Korengal Valley, Afghanistan
They will think the tribulation has begun,” Mehdi laughed, as did Muhammed, “The foolish, filthy Christian infidels. They are filthier than pigs. Filthier even than Jews.”
Mehdi spat on the floor, stirring up a cloud of arid, Afghani, desert dust, a desert fly seizing the moment, jumping on the newly formed puddle, the mud and poppy-spit devoured by the fly as though it were a two-inch veal chop in one of Paris’ finest. Carpe diem.
As disgusting as it was, the only person who seemed to notice was Muhammed’s sister, Aludra; knowing that she would be the one to clean up the mess. Her patience with Muslim men was drawing nigh.
Mehdi and Muhammed, glued to the news from Aljazeera T.V., interrupted their laughter and listened.
“American and European leaders are meeting today with their Asian counterparts to assess a strategy against an enemy with no borders, uniforms or formal military training.
“Calling the recent bombings ‘Europe’s 9/11’ with the destruction of the Eiffel Tower and crash of the business jet into the Louvre, more than 700 people have been killed in France.
“The Big Ben bombing in London killed few people but caused extensive damage to London’s most visible and cultural landmark.
“London Bridge had been a British icon since 50 A.D., first built as a wooden bridge by the Romans. A little history on the historic landmark that is no more:”
Mehdi gave Muhammed an Afghani-high five; and they were both surprised at how well their latest terror project had gone, and how easy it was.
“The London Bridge,” the reporter continued, Mehdi falling in lust with the raven-haired beauty on the screen, “crossing the River Thames, has been around for 2000 years; and during that time it has been knocked down, rebuilt, and destroyed or damaged by fire in 1212 and 1633. The rebuilt bridges have always maintained the London Bridge name.
“In 1968, one version of the bridge, Rennie’s London Bridge, was sold to a United States businessman, Robert P. McCulloch of McCulloch Oil fame and was reconstructed in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. The bridge is now Arizona’s second-biggest tourist attraction, after the Grand Canyon.
“Apparently the multiple bombings around the city of London, diverted attention from the security staff at the London Bridge Headquarters. A moderately-sized barge, according to witnesses, exploded in a 100 meter ball of flame and rocked the very ground of the city. Two complete sections of London Bridge now lie on the bottom of the Thames. So far, the death toll in England stands at 930, and it is still climbing by the hour. Dozens of automobiles have plummeted into the Thames.
“Now, on to other news.”
Mehdi and Muhammed returned to their conversation and didn’t hear the “other news” about the unknown object headed toward Earth, large in mass and approaching at nearly 100,000 miles per hour. Aludra continued to listen while sweeping the dust-floor of their cliffside dwelling, and she wondered if the coming object was an omen from Allah. If it were an omen, would it be because of the Jews, the Christians or the Muslims? She knew it would be for one of those reasons.
Aludra read Revelation and the rest of the New Testament during her stay in Paris while attending culinary school, and she felt that a lot of Biblical things seemed to be happening. She did know this: Islam was not a peaceful religion. She had witnessed too much Muslim blood from too many Muslims slaughtering other Muslims. But she would keep her mouth shut; or death would be her reward, probably at the hands of her own peace- loving brother.
“The Christians are not worse than the Jews, my friend,” Muhammed continued, a patient man, especially when dealing with nutty Medhi. Medhi could be violent on a moment’s notice. He wasn’t playing with a full duck like his ex-American friend used to say, confusing the quote.
“The Christians are People of the Book who were led astray from the beginning. They added to the first commandment, making three gods instead of the One. There is no God but Allah, my friend. They have shops of pornography close to school buildings, they have strip clubs, they have a million abortions every year. It’s easy to understand why the Muslim hates the Americans. They are sick in their beliefs.”
“Dead in their beliefs is what they’re going to be, Muhammed; and soon, Insha’Allah, God willing. I will kill them all myself, with my bare hands; and my trusty friend will cut their filthy throats.”
