Gander

By Gerald Cislon

An adventure brimming with strong, political religious and theological themes, awaits the readers as Gerald Cislon weaves another stellor installment of his arsenal of great fiction series.
In his latest published book, "Gander," he transports you back to a time in the 1980s when life, world peace and stability is threatened by religious, thoelogical and fantatic beliefs people would rather follow more then the will of God in one Faith.
Cislon takes readers to that time of the year when most religions seperately celebrate God through different denominational values. This is also the time people plan and dream of being together simply to share with their individual familys in Faith.
Meanwhile forces of unknown proportion decide to alter the joy and in return bring pain and suffering into others lives. As a plane load of soldiers, gone for over a year now, returns home to their loved ones just in time to celebrate, when the joys of giving are taken from them. The evil scepter of hate destroys the lives and the joy of reunion of loved ones.
Join Gerald in the pursuit of tracking and stopping these terrorists before they can strike again.
Long after the book ends you as the reader will ponder on how much of this story is based on actual fact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469181523

Gerald Cislon

Gerald Cislon, more commonly called Jerry by family and friends. An original Pittsburgh native, who spent the greater part of his adult life traveling throughout the world as a soldier and civilian. Now as he settles back in his writings he attempts to capture the essences of his life’s journey to enlighten people to the similarities within and throughout all mankind. "Spies" is Jerry's third work. In his first book, "Til the End of Time," he took us on his travels throughout the far east. "Gander" enlightened readers to his journeys in portions of the middle east. Now in "Spies," Jerry brings the reader back home to the traditional times in our lives when the fulfillment of giving is greater than receiving.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T HE STAFF GATHERED in the great hall, casually chatting and sharing a few moments before the Boss, as he loved being referred to, arrived. The hall was comfortable, spacious, and roomy. The décor was tranquil, elegant, and peaceful. The lighting was soft and comforting. A breeze played throughout the hall, bringing with it a lilt of soothing music. Everything was done with moderation and patience. There was no stress or pressure once you entered this great hall.

Here, days were referred to with the names of planets rather than the usual Monday and Tuesday or with a string of numbers. Time was irrelevant. No clocks or calendars, days were as one. The purpose was to maintain a mood and atmosphere of relaxation, peace, and love.

The great door opened quietly, bringing with it a resounding string of tempered music that announced the arrival of the Boss, the Lord himself.

The Lord paused briefly, then walked to the center of the assembly, turning to greet each face with a wisp of a smile and a nod of recognition.

Let’s see, today is Earth Day, the Lord said with a smile on his creased and aged face, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Sit if you please, I plan to. I’m tired, got a bit of a problem I’ve been lamenting on you see. Right now, I can think of only one possible solution—that is, unless all of you can come up with an idea. I’ll explain, the Lord said as he slowly lowered himself into an unseen overstuffed billowy chair with a frustrated sigh. In turn, once the Boss was seated, most of the assembly took a seat. There were no visible seats; one just leaned backward and was instantly enfolded with a billowing comfort.

Earth has some dangerous people running loose. If they are not brought under control, it could destroy what so many have put together over the past million years or so, the Lord explained, emphasizing the magnitude of this problem. He placed his hands on his thighs. Leaning forward, he glimpsed into each face, hoping and searching their eyes for an alternative idea.

The foremost rule of respect was that no one spoke unless asked to, and no one sat until the Boss sat and then motioned for the staff to be seated.

There was no open discussion except for the Lord speaking. Thoughts and discussions were communicated through intertelepathic waves on monitors held by each person in the conference room. Monitors were referred to good-naturedly as magic screens. Once a thought was developed in someone’s thinking, it was displayed and shared on the monitors. The Lord was the only one who spoke openly—that is, unless someone was asked to speak openly, which was seldom done. Telepathic communicating encouraged sharing of ideas while saving time and avoiding a lot of unnecessary discussion. The Lord was the only one who knew who was thinking what.

Come on, now, surely someone has an idea, the Lord said as everyone peered into their individual screens, void of thought so their individual thoughts would remain hidden.

The staff members peered intently into their personal magic screens, or crystal balls, the future forerunner of what would one day become the laptop computer.

I do have a solution, you see. But because of our extended agreement, I don’t want to use it. I think you all know who and what I mean.

Did you ask if he would do it? a thought flashed across the screens.

No, I’m trying to avoid this one option unless it’s all I’ve got, the Lord responded.

"You could exercise your supreme authority and just remove the problem," a comment appeared on the screen.

