the trail would be end cold in SLC, because he arranged for a ride from Salt Lake International to Hill AFB that no one would be able to track.

+++++++++++++

AT 8:20 PM Matt found himself at the entrance into the alley at the opposite end from where the bum had stood guard. Dressed differently, nicely, the clothes draping over his tall lean frame, he made his way down the semi-dark alley toward the restaurant. Lights were spaced along the buildings, but dirt or age dimmed many bulbs, and a handful had died. The alley was just wide enough that cars could park along one side, then there was the occasional dumpster. Altogether, it was a typical alley.

The restaurant evidently attracted the late evening to late night dining crowd, because there were more people, making it easier to blend in with the fellow diners at the restaurant, thus making him less suspicious to anyone watching.

On his right, the door to the mosque. Up close, he noticed a light fixture over the door, ostensibly hiding a security camera. The lack of security guards was to be expected; Matt reminded himself that this was after all a mosque, not a military base. At all other times, this is where Muslims prayed and worshipped their god, and security was not needed. The lack of worshipers coming and going was more likely as a result of the fear and skepticism, and in some cases outright hostility, they experienced from general population due to the recent 9/11 attack. No, the sentinels and the recently installed security camera were there on account of the guests holed up inside.

The restaurant’s entrance into the ground level of the red brick building was covered by a dark red awning. ‘Rudy’s’ had been stenciled onto both windows that sandwiched a large glass door. Smith went inside the restaurant, found the bar, and bellied up at the end of the bar next to a guy drinking what looked like a lemonade and watching Sports Center.

What’ll it be? The beefy bartender asked.

What do you have on tap? Smith asked the bartender. That was the first line.

Coors, Bud, most of the domestics. Also Heineken, Stella...

Do you have Fat Tire? Smith cut in. That was the second line.

Not on tap, just a bottle.

I’ll take a bottle then. That was the third and final line.

Coming right up, replied the bartender.

Now it was his contact’s turn. The man with drinking the lemonade looked over at Matt. Fat Tire? I don’t really drink alcohol, but I thought you could only get that in Colorado. That was his first line.

That’s no longer the case, the Smith said happily. You from Colorado?

Only when work takes me there. The guys in the Denver office swear by Fat Tire. That was the second line.

It’s good. If you ever do pick up a brew, try it.

Allah forbids it, but thank you for the recommendation. That was the final line. Identity confirmed. That part taken care of, now it was just a matter of transitioning so if there were eavesdroppers, the conversation sounded more natural. Smith’s contact added, You must be from Colorado?

Nope, same as you, go there for work. I’m from Arizona.

So what brings you Chicago? Work?

Work. Company sent me here for some housecleaning at one of the offices.

Hiring and firing kind of house cleaning?

Just the firing kind this time, Smith answered.

I see, gotta be a rough job, changing people’s livelihoods and all.

It can be, but most of the time the people I fire are hurting more people than their helping, so it’s generally a good thing.

Smith took a moment to observe his contact, and was startled. The man could literally be any race or ethnicity he wanted. If the man had said he was from Italy, Cuba, Tonga, or Lebanon, he could have pulled it off. On military bases, Smith saw many mixed-race families. Soldiers getting stationed in Korea, for example, finding true love, then getting married; many of their kids looked just as much from the father’s race as from the mother’s. School teachers had been baffled to learn that a student wasn’t white after all, rather Korean, or Hawaiian, or some other race. Smith saw that very thing in his contact. For the time being, his hair was jet black, natural or dyed that way Smith couldn’t tell, eyes brown, medium height with a runner’s body.

Smith had a habit of assigning names to people he talked to, people that he needed to remember, it was his mnemonic device until he learned their real names. In this case Smith assigned his contact the name Fat Tire.

You know, now that I think of it, my company could use someone like you. Upper management, you know, the Ivy League MBA types, straight from school to the front office, think they know everything, no real experience, loads of book smarts...well, they just travel from office to office telling people what to do, but they never get their hands dirty enough to really know what’s going on.

