The Assault Continues: Volume Two of the Assault on America Saga

By Michael S. Pendergast III

America had been attacked and ravaged over three nights by an elite force of Al-Qaeda guerilla teams, but thanks to FBI special agent Philip Calvert and his ad hoc team of agents, cops, and Marine sharpshooters, that assault had been blunted, and many of the attackers killed or captured. Still Al-Qaeda had accomplished much, for the assault had terrified Americans from the smallest hamlets to the largest cities.

And so successful had the assault been, that the evil mastermind behind it is now determined to repeat it again and again and again until America bows and submits to Islam and the rule of the supreme Iranian Ayatollah.

Unfortunately for this evil genius and his allies, seemingly disgraced agent Philip Calvert is actually still on the job. And so is his team, now no longer an ad hoc group, but Americas premiere anti-terrorist task force Task Force AT. And its job isnt simply to counter terrorists and arrest them, but to eliminate them with prejudice

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496923622

Michael S. Pendergast III

Michael Pendergast is a retired B-52 aircraft commander and acquisition engineer, as well as a former instructor of philosophy at a well-known Mid-western Christian university, where he taught logic, introductory philosophy, and ethics. A philosopher and theologian, Major Pendergast holds degrees in engineering (with a minor in astrophysics), administration, philosophy, and international affairs. Widowed with three grown children, and now remarried, this graduate of Cornell University, Siena College, and the Air War University lives and works in Maine, where he devotes much of his time to writing. The method to his writing is to establish a gestalt to understand that science, philosophy, and theology are ultimately one -- with the goal of finding the real meaning of life.

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© 2014 Michael S. Pendergast III. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   06/27/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2286-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2285-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2362-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917984

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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.

Contents

Author’s Note

Characters

Washington’s Third Vision

The Prelude (Chapters 1 – 5)

We’re Back (Chapters 6 – 16)

The Day After (Chapters 17 – 23)

The Second Night (Chapters 24 – 32)

The Next Day (Chapters 33 – 36)

The Third Night (Chapters 37 – 44)

The Following Day (Chapters 45 – 50)

Surprise – Yet Another Night (Chapters 51 – 52)

The Aftermath (Chapters 53 – 55)

Dedication

As before, this book is for the men and women who are on the front lines in the war against terror and evil – the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines in America’s armed forces and those in the various civilian agencies and departments who are dedicated to protecting the citizens of this great nation and defending its Constitution from all the enemies, foreign and domestic, who seek to destroy it and so strip us of our lives and liberties.

Thank you again, and may God bless you as you walk in dark places and sacrifice much for the sake of your duty and us.

Author’s Note

As in the preceding novel, Assault on America, all the towns (as well as the major roads and highways, lakes, rivers, etc.) described in this story actually exist … and as before some liberties have been taken. For the sake of crafting a good, believable story the general method of the enemy’s attacks are drawn from history (the Palestinian raids on Israeli kibbutzim in 1948 most notably) as they were before and most of the data this novel is based on is again accurate – but again somewhat dated. In addition, I have once again deliberately engineered in some errors – few in some places and more in others – once again in an effort to prevent this story from ever being used as an actual blueprint for an attack that any terrorist group could simply pull from the shelf and use without duplicating and updating the research, and – most importantly of all – editing out those hopefully deadly errors.

This time, to make my story more realistic, I have used a wider variety of sources so that my readers can again get a decent picture of the small towns – and other places – that the terrorist’s assault groups attack in this story: Novell, Google, and Yahoo maps primarily (but not exclusively), aerial photos from a variety of sources (NASA and KH-1 satellite imagery and especially GoogleEarth at the top of that list, but also various federal and state agencies, such as conservation and agricultural departments), and topographic maps (primarily from mytopo.com). And as before, a host of other data sources were also used, including those found by perusing the web sites of the various towns and villages, police departments, and other facilities (schools, churches, etc.) or agencies described in this book.

I hope you, my readers, find this novel equal or better than Assault on America … and more terrifying too, for it could easily happen in the near future.

MSP

Characters

(a partial list, not in order of appearance)

The Enemy

The Movers and Shakers

The Ayahtollah (unnamed)

The Planner (unnamed)

Artur Munoz-Baiza, the former leader of the fifth assault team who has been sent to Tehran to aid the Planner as a consultant as well as to train new assault team members

Eduardo Zoplana, Felipe de Vigo y Montajo, and Angel Botella – Munoz-Baiza’s Second-in-Command, his driver and shooting partner, and his team’s sniper, all sent to Tehran with him to act as consultants or elsewhere to train new assault team members

An anonymous phone caller (the final cut-out between the Planner and one of the leaders of the six assault teams)

A powerful Wahhabi cleric in Mecca, Saudi Arabia

An influential Shiite mullah in Sana’a, Yemen

The Terrorists

Assault Team #1

Hilal Jaber al-Assiri – aka John Smith, aka John Clarke, Saudi Team Leader, formerly known as Malcolm Harbour and Michael Havre

Mohammed Abdul-Rahman – aka Michael Jones, Egyptian Second-in-Command, formerly known as Desmond Swayne

Abu Hoq – aka Darin Taylor, al-Assiri’s Iraqi driver and partner on the command fire-team, formerly known as Nirj Deva and David Lidington

Mohammed Rashid Daoud al-Owhali – aka Allen Brown, the leader of the second fire-team, formerly known as Alun Cairns

Salah Suleiman– aka William Williams, Iraqi member of the second fire-team, formerly known as Nick Ramsey

Sulaiman Abu Ghaith – aka Brian Wilson, Kuwaiti leader of the third fire-team, formerly known as Brynle Williams

Sarhane ben Adbelmajid Fakhet – aka James Johnson, member of the third fire-team, formerly known as James Arbuthnot

Barbar Ahmed – aka Albert Barber, a new Lebanese addition and fourth fire-team leader

Ramzi Yousef – aka Joseph Ramirez, a new Egyptian addition on the fourth fire team

Hassoun Mohammed – aka Rice Davies, the assault team’s Kuwaiti sniper, formerly known as Philip Davies

Assault Team #2

Midhat Mursi – aka Alan Robinson, Egyptian Team Leader, formerly known as Alan Hazelhurst and Arthur Hines

Mohammed Jamal Khalifa – aka Franklin Wright, Saudi Second-in-Command, formerly known as Alexander Douglas-Home and Albert de Lessups

Omar al-Bashir – aka Owen Thompson, Mursi’s driver and partner on the command fire-team, formerly known as Edward Heath

Zakariya Essabar – aka Stefano Ruiz, Spanish leader of the second fire-team, formerly known as Gustavo de Aríistegui and Augustus Gus Arnez

Bilel Awad Sulayman – aka Billy Sylvan, a new Saudi addition to the second fire team (he took the place of Saad al-Sharif, aka Murdo Fraser, who was killed in action at French Camp, Mississippi the previous year)

Saif al-Adel – aka Patrick Evans, leader of the third fire-team, formerly known as Chris Grayling and Charles Greystoke

Fatih Erwa – aka Erwin Faith, a new Sudanese addition to the third fire team, (he took the place of Ahmed Chalabi, aka Peter Ainsworth, who was captured at Newark’s Liberty Airport the previous year).