Yes, I could, but we as a body are bound to the promise we agreed on. If I did use my authority, all I’ll be doing is moving the problem. And I definitely don’t want to do that. I want a permanent fix to this problem so it never comes back. As you recall, many years ago, this body of spiritual beings asked that I not interfere with the problems and issues that occur on earth, that all problems and issues be dealt with by a selected judicial system of people. And that is what I’m bound to, the Lord responded.

True, but if there’s no other way? appeared on the screens.

Let’s revisit our agreement, the Lord said.

You all asked me to leave you alone, which I reluctantly agreed to. I give each of you three promises when you enter this life. First, you all would be made in my image, which I did. Secondly, I would give each of you the ability to determine your own destiny while on earth. This I also did. And third, after your time on this earth was finished, I will bring each of you back home to our kingdom of heaven. Correct me if I am wrong.

Yes, Lord, the response appeared.

At the same time, as a keystone within our agreement, you as your own governing body had to write a set of laws that all beings on earth would have to live by, the Lord said as he raised his eyebrows while scanning every face.

As a result, without my interference, you prescribed a set of commandments, ten to be exact, as your laws to live by, which I agreed to. However, each of these commandments were immediately broken as I watched but did not interfere. I watched in agony and with disappointment, forbidden by our agreement to interfere or help. It took longer than I preferred, but slowly, you eventually got it under control, again without my help. It was difficult, but you made it, and I didn’t interfere. Then you prescribed a supplemental set of rules you called the Scrolls to cover those things that you felt weren’t covered by the commandments. This would have been adequate, but for one thing—it only addressed the needs of a few. This resulted in a separation based on fundamental beliefs in race and ethnic division by religious sects. This was further compounded in an even deeper division and separation consisting of interdenominational groups within each religious sect that had a separate interpretation of the commandments. It seems that no one seems to understand the difference between good and bad. That’s where we are right now. And at the same time, what I can’t understand is the ‘why.’ There is only one God. That’s me… or has everyone forgotten? the Lord exclaimed.

Regardless of these religious sects or any further inner breakdown, you all pray to me. I am your one and only God. You need no intermediate to come to me. There will always be discontent and separation until this is fully understood and accepted. Remember, I cannot interfere. Therefore, you must come to a full acceptance of our agreement. Can’t you all come together?

The committee didn’t respond. They waited in silence with bowed heads. This was the first time they had ever heard an edge of harshness in the Lord’s words.

So another set of scrolls were established. This time, each religious sect created their own separate set of scrolls. Only now they’re more commonly referred to as Bibles. Already they have been changed, modified and supplemented to meet the needs or, more pointedly, to justify the individual shortcomings of each group, which I prefer to call cults, the Lord stated and pressed his lips together to show his concern and dissatisfaction.

Silence filled the great assembly hall.

And as much as I’ve wanted to say something, I never interfered.

Would it be too much to ask what your solution is for this unknown problem? the question appeared on the screen.

You already know, but I’ll tell you anyway. My solution to resolving this earthly problem, God said as he paused to collect his thoughts and looked through the entire committee, It’s Tiberius. I would like to send him to handle this problem. It seems like every time there is a problem of this magnitude, Tiberius is sent. After the last mission, I promised Tiberius eternal peace with his family.

We know, Lord. Send me instead, came across the screen.

Speak, the Lord commanded even though he knew who it was. He just wanted the other council members to see who was prepared to sacrifice oneself.

The Angel of Death stood, lowering his head as he faced the Lord.

I knew it would be you, the Lord said.

I will gladly go.

I know, but I have another need of you right now.

Any other suggestions?

Nothing appeared on any screen as the great assembly kept their heads bowed.

And so it will have to be, the Lord said as he took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting the weight of his decision settle on the council.

Do you want me to tell him? the Angel of Death asked.

No, this job is mine.

What about Petreious? a new question appeared on the screen.

What about Petreious? the Lord asked as he stood with everyone in the chamber standing at the same time.

Will she have to go with Tiberius? appeared on the screen.

Yes, within time, Petreious will join her husband, the Lord answered.

When? the Angel of Death asked.

Immediately.

And with that, the staff meeting moved on to other issues that needed attention.

At the conclusion of the meeting, the Lord sent the Angel of Death, better known in heaven as Cretanius, a private note on his screen.

Walk with me after the council departs, the Lord ordered.

You, Tiberius, and Petreious are very close, I know, the Lord stated as Cretanius walked two steps behind the Lord and to his right.