Matt chuckled, Yup, I’ve fired a fair number of those faggoty-assed snobs. They’re always shocked that they’re the one getting fired, as if the problem couldn’t possibly be them, they’ve been to Harvard after all; but it delights me to no end to see the company immediately improve after their gone.

Fat Tire nodded his head, yeah, that sounded right. Smith took a quaff from his brew. His contact wasn’t drinking alcohol, part of his cover since Muslims abstain from it. Hence, the lemonade.

You know, the Fat Tire said, thinking about this, I really think what we need is an outside contractor for our office.

Oh yeah? Probably not much I can do for you though.

Well, let me ask you something, if you don’t mind...

Shoot.

Upper management, fancy themselves head honchos, moved into the top floor of our office...bastards are just hanging out ordering people around, but they never leave. Thing is, their orders are completely self destructive to the organization and to the employees, if you know what I mean.

I believe I do know what you mean. Like a noble that trots around the kingdom thinking he can tell everyone what to do because he’s the king’s son. Undoubtedly, employee morale is down, and these head honchos are probably giving the company a bad name as well.

Exactly. So what do you think?

Let me get this straight. You’ve got a few management types that come in from the headquarters, they hole up in an office, and bark orders to everyone?

Yup, they’re on the third floor, corner office. Even brought in beds. Can you believe that, too cheap to get a hotel!

I’ve heard and seen it all before, Smith mused.

Well, at least they don’t make us stay there too, just security on the ground floor.

Smith nodded, Okay, well, since you haven’t hired me, and I haven’t completed an audit there’s not too much I can tell you, and honestly, because you don’t have the proper authority to hire me, or carry out my recommendations there isn’t much you can do.

Fat Tire dropped his head in resignation, carrying on the act for anyone that might be watching.

Then Smith added some clarification. Shareholders of a publicly held company can pressure the Board of Directors to replace management; also, employees have been known to successfully appeal to the Board. If that’s not you’re situation, a publicly traded company that is, then it falls directly to the owners of your company, and your only solution is to file your grievances with them.

Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Probably just need to get a new line of work. The contact stood up and pulled his cell phone from his pocket and laid in on the bar close to Matt. Well, thanks for the chat, better get going before the wife starts calling, as he pointed to his cell phone, then fished a $5 bill out of his wallet to pay for his drink. Matt looked over at the contact’s cell phone and in those few short seconds, Matt read the message that had been typed into the phone: tonight, anytime after 11.

Smith lingered at the bar, ordering a quesadilla. Feigning interest in a game on the TV, he decoded the conversation and what he needed to do. The problem with terrorist cells, Smith knew, is that they used their religion as cover; they guilted local mosques into giving aide to fellow Muslims. On the third floor across the alley, a handful of the worlds most dangerous and wanted terrorist camped out. Dangerous on many levels, but in particular, because they considered themselves leaders of the religion; they had followers to be sure, and they certainly had significant influence. The lay Muslim couldn’t take action, but they recognized that something needed to be done.

The message on the phone was quite obvious. Tomorrow would be too late, and there’s too many people there before 11. At 11 all the doors are locked and the clergy goes home, no one the wiser; no one but the local members aware that Osama Bin Laden was on American soil with a few of his cronies, gloating over the 9/11 attacks they helped engineer.

Smith left the restaurant and returned to his hotel to collect the few items he needed and to quadruple check his plan. The last red eye departed O’Hare at 11:40, and a train left Chicago at 11:55. However, newly added security measures at all airports and train stations would make it nearly impossible to make the flight or the train. If he began the assault at 11:00, moving very quickly as he must anyway, he should be able to complete the mission in seven minutes; add another seven to get to the subway, than a three-minute wait for the train, then a twenty-minute ride to O’Hare gets him there at 11:37. Even prior to 9/11, that would pretty much be a missed flight. With the new security measures in place, there’s no way to make the flight. There were a few alternate plans, all of which would work. Matt collected his gear as he reviewed it in his head again.

+++++++++++++

FOR twenty minutes, Matt Smith, field operative for an unnamed agency, relied on his training and instincts as he surveilled the alley. Something felt different to him. The sentinel was gone, and Smith couldn’t reconcile that. It’s possible that a cop escorted him away for one