Aban Haddad – aka Samuel Aban Green, a new Lebanese addition and the fourth fire team leader

Ibn al-Shatkh al-Libi – aka John Hall, a new Libyan addition on the fourth fire team

Abdullah Azzam – aka Robert Bob White, the assault team’s Jordanian sniper, formerly known as Albert Abbie Farnesworth

Assault Team #3

Alejandro Jiménez – Spanish Leader of this newly formed assault team

Idris Okeze – Nigerian Second-in-Command

Ricky Ruiz – Jiménez’s Spanish driver/shooter

Gerardo Gutiérrez – the second fire team’s Spanish leader

Michel Bonnet – a French member of the second fire team

Carlos Suárez – the third fire team’s Spanish leader

Ustaz Yusuf Sadick – a Nigerian member of the third fire team

Pierre Herbert – the fourth fire team’s French leader

Juan Galea – a Maltese member of the fourth fire team

Pedro Ortega – the assault team’s Spanish sniper

Assault Team #4

Yusuf Galan – aka José Rivera, aka Juan Pérez, Spanish leader of the assault team, formerly known as Michael Portillo and Joseph Portafina

Jamal Zougam – aka Jean Roux, French-speaking Moroccan Second-in-Command, formerly known as Charles Villiers and Vincent Charbineau

Zacarias Moussaqui – aka Zachary Díaz – Rivera’s French-speaking Moroccan driver and partner on the command fire-team, formerly known as Jacqui Lait and Jacques de Tours

Pharouk Hussin – aka Pedro Hernández, Philippino leader of the second fire-team, formerly known as Philip Agular and Felipe Magellan

Richard Durand – aka Richard Boulanger, a new French addition to the second fire team (he took the place of Pervez Mushariaf, who was promoted to fire-team leader)

Pervez Mushariaf – aka Marco Martin, Pakistani leader of the third fire team, formerly known as Paolo Montalban (he took the place of Gulbuddin Hekmatyar who was captured at Sault Ste. Marie, MI)

René Lefebvre – aka Giles Fournier, a new French addition to the third fire team (he took the place of Khalfan Mohammed who was captured at Sault Ste. Marie, MI)

Iskandar Gabir – a new Lebanese addition and the fourth fire team leader

Thomas Roux – aka Thomas Morel, a new French addition on the fourth fire team

Jalmaah Islamiya – aka Ustaz Makarfi, aka James Rousseau, the team’s Nigerian sniper, formerly known as Jamal Israel and Jamie Royale

Assault Team #5

Gregorio Marañón – aka Gerardo Martínez, Spanish Team Leader, formerly known as Hernán Cortez

Gustavo Escabar – aka Eloy Gil, Second-in-Command, formerly known as Gustavo Garcia

Ana Palacio – aka Anna Pérez, Marañón’s driver and partner on the command fire-team, formerly known as Amelia Cortez

Miguel Batasuna – aka Manuel Blanco, second fire team leader formerly known as Miguel Garcia

Cristina Colom i Naval – aka Clarissa Navarro, second fire-team member formerly known as Maria de Santos y Cortez

Lorenzo Gonzales, a new Spanish addition and the third fire-team leader (he took the place of Santiago Portillo, aka Santiago Ortiz, who was shot and crippled at Fort Apache, AZ)

Elena Acebes – aka Elisa Álvarez, third fire team member, formerly known as Elena Garcia

Emilio Garza – a new Spanish addition and the fourth fire team leader

Madalena Flores – a new Spanish addition to the fourth fire team

Yolanda Rodriguez – aka Isabel Romero, the assault team’s sniper, formerly known as Yolanda Garcia Ortiz

Assault Team #6

Miguel Ocampo – Filipino Leader of this newly formed assault team

Wiryono Wulandari – Indonesian Second-in-Command

Johnny Macaraeg – Ocampo’s Filipino driver and partner on the command fire-team

Federico Bautista – Filipino leader of the second fire team

Guō – a Chinese Uighur on the second fire team

Liem Suparman – Indonesian leader of the third fire team

Hé – a Chinese Uighur on the third fire team

Nasution – Indonesian leader of the fourth fire team

Juan de Asis – a Filipino on the fourth fire team

Cesar Kalaw – the team’s Filipino sniper

The Americans and Their Allies

Members of FBI Task Force AT

Philip Calvert (Gadget), FBI Special Agent in charge of Task Force AT – a roving trouble shooter and trouble maker

Claire Trevette (Coaster), psychologist and behavioral analyst at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit

Clarence Brutus O’Sullivan (Mr. Black), FBI Special Agent, an ex-Force Reccon Marine

Cathy Montague (the Snake Doctor), FBI, once a hacker enlisted by the National Security Administration

Richard K. Aston (Mr. White), FBI Special Agent from Quantico, an ex-Navy SEAL

Zabrinski (Zeb), FBI Special Agent from Quantico, an ex-Army Special Forces member

Hank Storm (Mr. Red), FBI Special Agent, a former Indian cop at the Fort Berthold Reservation in North Dakota and an ex-Marine

John Carter (Mr. Tanney), FBI Special Agent

Sam Cavanaugh (Mr. Brown), FBI Special Agent

Nick Nicholson (Mr. Gray), FBI Special Agent, a former Alabama State Trooper

Gunnery Sgt Stephen M. Crockett (Cheiron), USMC sniper

Wilimina Bush (Sox), FBI Special Agent, a former Boston homicide cop

John Henry Ordũna (Jay-Ach), FBI sniper

TSgt. Billy Spaight (Arrow), USMC sniper

Other Government and Police Officials

The President of the United States of America (unnamed)

Uriah H. Osgood, the White House Chief of Staff

Jeananne Inhábilette, the Director of Homeland Security

Jonathan Myers, the Attorney General

Charles Whitey Whiting, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation

Whiting’s secretary (unnamed)

David Ross, formerly the Deputy Executive Assistant Director for Counter-Terrorism placed in charge of last September’s terrorist manhunt and now a Deputy Assistant Director and the Director’s primary point of contact with Task Force AT