Yes, we are, my Lord.

I must send you with them into earth to assist with this problem. Are you prepared to go?

Yes, my Lord, but who will take care of their children while they are gone? Cretanius asked.

Kunneko has already been dispatched, the Lord answered.

Good choice, but I love being with the children and was hoping you’d send me.

What I wanted to tell you personally… is that I’ll be sending you in as a dog.

A dog! Cretanius gasped out loud.

The Lord couldn’t help but smile as he listened to the response.

What kind of dog?

A nice dog with a long tail, cold nose, and a flea collar, the Lord responded, no longer able to suppress his smile as it turned into laughter.

A dog?

Look at it this way, ‘dog’ spelled backward is ‘God’! Come on, join me as I wake Scott.

Why do you always call him Scott when his name is Tiberius?

Careful with the questions, the Lord responded as he raised his right index finger in the air.

A short while later, still sporting a suppressed grin, the Lord commented, I like the name Scott. Sounds kind of stately.

Ahh, there he is, the Lord commented as the two looked down on earth and into Scott’s bedroom, watching him sleep.

Can I wake him, please? Cretanius asked. I’ll stand at the foot of his bed with a lampshade over my head.

You don’t want to bark, then jump up on his bed and lick his face? the Lord asked, breaking out in a soft laugh.

Let him sleep. He will wake soon enough, the Lord said as he reached down gently, rubbing Scott’s shoulder, then stroking a few loose strands of hair from his forehead.

And with that light touch, God filled Scott with the strength he would need for what lay ahead.

Come, let him rest for now. He has a lot of work to do.

1

NORTHERN IRELAND

T HE WIND BLEW across the North Atlantic Ocean with a bitter cold that cut through clothing and skin, chilling you right into the marrow of your bones. Even in the summer, the winds howled out of the ocean, cutting across Northern Ireland, carrying with them the frigid cold of the polar cap. Nothing could escape the viciousness of these murderous winds that seemed to grow with a raging intensity at night. The winds cut at the land, tearing away the top soil and leaving only the bony white edges of rock. It resembled skeletal remains dotting the landscape.

The age-old cemetery located along the coast of Northern Ireland was seated at the top of a hundred-foot-high cliff that overlooked the ocean. The vicious ocean waves, driven by the cold North Atlantic winds, pounded at the jagged cliff walls. The cemetery was ringed with an eight-foot-high wall, constructed of large boulders and rocks with a foundation ten feet thick, pyramiding up to four feet, a walkway along the top. The wall was built centuries ago to keep the howling winds from blowing open the graves of the sainted martyrs buried there. The large headstones that dotted the cemetery were stained black from the moss and fungus that clung to their granite sides. The grave markers stood as tall dark sentinels, guarding the bones that lay buried under the rocks and dirt in front of them.

It was on this exceptionally cold summer night in July 1966 that Jimmy McQuire and Kathleen McGraw walked among the dark silhouettes of the headstones in the cemetery. The wind seemed colder and more vicious than any other night as it blew in off the ocean. As the two walked, they squinted their eyes, trying to read the names on each headstone as they passed. The cloudless sky and full moon gave enough light to see as they went searching from headstone to headstone.

Here, Jimmy! Kathleen called out. Over here is his grave, she repeated as Jimmy came running over to her.

Removing his glove, Jimmy knelt down on one knee in front of the headstone and tried rubbing the dirt off the engraved letters. He cupped his hands around a small candle as Kathleen struck a match. Jimmy tried to protect the flame from being blown out. The two moved closer to the headstone so they could read the inscribed name of one of the most notorious Irish pirates that ever lived, Patrick O’Shae.

This is it! Jimmy exclaimed in an excited voice. He stood, taking his long coat off and spreading it across the grave. Hurry up, Kathleen, lie down.

Kathleen lifted her dress and pulled her panties off. She lay down on Jimmy’s coat. With her dress up around her waist, she lay there, giggling as she watched Jimmy standing in the moonlight, unzipping his trousers.

Now it’s you who needs to hurry, Jimmy boy, Kathleen said in a chiding voice.

As Jimmy knelt, he told her, You know, Kathleen, if we conceive a child while making love on this grave, our child will be filled with the spirit of Patrick O’Shae.

As the two made love, the spiritual entity of Patrick O’Shae rolled around, rising up through his grave, entering Kathleen and filling her with its evil being as she held Jimmy inside of her.

