Inside the Wire Page 3

  The men that surrounded him were fiercely loyal, and all had been rewarded with the pleasures of the flesh. The Koran gave the victor the right to take the women of their enemies as slaves, and they had plenty. But all these girls cost money—food, water, clothing. It had their coffers running low. Not to mention the provisions required by his men, along with weapons and ammo. With the collapse of ISIS and Al Qaeda, the generous donors in Western countries that secretly supported Islam and its jihad against the ways of their adopted countries were mostly Arab, and had yet to fully embrace donating to organizations comprised of black Muslims.

  One didn’t have to be white to be racist.

  The lack of funds meant they had to take action, and they had to take action now. He smiled at those sitting around him. “If we are to be heard, we need to act. And in order to act, we need money. It’s time for another scoop.”

  Smiles spread across the room at the prospect.

  “This afternoon, we’ll hit Ugurun before the school lets out. It’s small, but has a new camp set up by the infidel government that they hope will scare us off. We’ll show them how we have no fear of them and how we are unstoppable with the power of Allah in our hearts. And over the coming week, we will hit a village each day, taking their girls, and then on Friday, we will pray and thank Allah for his generosity. And as word of our victories spread around the world, the donations will flood in. We will teach the girls the way of Allah, then decide what to do with them, as we always have.” He rose and the others joined him. “Now, prepare yourselves for battle, for this afternoon we may die in Allah’s name and win our entry into Jannah, where only the true warriors of Islam are welcome.” He thrust his fist in the air. “Allahu Akbar!”

  Fists rose around him, his men repeating the chant, growing in volume each time. “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

  And he smiled as the two girls he had broken over a year ago thrust their own fists in the air, screaming the words that filled any good Muslim’s heart with religious fervor. “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” He squeezed them tight against him, eager to return to his bed, the two of them his reward for his service to Allah.

  And it was true.

  God is greatest.

  6 |

  FOB Ugurun, Nigeria

  Dawson stepped off the chopper first, continuing his assessment of the new Nigerian Forward Operating Base that had begun from the air. Their briefing had indicated the bases were ready and that the Nigerians wanted advice on how to improve upon what they had already built, though what he was looking at could never be considered complete, at least not by American or NATO standards.

  An area perhaps the size of two football fields had been carved into the forest then ringed with chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. Within this cleared area were half a dozen sandbagged positions around the perimeter, and a handful of hastily erected buildings clustered in the center, likely containing barracks, a mess hall, and various other administrative offices. A few troop transports and a couple of jeeps were lined up along the north end of the compound. The opposite end appeared reserved for PT, a group of about twenty soldiers currently being put through their paces by a seasoned sergeant.

  And there was an inexplicable massive mound of dirt outside the fence line, blocking any line of sight from the south.

  Sergeant Major Buhari stood beside him. “So, what do you think?”

  If Dawson hadn’t already known the man, he might have minced words, but Buhari preferred things straight, so that’s what he would get. “Answer me one thing. Is this considered ready for our review?”

  Buhari chuckled. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Run me through the thinking.”

  Buhari pointed toward the PT area. “Boko Haram is known to have fighters in that direction. We put our vehicles as far away from where we expect them to attack, clustered our buildings in the center so they’re as far away from the fence line as possible and can act as a fallback position, and we have six permanently manned positions, all with fifty cals.”

  Dawson jutted his chin toward the group exercising. “They look young.”

  “They are young. Raw recruits.”

  Dawson cocked an eyebrow a la Spock. “You have raw recruits on the front line?”

  “This isn’t exactly the front line, but we put them here, train them, and let them live here for a few weeks knowing that at any moment they could die. It teaches them to be careful, to pay attention to the rules, and to listen to their sergeants and officers.”

  Dawson grunted. “I suppose that’s one way of doing it.” He jerked a thumb at Atlas helping unload the chopper with the others. “Usually, we just send in a scary son of a bitch like him, and nobody dares not pay attention.”

  Buhari laughed. “I can see how that might work, but in America, you don’t have environments like this where you could send your recruits. If you did, maybe you’d adopt our methods.”

  “You haven’t seen our inner cities.”

  Buhari regarded him. “What do you mean?”

  Dawson waved a hand. “Never mind.”

  Atlas walked up to them, pointing at the pile of gear as the chopper lifted off, carrying a lieutenant that appeared under the weather. “Everything accounted for, Sergeant Major.”

  “Copy that.” Dawson turned to Buhari. “Where can we set up camp?”

  “Your pick, Sergeant Major. Anywhere you want.” An AK-47 rattled in the distance and Bravo Team spun toward the sound, readying their weapons. Buhari laughed. “If you react every time you hear a gun go off here, you’ll get nothing done.”

  “That sounded like it was only a few miles away,” said Atlas.

  “Probably taking some pot shots at the helicopter. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Spock cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’re on the chopper.”

  “It’s why we rarely use choppers in this area, and the only reason we did today was because the road is out.”

  Dawson pursed his lips. “When do you expect that to reopen?”