Ami Di-Nur, Minister of Public Security (MOPS), Jerusalem

Yoni Avraham, one of Di-Nur’s senior aides at the Ministry

Barak Ben-Canaan, AMAN, Israeli Defense Forces (IDF)

Major Zack Peretz, Mossad

Alan Trent, Congressman, (I) Connecticut

Dixon Johnson, Chief of the Bureau of Police in Petersburg, Virginia

Vana Crawford, Sheriff of Petersburg, Virginia

Lieutenant Greg Stottlemeier, Virginia State Police

Sergeant Sean O’Banyon, Virginia State Police

An unnamed FBI spokesman in Washington, DC

Arthur Kosanovich, FBI Special Agent from the Fort Wayne Resident Agency

Michael Monroe, FBI Special Agent from the Fort Wayne Resident Agency

Angela Everett, FBI Special Agent from the South Bend Resident Agency

William Shields, FBI Special Agent from the South Bend Resident Agency

Robert Trautmann, FBI Special Agent from the Merrillville Resident Agency

Thomas Byers, FBI Special Agent from the Merrillville Resident Agency

Danny Gancarz, Chief of the FBI Bomb Technicians at the Chicago Regional Office

Thomas Barkley, Senior Special Agent Bomb Technician under Gancarz

Military Personnel

Colonel Cecil Carpenter, USAF, aircraft commander of a VC-37A in the Presidential Airlift fleet

Captain Wallace Lemar, USAF, Carpenter’s co-pilot

Technical Sergeant Mary Ellison, the flight attendant on the VC-37

Maj. John Tremayne, USAF, aircraft commander of a VC-20B in the Presidential Airlift fleet

Capt. Frank Fox Braswell, USAF, Tremayne’s co-pilot

Colonel Jeremy Werth (Tipper), Mission Commander of an Air Force E-8C Joint Stars aircraft (call sign: Mike Foxtrot)

Chief Master Sergeant Harold Horatio Harkness, senior NCO on the E-8C

Army Staff Sergeant Thomas Kincaide, a radar specialist on the E-8C

Colonel Buford Jackson (Sidekick), Mission Commander of an Air Force RC-135 V/W Rivet Joint aircraft (call sign: Red Eye)

Lt. Colonel Ashley Loring, Buford’s Deputy Mission Commander

Capt. Dave DH Lawrence, electronic intelligence (ELINT) specialist on the RC-135 V/W

TSgt. Pieta DeMio, ELINT specialist on the RC-135 V/W

MSgt. Robert Stone Quinlan, First Sergeant, Security Police Squadron, Shaw AFB, SC

Colonel McKelvy, the Base Commander at Shaw AFB

An unnamed Marine officer at Marine Corps Air Station Quantico, Virginia

Other Sundry Persons

Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Chares Metcalf, USN logistics officer

Samuel Houston Schäfer, pastor of the Baptist Church in Easton, Texas

Walter William Wayne, the pastor’s friend

Enas Vance Cates, a police officer in Norlina, North Carolina

Lucile Idette Pruitt, police dispatcher

Donald Casey, Norlina’s chief of police

John Jay Smith, another police officer in Norlina

Charles Keilley, New York Times correspondent in Washington, DC

Oscar Wilson, a good ol’ boy in Smoaks, South Carolina

William Chick Patton, an older good ol’ boy in Smoaks, South Carolina

Maxwell Hudson Campbell, another good ol’ boy in Smoaks, South Carolina

Michael Bear Clarke, a large, black, good ol’ boy in Smoaks, South Carolina

Ben Frost, the fifth good ol’ boy in Smoaks, South Carolina

Nolan Renzullo, a retired policeman vacationing in New Boston, Massachusetts

Edna Osterhout, a widow in Black Earth, Wisconsin

Marine First Class Jeremy Arrendondo, guard at the main gate of USMCRD Parris Island, South Carolina

Corporal Christopher F. Kreuser, guard at the main gate of USMCRD Parris Island, South Carolina

Marine Recruit Kunal Handa, Platoon 1058, 1st Battalion, Parris Island, South Carolina

Staff Sergeant Steve Gotel, Platoon 1058 Drill Instructor, 1st Battalion, Parris Island, South Carolina

Jared Lukefahr, a sophomore at Southeast Missouri State University in Cape Girardeau, Missouri

Sierra Bruer Tew, a freshman at SEMSU, Cape Girardeau, Missouri

Edward T. Phillips, a 39 year old felon and methamphetamine manufacturer in Pocahontas, Missouri

Police Chief Humphrey Jameson, Jackson Police Department, Missouri

Patrol Officer Jason Underwood, Jackson Police Department

Patrol Sergeant Tisha Eakers, Jackson Police Department

Patrol Officer Rick Dooley, Jackson Police Department

Sheriff Jordan Diebold, Cape Girardeau County, Missouri

Captain Brooks Mulcahy, Commander of the Cape Girardeau County Jail

Captain Robert Bonney Jr., a member of the Jackson Police Department’s Command Staff

Captain Bob Hull, another member of the Jackson Police Department’s Command Staff

Lieutenant Rodney Mouser, the senior officer of the Jackson Police Department’s Patrol Division

A man in his pajamas, in Wadsworth, Nevada

Samuel Adams, a 50 year old resident of Wadsworth, Nevada

Sheriff Michael Skinner, Pershing County, Nevada

Police Chief Richard Mancebo, Lovelock, Nevada

Sergeant Darrel Machado, Lovelock Police Department

Corporal Chuck Mancebo, Lovelock Police Department

Officer Ron Evans, Lovelock Police Department

Tom Giles, Mayor of Lovelock, Nevada

Councilman Michael R. Rowe, Lovelock, Nevada

Councilman Pat Murphy, Lovelock, Nevada

Councilman Daniel Donaldson, Lovelock, Nevada

Deputy Richardson, Pershing County Sheriff’s Office

Sergeant Dwayne Machado, Pershing County Sheriff’s Office

Deputy Jesus Maldonado, Pershing County Sheriff’s Office

Deputy Paul Peters, Pershing County Sheriff’s Office

A farmer from Imlay, Nevada

Reed Blasedell, a gay New York City Councilman

Frank Carencia, a liberal New York Times columnist

Sally Jillian Peters, a West Village resident and a star of Sex in Manhattan

A middle-aged woman who is the superintendent of the building that Ms. Peters lives in

Ned Raimond, the former Mayor of New Orleans, Louisiana

Daniel Stormy Metereaux, a man aspiring to represent Louisiana in the United States Senate