Mehdi caressed his sidearm, a nine-inch Bedouin knife, the dark, metal blade already stained with the blood of more than one infidel, his caress one of admiration, maybe love. He thought about the porn shops and the hookers he enjoyed during his trip to New York a few years earlier and felt a little excitement in his loins. He did not feel guilty, because he only sinned when away from his Muslim brethren.
“The tribulation has not yet begun, but let them think so. Their fear is our blessing, Medhi. “When The Epidemic comes, they will know the great tribulation has begun.” Muhammed spoke quietly, always, a calming affect that worked even with Mehdi.
“The Koran says patience is a virtue, so remember that my good friend Mehdi. Allah was patient with the Jews, many times; but his patience expired, receded, when they killed their greatest prophet, Jesus. Allah sent them Jesus as a gift; but they rejected him, as the Prophets predicted, and they rejected Allah. They have paid the price, my friend; and now we are the Chosen Ones, not the Jew.”
“They haven’t paid the ultimate price Muhammed, because the Jew still exists. Hitler failed, we won’t.”
Muhammed thought about the ultimate price. Unlike the Persian to the east of Afghanistan, who was a bit pompous and spent his leisure time running around Iran, calling for the end of Israel; Muhammed was more philosophic in his approach to terror. The Last Prophet, the writer of the Holy Koran, taught the Muslim the way to victory was often through coercion and deceit. All is fair in love and war, and this was war.
“You catch more fleas with honey, not vinegar, Medhi. You do not have to be a pompous warrior. Conceit does not please Allah.”
Mehdi briefly wondered if Muhammed was referring to him but knew how much Muhammed hated the Shiite ruler of Iran.
“Muhammed, you do not like the Persian, I can tell.” It was a statement, not a question that Mehdi posed. It was one of the few things of which Medhi and his friend disagreed. He wasn’t aware that he and Muhammed disagreed on a whole lot of things, or that Muhammed was already planning the demise of his long-time confidant.
“I love the Persian, he is our brother. The enemy of our enemy is our friend, do not forget that Medhi. But he sins greatly through his arrogance and boasting, and he is not a Sunni. This is not right with Allah, you know that. It will be his downfall, and I do not want him taking us with him.
“The Persian should plot against Israel quietly. Our plan should come like a thief in the night, when no one expects. We should not advertise our intent for the world to criticize. We do not want to stir up the U.S. Devil or their illegitimate child, Israel; and then let them know who did it. Mehdi my friend, I am not telling you anything you do not know.”
Muhammed was such a great teacher, but Medhi didn’t listen. “Jihad’s Warriors cannot, must not, be threatened through boastfulness and pride. That is not the way of Allah. We should not be telling Israel how much we hate them. They already know. We plan quietly.”
“Muhammed, the martyrs are ready, just waiting for the bug. They are waiting and waiting and waiting. When will we have it?” Mehdi’s impatience was apparent. “We have martyrs in Europe that have not been caught, ready to deal the blow to the enemy on a moment’s notice!
“We have martyrs in the United States, and martyrs in Chechnya and Moscow. Hong Kong and Singapore have dozens of our Indonesian brothers. All we need is the bug.”
That wasn’t all they needed, at least in Mehdi’s mind. They needed some of those briefcase nukes that al-Qaeda had acquired, another thing that Mehdi and Muhammed disagreed on. If he couldn’t persuade Muhammed to think nuclear, he would have to kill him. It would not be difficult; and afterward, he would have Muhammed’s sister. Medhi had seen Aludra when her face was uncovered and had not forgotten the full lips and high cheekbones, something uncommon among Muslim women.
“That’s good Mehdi, as Allah has planned. The blessed Martyrs are faithful and patient. You must be patient too.”
Muhammed did not inform Medhi that the bug had already been released in Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport, the busiest airport in the world, and Paris’ Charles de Gaulle. There was no need for Medhi to know; and Muhammed thought that Medhi might be coming down with smallpox in the near future, a slight smile forming on his usually stone-cold face.