  “They’re working on it. Probably a couple of days.”

  “How often do they shoot up the camp?” asked Niner.

  “Every couple of days. Usually it’s just a drunk.”

  Dawson reassessed the area with this new piece of information. He pointed at the buildings. “You’ve got corrugated metal on all of these.”

  “Yes. What we’ve found over the years is that most of the shots taken at us are from a distance. These provide enough protection against a stray shot that comes at us from the maximum range. Pretty much useless if we were to come under direct attack, but our men rest a little easier at night knowing the occasional stray will likely be stopped. If you want, I can put some of our men in tents and your team can bunk inside.”

  Dawson shook his head at the proposition. “I’ll never take another man’s rack.” His chin jutted toward the vehicles. “Are the keys in those trucks?”

  Buhari smirked. “Why, are you planning on leaving?”

  Dawson smiled. “The thought had occurred to me, but no, we’ll reposition them to provide cover for our tents.” He pointed at the far too close tree line. “Do you have chainsaws?”

  “No, but we have axes and strong men.”

  Dawson indicated the soldiers now doing jumping jacks. “I suggest then that you end the dance routine and put them to real work. Get that tree line back. Minimum another hundred feet in all directions.”

  Buhari’s eyebrows shot up. “That far?”

  Dawson chuckled. “That’s only the beginning.”

  7 |

  Boko Haram Staging Area Outside Maiduguri, Nigeria

  “Stop your crying!” snapped Ibrahim Mohammed as he dressed. His two favorites lay in the bed, wearing nothing but smiles, but he had forced two of the younger girls that he had yet to break to watch—they needed to learn what to expect and what he liked.

  Though he didn’t have to listen to their sniveling.

  If they didn’t smarten up soon, he’d break them the hard way. He turned to the girls on the bed. “Clean yourselves up for when I get back.” He gestured at the two students. “And talk to your sisters. Tell them what’s in store for them if they don’t accept their fate.”

  He stepped out of the room, if one could call it that. They had taken over an abandoned warehouse and he and a select few had sheets hung to provide a minimal sense of privacy. He had a home in a nearby village that he would visit often, where everyone knew what he did, but didn’t dare say or do anything about it. The authorities certainly had no idea he lived there, otherwise they would have raided it long ago. It meant his neighbors could be trusted to not say anything, though he had no doubt it was out of fear, not loyalty. His wife never spoke of it, and their children knew nothing. It was his haven from the constant jihad.

  His current quarters were uncomfortable, though had their benefits, namely in the supply of girls. It was a sacrifice he made willingly. He was doing this for his family, for those villagers that feared him. He was fighting back against the constant encroachment of Western civilization and its decadent, ungodly ways. As more were drawn to the cause, they would succeed. Afghanistan was proof. It might have taken decades, but Muslims like him had forced the Russians out, and now had forced America out.

  What Westerners, with their idealistic beliefs, could not process was that true Muslims had no desire for democracy. It was fundamentally incompatible with Islam. The West had its separation of church and state, had elected governments, had laws set down over time, had their churches that they worshipped in that didn’t govern them. While Islam was the religion of the people, it was also the laws of the people, and the government of the people. Everything was laid out in the Koran, the Hadiths, and the Sunnah. There was no room for votes, n
o room for dissent. His people would constantly fight back, constantly fight the invader, no matter what they claimed their intentions were, for there was no room for them in the world of Islam.

  When his people won this war purely through demographics, and outnumbered the Westerners they would then surround, it would be a glorious blood bath, triggering the final war. He wasn’t sure if he would be around for it, for it might take decades more, perhaps even centuries of struggle, but it would happen one day, and if he died in battle serving Allah, he would witness the great day of the Worldwide Caliphate from Jannah, while fed grapes by one of his 72 houri.

  He strode through the warehouse, clapping his hands together rhythmically, the others rising and grabbing their weapons, joining him as they headed for the large doors at the far end and the collection of motorcycles that would carry them into battle. As more hands joined, the sound echoed off the walls like the war drums of his ancient ancestors. Goosebumps raced across his flesh in anticipation of what they were about to do. He expected success, but always in the back of his mind prepared for failure. Yet he never feared it, for failure meant entry into Jannah as long as he died with honor. But success had similar appeal, for success meant new girls, and after every kidnapping, he always chose the most terrified and took her to his bed, making all the others stand nearby and listen through the sheets at what their future would be should they not cooperate.

  He reached down and adjusted himself, already excited over what the evening might bring. He raised his AK-47 over his head as he mounted his motorcycle and started the engine. “Allahu Akbar!” he cried as he roared out of the warehouse, his men behind him, Allah’s power flowing through him.

  Today would be a good day.

  Today would be a great day.

  8 |

  Leroux/White Residence, Fairfax Towers Falls Church, Virginia

  “I didn’t like it the first time I watched it.”

  CIA Operations Officer Sherrie White popped an eyebrow at her boyfriend’s surprising statement. “You of all people didn’t like The Big Bang Theory the first time you watched it?”