Emile Soulard, a security guard at the gated community of English Turn in New Orleans, Louisiana

Ralph Taggert, former White House staffer and candidate for Chicago mayor

The President’s spiritual advisor, who has retired outside of Chicago (unnamed)

Newton Spelvin, the former Mayor of San Francisco, California

Sean Flare, popular host of an MTV music video show

Opie Howard, the premiere female TV talk show host

Emilio Garza, Opie Howard’s live-in bodyguard

Archbishop Francisco Kallikak, Permanent Observer of the Holy See to the United Nations

Archbishop Pio Satolli, Apostolic Nuncio of the Holy See to the United States

Khaled Moussaoui, a radical Muslim dissident in Phoenix, Arizona

Officer Judith Kowslowski, Scottsdale Police Department, Arizona

Officer Samuel Goodfellow, Scottsdale Police Department, Arizona

Fatima Moussaoui, the wife of Khaled Moussaoui

Washington’s Third Vision

Excerpted from Washington’s Vision, as published in the National Tribune, Vol.4, No.12, December 1880. The first publication was in 1859, two years before the Civil War started, by Wesley Bradshaw from the verbal account of Anthony Sherman, who, was then the only living personage to whom George Washington had told the three visions.

And again I heard the mysterious voice saying, ‘Son of the Republic,’ THE END OF A CENTURY COMETH - LOOK AND LEARN."

"At this the dark and shadowy angel placed a trumpet to his mouth and blew distinct blasts, and taking water from the ocean, sprinkled it out upon Europe, Asia and Africa.

"THEN MY EYES LOOKED UPON A FEARFUL SCENE! From each of these countries arose thick black clouds, which soon joined into one; AND THROUGH THIS MASS GLEAMED A DARK, RED LIGHT, by which I saw hoards of armed men, who, moving with the cloud, marched by land and sailed by the sea to America, which country was presently enveloped in the volume of the cloud. AND I DIMLY SAW THESE VAST ARMIES DEVASTATE THE WHOLE COUNTRY, and pillage and burn the villages, cities and towns which I beheld springing up. As my ears listened to the thundering of cannon, clashing of swords, and shouts and cries of a million in mortal combat, I again heard the mysterious voice saying, ‘Son of the Republic, look and learn.’ When the voice had ceased, the dark shadowy angel placed his TRUMPET once more to his mouth, and blew a long fearful blast.

"Instantly light, as from a thousand suns, shone down from above me and pierced and broke into fragments the dark cloud which enveloped America. At the same time I saw the angel upon whose forehead still shone the word Union, and who bore our national flag in one hand and A SWORD IN THE OTHER, descended from heaven, attended by legions of bright spirits. These immediately joined the inhabitants of America, who seemed to take courage, again closed ranks and renewed the battle. Again, amid the fearful noise of the conflict, I heard a mysterious voice saying, ‘Son of the Republic, look and learn.’

As the voice ceased, the shadowy angel for the last time, dipped water from the ocean and sprinkled it upon America. Instantly the dark cloud rolled back, together with the armies IT HAD BROUGHT, leaving the inhabitants of the land victorious.

Chapter One

The man cradling his aching head in his hands as he slumped over a cluttered desk was not a happy man.

Though he lived and worked in a rather luxurious suite – at least one that would be considered luxurious in the region he was in – the man was worried. Quite worried. It mattered not a bit that he had all of his needs, and a great many of his personal wants, met as a matter of routine. All those things were provided for with a mere call to those who attended to him. If he gave voice to this need or that want, it was met, almost instantly.

Now, however, the suite in one of the uppermost floors of the nondescript apartment building just outside of Tehran felt like a prison from which there was no escape. And the few that attended him – armed men all, who were there ostensibly to protect him and insure that he was in no way bothered – now felt like guards. And perhaps, if Allah were not very merciful and kind to him, they would be his executioners as well.

Those feelings had been gradually building for weeks.

With his impatient master’s earlier announced that he would arrive tomorrow – no today, the Planner sighed, as he caught sight of the clock on his desk, half hidden behind worthless chicken-scratched pages, overfilled ashtrays, and a cup of long cold tea – those feelings of dread had begun building. Now they towered over him, causing him to huddle over his desk in fear as he waited for the tsunami to crash down upon him, crushing him and obliterating him.

Those feelings were quite reasonable for the great Planner had nothing worthwhile – at least nothing his master would consider worthwhile – to offer as proof that his last several months of effort had not been a total waste of time.

Oh, he had the basic plan well in hand, of course. But he’d developed that easily and had had it in hand for months now. He had even gone so far as to begin putting parts of it into motion.

But the means and method of pulling together the final coup – the pièce de résistance his master wanted and demanded – had eluded his mind, as impossible to grasp as a wisp of early morning fog would be to his hands. Time and time again, his efforts to find a way to produce the grand finale had eluded him.

He’d talked to Artur Munoz-Baiza, the former leader of the fifth assault team – a team that had been dissolved after four of its eight members had been killed or captured at the Canadian border halfway across the world in Washington state – for Munoz-Baiza and three others that had survived had been sent to him as consultants and assistants (as well as field instructors to help train the members of two new assault teams. One of those would replace Munoz-Baiza’s own team. The second would replaced the team that had been headed by Albert Khalid Hastings. The late Albert Khalid Hastings.

Khalid’s prowess and skill had seemed invincible until he and his entire team had somehow been ambushed and massacred in northern Vermont.

How that disaster had been engineered, precisely, no one yet knew. More specifically, the Planner did not know how it had been accomplished.

That bothered the Planner, but not so much as the fact that talking to Artur Munoz-Baiza and the other three survivors had done nothing to cause the juices of inspiration to begin flowing. And because they hadn’t, because his deadly intelligence – or some fickle muse – had deserted him, he still had nothing to offer his powerful patron as the demanded finale for the upcoming second attacks.

Because of that, he had been forced to stall the Ayatollah over and over again. It wasn’t a wise move on his part – or anyone’s, as even Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had discovered a time or two – for His Excellency the Ayatollah was a very dangerous man. A very dangerous man in part because he was also a very impatient man.

Yet what else could he do?

He knew that his basic plan – a plan that was initially only incrementally different from the previous one that he had planned and implemented last September, which had quite successfully terrorized both a nation and a world by sending over 1,750 infidels to the hell Allah had prepared for them – was good. It did include taking a few more risks, here and there than the previous plan had, but nevertheless, it was still a good plan.

Moreover those additional risks were both necessary and inevitable, for the Planner knew that each new attack on their enemy simply had to be more impressive than the previous one. It had to push the level of terror ever upwards, rather than letting it subside, but doing that simply meant taking correspondingly greater risks.