A few hundred miles to the north of Korengal Valley, not far from the dark, gray shores of the Caspian Sea was Chechnya, also known as The Chechen Republic.
Dmitry waited for Yousef Hassan in the dark, dank corner at the rear of Chayka, a small restaurant in the town of Gudermes. The restaurant had burned to the ground during the riots of 2006, when the drunk Russians started fighting the drunk Chechnyans in what began as celebration but ended in destruction and death. Chayka was rebuilt in the same dismal and dark décor, a motif that Dmitry thought was repugnant, even before the fire.
Dark and dank made Chayka a good place to meet Yousef, who was never on time; and today was no exception. “Muslims,” he thought to himself. “What a bunch of no-good, slimy bastards.”
Dmitry thought little of Muslims, thought they were ignorant, believing such garbage as Muhammad flying to Jerusalem on a camel or an eagle, or something just as fanciful. Yousef wasn’t so bad, at least he didn’t smell like an alley goat. Dmitry knew one thing though: Don’t ever trust a Muslim. “They lie to their very own mother!” he once told his friend and co-conspirator- in-arms, Oleg.
Coming through the door, Yousef made his way to the back, trying not to trip over the darkness. “Dmitry! Dmitry! It’s so good to see you.” The air smelled of smoke. Yousef shook Dmitry in a bear hug; and for a little man, he could grip like a bear.
The waitress saw Muhammed’s hand gesture and approached the booth cautiously, as all waitresses learned in the Russian Federation. Russian men could hold their liquor but got meaner with each drink. She wondered often why Russian men were so angry. She figured it was more than hormonal, most men having been beaten routinely by their fathers from birth, long before reaching manhood.
“Another Chechobama for my friend.” Dmitry laughed.
The Russians had followed the previous election in the United States. They liked the new President. Russia would continue to become stronger under the new administration. The Cold War was never over in Dmitry’s mind.
The Black Russian, a strong drink of vodka and Kahlua, was Dmitry’s beverage of choice. In Chechnya they now served the drink with a hint of coconut liqueur with a little crème; and they called it a Chechobama. Dmitry laughed. He didn’t like black folks either; and to him, mixed was black. You were either white, or you were other.
The waitress returned with the two drinks, and Yousef accepted his with gusto. He did not drink in Pakistan, but here? Who would know? The crucifix that adorned his neck was subtle and small, indiscreet.
A devout Muslim, Yousef was a fanatic jihadist in the eyes of the West. He used his name for the benefit of al-Qaeda, Yousef being a Hebrew name, meaning Joseph. As much as he hated Christians, he had many fooled. When around Christians, Yousef talked about the Lord and compassion. Around his Muslim brethren, he always spoke of Muhammad and revenge. Yousef was the epitome of politics.
Yousef agonized over acting the role of a Christian, even for al- Qaeda; but this was war. This jihad had been foretold and would introduce the Mahdi. It was to be, it was written. Their Messiah would enter the world in glory. Then the world would know the truth, only they wouldn’t be set free. They would burn in hell for all time to come.
Yousef could also fake Catholicism and learned the rosary by heart, as disgusting as it was for him to refer to Mary as the Holy Mother of God. God had no mother? Where did it say that in the holy Koran, or even the Bible?
Yousef asked for another drink, and Dmitry motioned the waitress. Yousef was annoyed with the restaurant’s bad odor, dark and musky, almost evil.
“Americans and Europeans wonder why we hate them. The Hindus wonder why we hate them. They are pagans. Christians have three gods. Did you know that Dmitry? This is not right with Allah! There is only one God. There is no Jesus God and no Holy Spirit God. There is Allah only.” He took a breath and continued, Yousef’s face turning dark, like the restaurant.
“Dmitry, all this talk of a trinity. The trinity is pagan and was used in pagan religions long before Jesus. It’s never mentioned even once in the Bible or the Koran. There is no God in three persons, blessed trinity. There is no God but Allah.”