Less than eight months later, a premature and partially deformed baby boy was taken from the womb of a dying Kathleen McGraw. Shortly after holding her deformed son, she died from injuries she had suffered from an automobile accident. The father, Jim McQuire, was killed by Protestant extremists a month after he and Kathleen had made love on Patrick O’Shae’s grave.

With her last breath, Kathleen named her son Shawn McQuire.

2

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

T HE EARLY-MORNING COLD lay suspended under a bank of dark gray clouds, filled with heavy snow carried down from the polar cap and across the Canadian providence of Quebec. The storm was dumping large quantities of snow on everything in its path. The town of Gander, situated on the South Atlantic side of an island extension along the coast of Newfoundland, Canada, was directly in the path of this storm and would not be spared any mercy. Gander was a small town with fishing as its main purpose and with its large international airport that served countless transatlantic flights crossing between Europe and North America. The town’s population was less than ten thousand, but the city itself was fully equipped and capable of handling these large winter snowstorms. Keeping this critical airport fully operational at all times was the town’s primary function.

This particular snowstorm started the previous evening and had been falling heavily into the early-morning hours, repeatedly blanketing the airport’s runways as the snow-removal equipment and personnel fought to keep them clear. There was over two feet of accumulated snow lying on the ground between the runways and the unplowed areas around the airport terminal. The cold was hovering in the low teens, aided by a blustery wind that created a chill factor of minus-ten degrees. The local population was used to this type of weather and knew how to dress and stay insulated from the frigid cold. It was only the occasional tourist or stranded traveler who complained about the frigid temperatures and long winter nights.

At the far end of the snow-covered airport, six terrorists sat huddled together in the snow, trying to keep from freezing to death. At least they had the good sense to bring a small canvas tarp with them that they now used to keep the heavy snow off their heads. The terrorists were determined to wait as long as it would take for the departure of a flight that had just landed after coming from the American Rhein-Mien Air Base located in West Germany.

The chartered Boeing 707 had arrived less than thirty minutes ago, dropping down out of the low-clouded ceiling, landing safely on the just-cleared runway. The plane had come in, crossing less than a hundred feet over the terrorists’ heads as they sat huddled closely together, using their bodies to shield two rocket-propelled missile launchers. These terrorists had come too far and expended too much to fail now. They had taken everything into consideration, even the cold weather, but they had failed to allow for the possibility of a snowstorm. The snow continued to fall, completely covering the terrorists in a blanket of white as they sat under their canvas tarp.

Inside the terminal, the plane’s two hundred and forty-eight passengers and the crew of ten either walked around or just sat in the various open lounges in a sleepy stupor, waiting for the plane to be refueled and for maintenance checks to be performed. This was a military-chartered flight, carrying soldiers home after completing a six-month tour of peacekeeping duty in the Sinai desert as part of the Camp David peace accords between Israel and Egypt. The soldiers were all members of the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

What added to the excitement and anticipation of going home after being away for six months was the upcoming Christmas and New Year holidays. It was December 24, 1985, and the airport intercom system droned on, playing every Christmas tune ever written. The soldiers walked throughout the small air terminal, buying up every gift and souvenir in sight. The few snack bars that were located in the airport were quickly eaten out of house and home within minutes after the horde of seemingly starving soldiers entered the terminal.

The weather outside was now adding an additional delay to these soldiers getting home. The snow kept falling at the rate of a half inch an hour, but the weather forecasters had projected a slight break in the snow within the next sixty minutes that would allow just enough time for the plane to take off.

Outside, the ground crew continued the refueling of the aircraft and restocking of in-flight meals for the final phase of the journey home.

Hiding in a corner along the exterior wall of the terminal, a seventh terrorist stood behind several parked snow-covered airport vehicles. The sole purpose of this terrorist was to watch and signal the departure of this particular flight as soon as it moved away from the terminal. He remained in constant contact with his comrades sitting buried under the snow at the end of the airport runways with the use of a small two-way radio. The terrorist had set up a series of beeping signals rather than use voice contact. The air traffic controllers had picked up the beeping signals while monitoring air traffic communications but only considered them weather static and interference.

Inside the terminal, soldiers were growing impatient waiting to reboard their flight. Outside, the terrorists lay buried under the freezing snow, waiting for the signal that the plane was taxiing for takeoff. Standing outside the terminal, the lone terrorist stood in the corner, stamping his half-frozen feet on the ground, trying to find a little bit of feeling in his toes.