Everyone knew that and accepted that, for an omelet simply couldn’t be made without breaking a few eggs. But then, Islam had no shortage of men willing to be broken for its sake.

What the Planner had, however – everything but the means to provide the finale – would not satisfy his finicky master, of that he was certain, for the Ayatollah had specifically stated that he wanted members of America’s most out-spoken defenders of homosexuality and women’s rights, especially pedophiles and a goodly number of the whores who strutted around on MTV exposing themselves and defiling womanhood, or speaking out for gay marriage or equal rights, targeted and spectacularly executed for all their sins.

Worse, like a fool, the Planner remembered that he had, without giving the matter the consideration it now so obviously deserved, agreed, saying that it could be arranged easily enough. And of course in theory it was an easy thing to accomplish. Targeting and eliminating an individual sex icon like Brittany Spears or Lindsay Lohan, or a single outspoken activist for homosexual rights like Jacob Appel, Chastity Bono or Cindi Lauper, was, as the American expression went, a piece of cake.

And so, like an unthinking fool, he had suggested those names and others off the top of his head without considering the wider implications that targeting such persons would have for the mission as a whole.

Worst still, his master had accepted the infidels he had named on the spot – and those infidels had now become the Ayatollah’s own chosen targets.

It thus seemed that he – the planning genius, he cursed himself – had to find the ways to target those particular man-less men and whores. But every drop of genius now seemed to elude him. He seemed a dried-out husk lacking every drop of inspiration.

Assassinating nameless infidels by the fistfuls, he had the genius to plan that out. Had that been all there was to the mission, it would have been a simple task, easily accomplished. But it wasn’t. The near simultaneous executions of many particularly noxious infidels scattered across America that was demanded as the final act, the pièce de résistance of the whole second attack, its capstone and its crowning glory, figuring out how to accomplish that had slipped through his fingers like water.

The fundamental problem was that these famous and wealthy infidels had the means and resources to move about on the slightest whim, and they tended to do just that in the best of times, often changing schedules at the drop of a hat. And all without giving anyone – especially him – the slightest notice that they were about to do so.

Why couldn’t they simply stay nicely put so that one or another of his six teams could simply proceed from their previous quite stationary targets straight to them to mete out the just desserts their wanton behaviour had earned them? He had wondered that more than once.

More to the point, the Planner didn’t know the answer to that question – or how to make provisions for it. And not knowing, there was simply no way he could complete his plan. There simply was no way to plan out a schedule, months in advance, for the assault team hop-scotching throughout the west – dispatching the residents of this or that small town to hell as they went – to bring them to the place where Brittany would be sleeping on that particular night. Should they be sent to Calabasas, California, expecting to find the slut asleep there? Why, when she could all too easily be in LA – she often was – or in Louisiana. Or perhaps even somewhere else, possibly not even in the US.

And then what? Kill servants and maids, assuming such were even there? Or worse still, destroy an empty house. That would do nothing but to proclaim their – his – complete incompetance

It would be abject failure! Abject failure of one small part of the grand finale – and quite possibly many of the other parts of the finale would suffer the same sort of failures.

It would make his assault teams suddenly appear impotent.

And his master, the great Ayatollah, would not appreciate or tolerate failure – abject or otherwise. And he certainly would not take it kindly if any plan tarred Islam – or Him – with even the hint of impotence.

The Planner shook his muzzy head, hoping to clear the cobwebs that his lack of sleep had filled it with. He lifted his cup of tea, hoping that a little caffeine would help. As he looked down at the cold tea, he suddenly remembered – seeing the cigarette butt floating in it helped jog his memory – that he’d thrown his last cigarette there because his astray was already overflowing with burned out, stinking butts.

Head aching, the Planner put down the cup and turned to his computers on the table behind him. He linked to the internet, feverishly hoping to find some way to figure out where Brittany – and the others – would be so that he could aim his assault teams at them with some confidence.

As luck would have it, the very first web site he picked (through bleary, red eyes, almost at random), turned out to be his salvation. At least his fevered brain hoped it would be his salvation, for as he looked at the pages before him, a glimmer of inspiration seemed to float up from somewhere and tickle his consciousness.

On the screen before the Planner was a little blurb about a Twitter site devoted to Brittany sightings.

That got the Planner thinking. In no time at all that thinking became planning, and suddenly there were no cobwebs clogging his mind. The man behind the desk, hunched over his computer typing like a madman, was too busy to be either worried or unhappy.

He was back in his element.

Hours later, when one of his attendants poked his head into the office to inform his charge that the Ayatollah had arrived, the planning genius – totally immersed in his task – merely snapped out an order. Go away. Come back after lunch, he said without thinking about the import of his words and kept working.

The large, well-trained, gun-wielding servant glanced back at the small, frail man half a step behind him and cringed, for he knew that the Ayatollah could have him and his family, and not just his idiot savant charge, executed with a snap of his bony, arthritic fingers.

Instead the sour, frowning Ayatollah simply nodded and turned.

Though miffed by the preemptory dismissal, and that from a minion, the Ayatollah recognized genius at work and decided to give it just a little more leeway.

I’ll be back at midday, he said unpleasantly, hurrying to his next meeting. The men he’d meet there would bear the brunt of his irritation.

He also decided that if genius at work didn’t fully please him when he returned, it would not be well for the one disappointing him. Not well at all.

* * *

Promptly at 1:40 in the Tehran afternoon, more than six hours later – and almost two hours later than he had hoped (for there were always too many things that he simply had to do for himself, things he couldn’t trust others to do right) – his Excellency the Ayatollah strode past the same cringing servant into the Planner’s cluttered office.

The armed man behind him shut the door with no small measure of relief, leaving the Ayatollah alone with his plans master.

The Ayatollah walked across the room and sat down as regally as any king ever had. Well, my son, he said gruffly, disapproval strong in his voice, "I trust that you have finally gotten this plan of yours well enough advanced that I may approve it. Have you worked out how to target and dispose of those enemies that I set for you. How many months ago was that?" he asked coldly.

No Excellency, the Planner said calmly. I have not.

The Ayatollah’s face darkened and his hands clinched into fists, but before he could say a word, the Planner held his hand up for silence and continued.

"There is simply no way that we can know in advance, at least not with any certainty, where most of the chosen individuals who deserve termination will be when our teams finish attending to their penultimate targets. The movements of those people … those types of people …are too spontaneous, too fluid, to plan for.

"There is, however, another option, Excellency. And I am confident that it will accomplish everything that you really want to accomplish."