Yousef thought about this, and remembered the day he left his home in Gaza and made it to Chechnya. Not a trace from Yousef was left behind, his parents and wife believing that he had been kidnapped, one of the many. Now he could be a Catholic in Chechnya if he so desired. He thought that funny in some sort of perverted way. Dmitry feigned interest, but he cared little about religion.
“How did you like the filet mignon I sent you?” Dmitry used the code word for briefcase nukes.
Al-Qaeda was a ruthless sort, and their founder was Osama bin Laden, the main-man of radical Islam. Some of his followers thought Osama was the Twelfth Imam, but that would not turn out to be the case. Bin Laden would not be the Muslim Messiah. There had been other false messiahs come to save the world: Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran in the 1970’s, Hitler and Mussolini in the 1940’s, and now there was Osama bin Laden who was in a class of his own. While Hitler killed Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies and homosexuals, Osama targeted anybody that didn’t toe the line, his line, and targeted specific groups for a special hatred, like the Americans. He did not consider annihilation of the infidel as murder; and he knew the infidel
would not enter paradise, the land of seventy-two virgins.
Many Muslim women had questions about the seventy-two virgin belief and wondered what they would get if they strapped on a bomb and blew up a few infidels.
“What do the women martyrs get, Osama? Seventy-two men?
Allah, please help me. One man is enough, two, a curse.”
Osama’s Mother would ask Allah the question when she started seeing and hearing such nonsense in her son’s eyes and words. “There are no seventy-two virgins Osama, I promise. It is not in the Koran.”
Osama became a militant, right under his Mother’s eyes? She saw what was happening but remained in denial. His siblings wondered, out loud, why he was so bizarre.
“None in the family are like him,” his youngest sister would tell anyone who listened. Osama was an embarrassment to the family, and she wished he was dead.
A Civil Engineer by degree, Osama had once been a little more cosmopolitan, frequenting nightclubs, drinking, chasing women, just like a normal guy. After meeting a cleric in college, Sheik Abdullah Azzam, he became more Islamic, he would say later in his life.
He insulted the Saudi Royal Family multiple times, and he was eventually escorted from Saudi Arabia and stripped of his Saudi citizenship. He left behind his inheritance, Saudi Arabia’s largest construction company, The Binladen Group. That inheritance was shared among his 51 siblings. Osama’s Dad was a busy man.
Once supported by the United States, Osama fought against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. As his evolvement into radicalism progressed, he declared war against the United States in 1997.
Osama’s target was the entire world outside Afghanistan, at least until Afghanistan became an American ally puppet; and his organization was ransacked and nearly destroyed by the armies of George Bush, Satan himself. But like any cancer, if you don’t destroy it all, it will reappear. Osama hated President Bush with a zealous vengeance. All the Arabs and Persians hated Bush. They had that in common with about fifty percent of the U.S. population. The enemy of our enemy is our friend.
“Dmitry, Osama told me to give you his personal gratitude for the filets. They were more potent than we hoped for.”
“There are more where those came from. All it takes is money.”
“How many more?” Yousef questioned. He knew there could not be too many left. Al-Qaeda had shipped dozens of the 1 and 2-kiloton bombs to America, Europe and Asia, the borders still easily accessible.
“As many as you care to buy, Yousef. The Japanese are in a hurry. They want revenge against the Americans. They just can’t seem to get over August 1945.” Both men laughed and ordered another drink.
“The Japanese consortium is willing to provide the necessary financing for large yield nuclear weapons if you guys can figure out how to get delivery system. I can’t get you intercontinental missiles but can arrange for short-range and intermediate-range systems,” Dmitry explained.
“I will be in touch through our web site. You have the new address?” The official al-Qaeda web address changed often.
“Of course.”
Dmitry stood to shake hands with Yousef and wish him well when several Chechnyan soldiers rushed through the front door.