Finally, the airport intercom system announced that it was time to reboard the aircraft; and with that, the soldiers made a mass exodus for the departure gate. Along with the powdery sands from the Sinai in their uniforms and boots, the soldiers carried back onto the plane at least another ton of consumed foods and beverages along with all the gifts they purchased for loved ones back home. This would add to an already-heavily-loaded plane covered with ice and snow.

The plane was de-iced one last time just before pulling away from the gate. The snow had let up just enough for the plane to find its way out to the runway for takeoff. The jet paused momentarily to build up enough momentum for its takeoff. Somewhere up above these heavy snow clouds, there was a morning sun that the pilot had visions of seeing once he launched his aircraft through this snowstorm.

The terrorist standing outside the terminal sent his message twice, consisting of a series of prearranged clicks, as he watched the plane slowly push away from its place, then turn slowly and disappear out toward the takeoff runway.

Out at the far end of the airport runway, the terrorists, completely buried under a blanket of snow, received the series of clicks and started to get ready, separating into two groups of three each. They huddled back down into the snow to wait the final minutes before they would take aim at the big jet and shoot it down. Their hands were numb from the cold as they held their missile launchers against their bodies, protecting them from the snow.

The lone terrorist, after sending his signal, left his hiding spot and headed for the parking lot to get the small French Peugeot car they had stolen from the other side of the small Gander Island. From there, he would drive to a predesignated location and wait for the rest of his comrades.

Inside the aircraft, soldiers sat strapped securely in their upright seats, waiting for this final takeoff. They were all tired and anxious to get home. Some faked sleep with their eyes closed, while others just sat there quietly wrapped in their own thoughts of getting home. The soldiers seated along the windows stared out into the dark morning, seeing only the reflections of their own faces staring back at them.

The flight attendants enjoyed the young returning soldiers filled with the excitement of coming home to be reunited with family and friends. They loved the flirts and compliments from these homesick men, and in return, they did their best to make them feel comfortable with small talk and extra beverages. It had been a long trip out and back for the entire crew, having first taken a plane of soldiers over to replace these men they were now taking home; and after less than a full day’s rest, they were back on, ready and anxious, for the return flight.

The big jet reached the end of the runway and, without stopping, turned and started its takeoff. The runway was clear for the most part except for an occasional slippery patch in small places from the icy snow that clung to the tarmac. The plane moved slowly at first as its wheels tried to grab traction from the icy tarmac. The takeoff was using far more runway than normal as the jet lumbered and clawed its way down the runway. Less than one hundred yards from the end of the runway, the big jet finally lifted off the ground, barely clearing the red-and-white checkered utility shack.

The snow started falling heavily again as the jet made its way into the air, climbing for the sky. The increased roar from the straining jet engines and the heavy swirling snow momentarily confused and blinded the terrorists from being able to see and project where the jet was as it came toward them.

Just as the big jet barely cleared the runway utility shack, it passed within fifty feet over the terrorists’ heads as they lay buried in the snow. At first, the terrorists fell as deeply as they could into the snow, scared that the jet was going to hit them. Then the two terrorists holding the grenade launchers sat up in the snow and fired their weapons at the shadow that had just passed over their heads.

The first rocket passed through the tail of the soft-skinned aircraft, plowing right into the undercarriage, up through the floorboards, exploding inside the passenger section of the fuselage among the soldiers. The second rocket veered to the left of the center of the aircraft, hitting the left wing and exploding on impact. The first rocket had cut the aircraft into two sections, with a third of the tail section breaking off and falling to the snowy ground.

The soldiers seated in the rear of the aircraft sat in horrified shock, watching helplessly as the rocket exploded, cutting the aircraft into two pieces. Those not killed by the initial explosion sat strapped in their seats, falling helplessly to the ground and to their deaths. The passengers in the front section of the plane never knew what hit them as the big jet exploded into a ball of fire, twisting and turning in midair; it fell on its side into the frozen snow, a burning heap of death.

Back inside the Gander terminal, small groups of people who had been watching the takeoff stood in horrified shock. No one inside the terminal said a word as they watched through the window in fixed terror.

Good Mother of Jesus, a waitress said as she stood with her palms pressed against the glass, staring out into the dark morning snowstorm at the burning flames in the distance.

The terrorists jumped up and down, congratulating each other for the success of their first terrorist attack. At first, the terrorists didn’t notice that one of their members lay half-frozen and dying in the snow, a big hole in the center of his body. In the midst of the excitement created during the plane’s takeoff, one terrorist knelt within inches directly behind his comrade who was preparing to fire his missile. The back blast created when the missile was launched cut a searing hole through the terrorist’s body, nearly cutting him in half. It took a moment before the groans of their wounded comrade could be heard as he lay in the snow, dying. His lower torso was badly mutilated from the force of the back blast from the rocket. By the time they reached his side, he was dead.