  CIA Analyst Supervisor Chris Leroux shook his head. “Nope. Everybody kept talking about it so I finally said, okay, fine. And mind you, the show had been on for years, so it was just some random episode, I don’t even remember what one. I watched about ten minutes and I turned it off. I remember saying out loud, ‘this is one of the most popular shows on television?’”

  Leroux’s best friend, CIA Operations Officer Dylan Kane, chuckled over the video hookup, joining them from an officially unknown location that Leroux was privy to due to his job—Jordan. “If there was anybody who I thought would be devoted to that show from the moment it was announced, it would be you. It’s all computers and Star Wars and Star Trek and comic books.”

  Leroux gave the laptop a look. “Do you see any comic books here?”

  Kane wagged a finger at his friend. “Your bedroom in high school was filthy with them, so don’t go pretending you weren’t an uber dork when you were younger.”

  “I’m still an uber dork and proud of it, but I lost my taste for comic books along the way. Just no time. I get my fill now through the movies.”

  Kane’s girlfriend Lee Fang, a former Chinese Special Forces officer now living in exile, took a sip of her coffee. “In China, we used to watch it as part of our training.”

  Leroux’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh?”

  “Well, we were trained in the pop cultures of our enemies, so if we had to do something undercover, we could blend better. We’d watch popular TV shows, movies, music. Before I came here, I was up on all the celebrity gossip, latest movies, TV shows, music, I knew it all.”

  “And now?”

  She flicked her wrist. “I couldn’t care less about that crap. While I like to sit down and watch a good movie or laugh at a TV show, why would I ever care about who’s dating who? I prefer a good book regardless. I like to let my imagination fill in the blanks rather than someone in Hollywood.”

  Kane leaned closer to the camera. “What books did they have you reading in spy school?”

  “None.”

  Sherrie’s eyebrows shot up. “None?”

  “It was felt it wasn’t necessary.”

  Leroux’s eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t it be necessary?”

  “Because not enough people actually read more than a few books a year, so you had almost no chance of dealing with someone who had read a book you had.”

  Leroux grunted. “That’s appalling, if you think about it. Then again, I don’t have much time to read anymore either.”

  Fang shrugged. “I’m not judging.”

  Sherrie leaned back. “It does kind of make sense though, doesn’t it? We’re introduced to reading usually by our parents when we’re young, and then by the time we reach high school, we’re being forced to read books that are unbelievably boring to a teenager, and then we have to write a report on it, sometimes do a presentation in front of a class, so the school system basically turns what should be a fun activity into a task that you hate.”

  Kane agreed as he tossed a finger toward Leroux, who had tutored him in high school. “You’re preaching to the choir here. Just ask him. I hated reading the assigned books. They should have just let us pick a book to read and then write a report on it. Leave the classics for when you get older.”

  Leroux finished his Diet Dr. Pepper, putting the empty can on the coffee table. “I liked the classics.”

  Kane tilted his head, giving him a look. “Yes, but we’ve already established you’re an uber dork.”

  “True, but I still didn’t like The Big Bang Theory when I first watched it.”

  “But now you love it,” said Sherrie. “What changed?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of years later, people were still talking about it, and when I said I didn’t like it, they said I must have just got a bad episode, so I tried it again and it just clicked the second time. Now I can’t get enough of it. I’ll watch all twelve seasons straight through, and by the time I finish the finale, I’m ready to start episode one again. It just goes to show, I guess, how first impressions aren’t always correct.”

  Fang giggled. “You’re right there.” She jerked a thumb at Kane. “The first time I met him, I thought he was a stupid, arrogant American.”

  Kane flashed her a toothy smile. “But drop-dead gorgeous, right?”

  She laughed aloud. “Not at all! I did not like white men back then.”

  Kane slapped a hand against his heart. “I think I just died a little inside.”

  She reached over and patted the laptop. “Don’t worry, dear. It wasn’t you that I didn’t think was attractive, it was all white men.”

  He glanced at the others. “Umm, thank you?”

  She snickered. “You don’t understand. In China, we’re taught that anybody different from us is inferior and wants to destroy what we have out of jealousy. Pop culture has been easing that somewhat, mostly through Hollywood, which is why the government is so eager to partner with Hollywood studios so that they can portray China in a positive light so it’s not always the Americans saving the day.”

  “Now how do you feel about us unattractive, illiterate Americans?” asked Sherrie.

  Fang giggled. “After I lived here for a while, I realized everything I had been taught was a lie. Then a certain American man made me fall in love with him by being the kindest person I had ever met.”

  Kane glanced over both shoulders. “You’re talking about me?”

  “Of course.” She sighed. “It just shows how the prejudices of those who surround us affect us so deeply. If only people could see the other side without the bias, they would realize we’re all the same all around the world. At the end of a long week, people just want to get together with friends and family, share a meal, maybe see a movie or go dancing, and laugh. Everywhere you go, people just want to laugh and forget their troubles. In China, we’re taught you are the enemy and we learn to hate, and it’s just so sad that so much time and energy is wasted on ridiculous things like this.”