As the Planner turned and moved his mouse around, clicking it to bring up certain screens on his computer monitors, the Ayatollah looked on uncertainly, yet with a measure of curiosity. His minion didn’t seem to be stalling any more – or to fear either censure, punishment, or death. Perhaps this intellect still possessed a spark of genius after all. Perhaps he actually did have something worth looking at and considering.

For his sake, he certainly hoped so.

This is a map of the tasking for one of our teams. The sixth team, Excellency, he said pointing to one screen. Targets for the first night. Targets for the second, he continued as his finger moved from one place on the screen to another. These will not be any more of a problem for this assault team to handle than the targets last September were for any of those teams. This team will be successful in its strikes on them and give you all that you could want … on the first two nights.

The Planner’s finger moved again.

The final targets, he said.

I know you had specific infidels in mind, but these final targets are not particular people, for, as I said, we have no way of knowing whether the individuals you specified will actually be at the appointed place at that paqrticular time or not. Instead our targets are areas. Specifically, areas of opportunity.

Areas of opportunity? the Ayatollah asked not sure just what his planning genius meant.

Excellency, we both know that this area, and this one too, he said, his finger moving from one spot on the computer’s display to another, "are cesspools of depravity.

"My mistake, when you first told me what kind of people you wanted targeted, was in picking out a few particular persons, people whose names are well known and so came readily to mind. But only a few only of those from the many who are most deserving of the fate Allah has in mind for the most disgraceful of the infidels.

The solution is to allow Allah’s providence to choose, the Planner said, briefly turning back to his computer and switching from one window to another.

Luckily for us these Americans are obsessed with their idols. They even have web sites devoted to tracking where this or that one is, and what he or she is doing, moment to moment. Look!

On the screen the old man saw a window titled Brittany Watch. As his planner scrolled slowly down, he saw dates and times go past, sometimes followed by little blurbs – Brittany enjoying an ice cream cone on Rodeo Drive here and Brittany taking her child to a movie there. Sometimes there were even pictures, usually taken by some fan with a cell phone.

"What I plan to do, with your approval, is to set up a special celebrity watch site of our own and follow the activities of the types of person you have chosen. The famous but depraved infidels that the Americans so love … all the whores and homosexuals and pedophiles and the like, and, of course their supporters in politics and the media. We will follow all of them without seeking to choose one over another.

"Until the last night of operations.

"On that night all that will be posted on our site will be the names and sighting information for the two or three individuals that Allah has positioned in this or that area of opportunity. Those will be the infidels providence provides for our considered attention. All our teams will have to do then is to call up our web site and in so doing receive their final target designations.

Then they will eliminate them … with prejudice.

The Planner fell silent and waited.

His master continued looking at the last screen that the planner had brought up as he ended his spiel.

In the banner at the top of the screen was site’s name – famousinfamous.com – though of course that site did not yet exist except on the Planner’s computer. Below that was a list of clickable boxes. The planner clicked on the one that read Today in Los Angeles.

Suddenly dozens of names in alphabetical order popped up, each in HTML script. And each name was followed by a brief descriptor – pop singer, film star, producer, publisher, politician, and the like.

The Ayatollah did not recognize many of the names at all. Some, however, were names of famous film stars or singers featured on MTV, whose bad behaviour and lascivious conduct tempted the faithful and had drawn his wrath and condemnation down on them in the past, thus far without effect.

The names of starlets who had performed in x-rated movies, on the other hand, meant nothing to him. Neither did the most of the names of porn producers and gay-rights activists, though one or two of the most famous caught his attention. The names of some of the politicians on the list was something else. Many of them caught his attention, for every one of the ones he recognized were supporters of the homosexual agenda and gay marriage, or women’s equality and abortion, or the rights of free expression, which usually meant expressing sexually explicit themes in the most disgusting and degrading a manner as was possible.

From the names he recognized, the Ayatollah correctly assumed that every name on that list was somehow tied to the sort of activity that he and Islam found demeaning, perverted, or utterly evil. Grave threats to his people, threats designed to seduce them from the pillars of Islam.

The planner looked back at the screen, positioned the mouse’s pointer, and clicked on one of the names.

The screen changed, instantly revealing a picture of an old man in a robe, with a barely clad young woman at his side. It gave his name and the address where he lived, as well as a small Google map and the directions needed to drive there. The blurb also included the nearest parking locations, so that tourists could walk a short way and then gape at the mansion and its grounds through the fence (a small picture of them was supplied as well). Perhaps there they could even catch a glimpse of the man himself – or perhaps just his companions – if that was what they went there for.

The Ayatollah finally smiled and relaxed.

The idea of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, choosing who would and would not be slain appealed to him.

He made his decision and stood, pausing a moment to give one last dark scowl to his barely redeemed planning genius.

Then he turned and strode calmly away.

Inshallah, my son. Let it be as you have said.

* * *

One disgusting February morning, just a little more than two months later, the FBI Director sat in his quiet office looking out over the white clad Mall and a capitol all but shut down by yet another massive snow fall. For yet another year, record storms had plagued the city – and still the district’s public works department couldn’t quite figure out how to get or keep the streets free of the damned white stuff so traffic could move.

Oughta fire the incompetent ’crats in charge and hire people from Minneapolis or Buffalo, the Director fumed to himself, still angry after an hour’s drive that should only have taken fifteen minutes – maybe twenty in bad weather, he reluctantly allowed.

Worse than his own travel nightmare, however, half the bureau’s personnel – a quarter of the agents and quite a lot more than half of the unionized members, secretaries, support and maintenance staff, and the like – were either late or had again decided to call out due to inclement conditions.

Snow days! he growled. How the hell was he supposed to run the bureau if half of his people could simply decide to stay home – with pay – every time a few inches of that white crap fell on the roads?

Charles Whitey Whiting didn’t know the answer to that question.

And he didn’t get the opportunity to continuing musing about it, for at that moment his intercom buzzed.

Director, Minister Di-Nur is on line two, his secretary informed him.

Thank you, Janet, Whitey said and then punched the glowing button on his phone.

What’s up, Ami. What kind of crap are you going to dump on me to make an already miserable day more miserable yet?

Ami Di-Nur, the Israeli Minister of Public Security in Jerusalem, laughed. Nothing special, Whitey. It is just that we haven’t spoken in a few weeks, and so I thought I’d touch base to see how things were going there. That is all, my friend.

It’s going to crap here, Ami. It’s 14 degrees out and the precip is shutting this damned town down … again. That’s all.

The MOPS chief laughed again. Whitey, it is 14 degrees here too, and we are also experiencing a little precipitation of our own, but that is nothing to be troubled about. It is fine weather, and God knows, we here in the desert can use all the water we can get.