The terrorists moved in slow motion, their muscles and joints stiff from having lain in the freezing cold and snow for nearly six hours. As quick as they could, they gathered up everything in sight, trying to remove any trace that they had been there. But the one thing that could not be removed was the trampled packed snow and the scorched ground from the rocket’s blast. With time and a spring thaw, all traces from where these rockets were fired will be erased.

Quickly, they rolled the dead body in the tarp they had used to conceal their rockets as they transported them to the end of the runway.

The body had already turned stiff from the cold, and using the tarp, they were able to drag the body like a sled across the snow. Two of the terrorists pulled their dead comrade like a piece of wood to the side of the road that ran parallel to the far end of the runway to the designated point where they would meet.

The terrorist who had been hiding outside the Gander terminal left his position, heading for the getaway car as soon as his prearranged signal was sent. The old French Peugeot car would now transport them to the location where they had been dropped off from the freighter that carried them here.

An agreement was made between the captain of this Panamanian freighter to take them from Ireland to Gander, drop them off, and then wait forty-eight hours before sending the small boat back to pick them up. Then, the captain would take his seven passengers and deposit them on the shores of Malta. The plan seemed simple, and for a fee of twenty thousand dollars, the captains agreed.

As the lone terrorist busied himself cleaning the snow from the car windows, he was momentarily distracted by the sound of not one but two explosions that came from the far end of the airport.

Shit, the terrorist said as he hurried opening the car door and then jumping inside, reaching under the dashboard, grabbing the loose wires, and started clicking them together to jump-start the engine. The car wouldn’t start. Twice, the engine groaned as it tried to roll over but no luck. By now, the terrorist’s hands were freezing as he rubbed them together vigorously.

Come on, baby, be good to me. You gotta start, the terrorist said to the cold steel car as he once more rubbed the ends of the bare wires together. Just like that, the car engine kicked into life as he kept talking to the car, thanking it for its kindness and mercy while slamming the door shut. Slowly, he drove the car through the neatly plowed parking lot and out the entrance, in the direction of the far end of the runway, to meet with his comrades.

Where in the hell have you been? We’re freezing to death while you’re taking your time driving around! screamed one terrorist as the others started climbing in and packing themselves inside the old Peugeot with all their gear.

What are we going to do with Charlie? One of the terrorists asked, using a name to refer to another for the first time since leaving Northern Ireland.

Look, idiot, he’s dead. Throw him on top of the car and tie him there. We’ll get rid of him later, the one terrorist said, who was obviously the leader since everyone turned to him for guidance for everything.

How?

Here, grab the tarp at that end, and we’ll throw him on the roof of the car. Then take this rope and tie him there, that’s how. Do I need to do everything for you? came the blaring cold response from the apparent leader.

With that accomplished and with all six surviving terrorists jammed inside the little Peugeot and their dead comrade tied to the roof, the driver attempted to make a U-turn and head back in the direction from where they had come ashore. Unfortunately, the driver got the little car stuck in the heavy snow, forcing the terrorists to get out and push until they got it back on to the road.

Turn the heater on, idiot, the terrorist leader said to anyone who would listen, once the car was back on the road.

I tried, but the damn thing doesn’t work, the driver responded.

Next time we steal a car, let’s take a new one with everything that works so we can ride in comfort, Colleen, the only female among the terrorists, remarked, bringing a round of laughter from everyone.

Yeah, and make it a limo too, so we can all stretch out, came a follow-on remark, bringing with it another round of nervous laughter, and then the group of terrorists fell into silence for the remaining drive to their drop off point.

As the snow continued to fall, the little car drove out onto an extended peninsula portion of Gander, until it came to a walk-out fishing pier. One by one, the terrorists climbed out of the Peugeot just to stretch and stare out into the stormy cold North Atlantic Ocean for the boat that would carry them out to the warm freighter.

Come on, give me a hand, the leader said as he started to untie the tarp containing the body from off the car roof.

What are we going to do with him? Someone asked.

Once we get offshore a ways, we’re going to dump poor old Charlie into the ocean. But first, let’s dig up some boulders and tie them inside the tarp with Charlie to keep him under the water for a very long time, the leader said as they let the tarp slide off the roof of the car.

Long before anyone could see the little