Whitey growled. "Damn it, Ami, you know damned well that 14 degrees centigrade is a hell of a lot warmer that 14 Fahrenheit. What’s that really? Fifty-five, fifty-six degrees? And you sure as hell know that what’s coming down here isn’t a rain shower, but more of that damned white crap that’s paralyzing this damned town and my bureau!

Do I need to go over there and shoot you for pulling my chain to get you to understand?

No, Whitey, the Minister laughed without a trace of remorse. You do not need to come here and shoot me.

Suddenly the Minister’s voice turned more serious and thoughtful. "On the other hand, I do have a little, uh, package here. Something I’d rather not provide over the phone, though it is nothing of any great value. Nevertheless, if you’d like to send someone over here to collect it, I would be glad to give it to him.

"Any menial you can afford to do without while you are short-handed will do. Perhaps that agent of yours … Calvert, I think his name was. Had potential once, I seem to recall, before getting himself sent to one of your FBI gulags for incompetence in the field.

"Still, I think even he would be able to handle such a simple courier job for us.

What do you think, Whitey?

It took the FBI Director no time at all to decide, for he’d been thinking furiously since the name Calvert had been mentioned. No doubt Ami’s rambling discourse had been meant to provide him just that opportunity.

I can arrange that, Ami, Whitey said. He’ll be there at, ohhh …

Do not bother. I will check flight passenger lists. Just tell him to expect us to contact him on arrival. We will take care of the rest.

This time Whitey laughed. Alright, my friend. You take care, now.

And the same to you, my friend, Ami said ringing off.

The FBI Director rested his head on his hands for few seconds, wondering precisely what the Israeli Minister of Public Security had for him – and why he’d specified Calvert as the gofer.

Ami Di-Nur wasn’t Mossad. Nevertheless, the Ministry Ami headed, MOPS, that is, the Shabak – Sherut Bitahon Klali – was the Israeli equivalent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, so he and Ami had reasons, matters of mutual interest, to talk to each other about, and they did so routinely. Furthermore, among its other duties, Shabak was tasked with exposing terrorist rings in Israel, interrogating terror suspects, and providing intel for counter-terrorist operations in both the West Bank and the Gaza Strip.

But just as importantly, and perhaps more importantly, Whitey knew that though the three Israeli security organizations – Shabak, the Mossad, which was responsible for Israel’s overseas intelligence work, and Aman, the military intelligence branch of the Israeli Defense Forces – kept secrets from each other, they also shared intel. At least when it suited them to do so.

Just as they sometimes also shared their secrets with their allies. Again, when it suited them to do so.

And apparently it now suited at least one of them, certainly Shabak, and possibly even Mossad, to share something with him. If Mossad, well, Ami was the perfect conduit through which to do so, since he and Ami did speak together on a regular basis.

And Calvert?

With the MOPS minister naming him that almost certainly meant that this had to be something concerning terrorist operations. Specifically terrorist operations that concerned him – and that meant terrorists ops in the United States.

But that in turn also meant that Avi – and Shabak – knew about AT, however much he’d tried to keep that task force’s profile so low as to make it virtually non-existent.

Whitey straightened and hit his intercom button.

Janet, he said, please tell Dave Ross that I’d like to see him immediately, if not sooner.

* * *

Chapter Two

When the wheels of the VC-37A finished retracting with a thump that all in the small passenger jet could feel, Philip Calvert breathed a sigh of relief. His day’s schedule had been shot to hell only a few hours earlier, when David Ross dragooned him not much after 9 AM. He’d been hustled from his own office and then rushed back and forth between this out-of-the-way briefing room and that one. In each he had been pumped full of information.

Sometimes the data dumps had been provided by curious FBI specialists, who no doubt wondered who they were giving this sensitive information to and why. None of them asked.

At other times the briefers were even more curious CIA officials that Whitey had gotten sent down from Langley. They too no doubt wondered what was going on, but like their FBI counterparts, they also asked no questions.

Neither did Calvert. He was kept too busy. He knew something unusual was occurring, but he was so busy that he himself didn’t learn that he was being sent to Israel post-haste until several hours later. That happened when Ross re-appeared to rescue him from the latest almost concluded briefing and drag him up to the new office that he’d acquired with his promotion to Deputy Assistant Director.

Nice view, Calvert had remarked off-hand as Ross crossed the room to his desk and began calling someone on his phone.

That tiny comment suddenly seemed out of place when Ross held out the phone’s handset and answered, Whitey’s is better. Why don’t you ask him?

Calvert looked at the phone suspiciously and then took it. All he said was simply, Yes, Sir. He made no comment on the view here or to ask how it compared to the one from a few floors higher up.

With the receiver at his ear, all Calvert then did was to listen for a while.

A few tens of seconds later he made his one and only comment. Shit, he muttered, for he suddenly understood why he had been getting pumped full of sensitive information on what was going on in and around Israel, Israel’s strained relationship with the present administration – and her apparently somewhat less strained relationship with Whitey and the FBI.

The shit comment, however, also served double duty, for it signified that Calvert suddenly realized that Israel’s intelligence service knew more about his no longer ad hoc task force – AT – than 99 percent of the FBI agents and employees in bureau did.

Yes, Sir, Calvert said several more times as Whitey laid out for him just what he was expected to do – and not do.

When he finally hung up, he looked across the desk at David Ross. Ross, the joker who had gotten him back in the thick of the game barely five months earlier, had been the newly appointed Deputy Executive Assistant Director for Counter-Terrorism back then. Now he was a Deputy Assistant Director of something or the other.

Calvert hadn’t bothered finding out what the something was. It didn’t really matter for Ross’ second promotion in less than a year not only had moved him closer to the Director, but was also sufficient to make Ross his de facto boss and supervisor.

What was on the official FBI organization chart – AT’s official placement was in the Office of Inspections – was just window dressing to keep the task force covert.

That meant that Calvert took his orders not from the head of the Office of Inspections, but rather from Ross – and through him the FBI Director himself.

He was in the big league now, one of the key players in the show where the goal of his little squad was to prevent another terrorist attack like the disastrous one that had bled America only five months earlier.

Any additional direction or remarks, Dave? Calvert asked thoughtfully.

The new Assistant Deputy Director shook his head. "This is one you’ll have to play by ear, Calvert. Fielder’s choice you might say.

"They clearly know about you and AT … and after their Minister’s call to Whitey, they know that we now know that they know.

"My best guess is that since you’re a new player in the anti-terrorism game … which is one of the Ministry’s primary duties … they want to feel you out and see just what they can or can’t expect from your end. How much they can trust you. They do work over here you know.

"And perhaps they really do have a little something for us. Maybe they want to kill two birds with one stone by asking us to send you over to pick it up.

Our G-Vs are tied up elsewhere right now, so Whitey reached out and grabbed transport for you … out of the 89th again. Be there at 3:30 this afternoon. Oh, and bring one of your team members with you, just in case.

Neither he nor Calvert was quite sure just what just in case covered.

Ross looked at his watch.

"You’ve now got just over three hours to get the rest of your team squared away to cover your absence … and we don’t know whether the Israelis will want you there for an hour before they send you packing, or whether whatever it is that they have in mind will take a day or two. More than that is unlikely, so … get out of here, grab a bag, and get through this God-awful mess to Andrews.

You got it, Dave, Calvert had said as he turned to begin to hustle back to his windowless basement offices.

Do us proud, Ross muttered as he went back to his normal day’s duties.

Calvert heard the comment as he closed the door without response.

As he walked the Hoover Building’s halls and staircases, without appearing to rush, but making very good time nevertheless, he wondered what was up that had caused the Israelis – and their Ministry of Public Security – to suddenly want to see him in the flesh.

He also wondered who he should take with him as his escort.

Claire Trevette came to mind first off. The auburn-haired psychologist and behavioral analyst who had been assigned to the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico before Ross and Whitey snapped her up for AT came to mind first off. She might be able to get a glimpse into the Israeli’s minds and figure out just what they were up to – what they really wanted from him, his task force, and the bureau.

On the other hand, both Hank Storm, a former Indian cop at the Fort Berthold Reservation in North Dakota and an ex-Marine before being lured to the FBI, and Dick Aston, an FBI Special Agent who had previously been a Navy SEAL, came to mind almost as quickly. Both had served in the Persian Gulf while in the military. That familiarity with the Mid-East might be of some use in this situation.

By the time he reached his basement offices – the gulag where he was ostensibly being quarantined and punished for past misdeeds – Calvert had reached a decision.

Brutus, he half shouted as he walked into the madhouse that housed AT, go home and get packed for a little field trip. I’ll fill you in when you get back. You’ve got an hour and a half to get through the weather, gear up, and get back here.

Right, boss, ugly as sin Clarence Brutus O’Sullivan said, leaving whatever he’d been reading on the table before him. It wasn’t classified, and besides, he knew that someone else would eventually clean it up.

At the door he paused for a second and turned back. Packed for Thule or Siberia, ’r are da big guys sendin’ us ta Devil’s Island?

Neither, Calvert smiled. The Med.

All rightttt! Brutus said and was gone.

Now listen up, people, Calvert said and began filling them in.

* * *

With the thump of the gear retracting that all aboard could feel – all seven of them, the basic Air Force crew of five, the pilot and copilot, flight engineer, communications systems operator, and flight attendant, plus of course Calvert and his escort – Brutus looked across the aisle of the upgraded Grumman Gulfstream V and remarked not so casually, We’s come up in da world, boss! Look a’ dese digs. Lux-ur-ry.

Calvert nodded. The VC-37A wasn’t all that different from the VC-20B they’d flown on five months earlier, during what had come to be called the Summer Night Terrors. It was, after all, just a later model of Gulfstream, so it appeared quite similar.

On the other hand, this modified G-V had the legs to get from Andrews AFB, just outside Washington, D.C., to Moron AB in Spain, which was the little jet’s intermediate destination. There at the joint US-Spanish air base located just north of Gibraltar, the jet would be quickly turned – refueled – and then re-launched to its final destination, David Ben-Gurion International Airport in Israel.

On the other hand, unlike the VC-20B, this Gulfstream model carried not just a pilot and co-pilot, but a flight engineer, a flight attendant, and a comm operator as well. And the comm operator ran a sweet little communications system that would allow them to talk to anyone and everyone back home at the Hoover Building from anywhere in the world, just as clearly as if they were calling from Dupont Circle or Arlington.

Calvert suspected that had been a major consideration in Whitey’s mind when he reached out to borrow this plane from the Air Force.

At the moment, however, all that had needed to be said had been said. There was, therefore, nothing to do but wait to see what would happen.

That and to try to rest and hopefully counteract some of the effects of jet lag that was sure to make tomorrow’s 1 AM Eastern Standard Time arrival in 8 AM Israel so trying.

Calvert hoped his aging body, and, more importantly, his soon to be fuzzed-up mind would be equal to the task that would follow that arrival.

* * *

At sometime around 3:30 PM EST, the VC-37A was an hour and a half into the trip across the frigid North Atlantic. It had long since reached its cruising altitude, nearly 50,000 feet above sea level, and begun making its way steadily eastwards. Several hundred miles to the north, over the horizon and out of sight, the eastern tip of Nova Scotia and the western tip of Newfoundland were passing by.

At that point, a quarter of the way across the ocean, the aircraft’s commander turned to his co-pilot, Captain Wallace Lemar, and gave him control of the aircraft. There wouldn’t be much to do for a while, for the aircraft was serenely cruising on autopilot, which was doing all the work. All the crew had to do, for a while at least, was monitor that the computers and other aircraft systems were working as they had been designed to do.

You got it, Wally, the pilot said as he put a slip of paper in the lurid gothic romance novel he’d been reading. I’m going to stretch, get some coffee … want any? … and go visit an old acquaintance.

I’ve got it, the copilot replied, shaking his head about the coffee, though the coffee carried for the VIPs was so far beyond what regular Air Force crews got from in-flight kitchens as to be unbelievable.

He didn’t ask about their passengers, for neither of them had been told squat. Clearly, as was usually when ferrying VIPs, it was none of their business. All they’d been told – all they needed to know – was when to launch, where to go, and to bring the PAX (passengers) back safe and sound when they got through doing whatever it was they were going to do.

Now, however, it seemed just as clear to the copilot that his pilot knew a little more.

The copilot shrugged. That was why the pilot was a colonel and he was just a captain. The colonel knew things he had yet to learn. Besides, if his boss wanted him to know, why then, he’d tell him.

The colonel walked past the communications suite – not much going on there, and the comm operator was half dozing. He opened the door to the main cabin.

The flight attendant on board today – Air Force Technical Sergeant Mary Ellison – started to spring up to see if she could do anything for the pilot, but he waved her back into her seat and passed by, headed back towards the two passengers who had seated themselves amid-ship, right over the wing.

Probably smoozing the VIPs Ellison decided, making sure that they got the tax-payers’

Reviews for The Assault Continues

[Emmanuel Isaiah Smith · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Like the first book, this text explores the wartime realities with respect to the political, social, and front-lines. A good book!