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Episodes #1-12
© 2012 by S.P. Grogan
ISBN: 978-0-9801164-4-1
Retaliate is a serial e-book presented in episodes. For more information, visit the www.RetaliateTheBook.com or the author’s website: www.spgrogan.com Register your name and email address online so we can keep you informed of the latest episode and other news about stopping terrorism on American soil.
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Note: In this story both al-Qaida and al-Qaeda are correct and may be used interchangeably.
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This novel is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events and locales are entirely coincidental except in the use of existing news stories and actual events.
To my children: Ross and Holiday
Let us hope that in the lifetime of their children’s children understanding and peace in the world will prevail over religious intolerance.
Retaliate
by S.P. Grogan
Episode #1
Headline from Washington Times – December 23, 2010
Osama bin Laden is Dead
Is bin Laden dead or alive? Nobody seems to know for sure, or, if anybody does, he isn’t saying. The White House’s Afghanistan-Pakistan Review this month didn’t even mention him despite an ongoing, decade-long manhunt…. Al-Qaeda wants America and the world to believe bin Laden is alive. His image is a specter of the horrors of September 11, helping build public support for everything from troop surges a globe away to warrantless wiretaps. But the image of bin Laden is getting moldy, and there’s little reason for his ghost to scare anyone anymore. If al-Qaeda wants America to believe bin Laden is alive, it should put up or shut up…. [Column written by Robert Weiner, former Clinton White House spokesman]
1.
Somewhere in Pakistan
“And that is the last of your reports?”
“Yes, beloved Sheik. Well, there is an odd one. It should be dismissed for its silliness, but it does pertain to you.”
“Irrelevance to you or the Council may, to me, have importance.”
“Various media outlets report they are mobilizing another team to find you.”
“For five years we have been safe. Corrupt governments cannot smite we who are righteous to a just cause; again, as all others, they will fail.”
“As you say, but they are not government agents. It is an American television show.
“What?”
“From Hollywood.”
“Khalaf, that is insufferable. Allah watch over us from such decadent gnats. You were right; think no more of what is doomed. Let our plan proceed. After all these years, we have heard from the Scientist. The time is coming. Go to al-Awlaki and tell him to awaken the Professor from his long slumber. When all is in place I shall authorize, and only by my command, the launching of Crimson Scimitar.”
“Yes, sire. Once again, an assured victory to the Faithful.”
“Indeed. When we shall succeed with Scimitar, and that day is near, then the world will have television worth watching. Allah be praised.”
With a nod of his esteemed leader’s head, the man known only as Khalaf was dismissed. Sitting, he leaned over and bowed reverently. Then he rose and kissed the older man on the cheek, noticing the tiredness in his taut face.
Khalaf left the large room on the third floor, went down the stairs past the second floor where he stayed overnight on occasion, for reasons of both exhaustion or safety, and walked out into the hard-packed dirt compound of the ground level, filled with running children and women at domestic work. A tethered milk cow grazed on a small hay pile.
His emotions were mixed. His meeting with bin Laden had gone extremely well. It was his fourth meeting since being elevated to primary contact between the leader of al-Qaeda and the Supreme Council, who, on rubber-stamped consensus, then forwarded its leader’s commands out to the jihadist network. Khalaf’s position as a special courier required him to make a physical appearance before the other ruling members of the Council, all of them secreted throughout various countries, his messages designed to avoid any chance of telecommunication eavesdropping. He accepted the truth of his posting, for such travel occurred when grandiose plans were in play. If he was caught, or placed in a compromising position, it was understood that death must come swiftly from his own hand.
What caused his jumbled thoughts was his ambition, a knowing desire that he wished to achieve more. Gratified, yes: he had been singled out for his past success in infiltrating the Muslim Brotherhood in Cairo, creating a small cadre of followers who, though swearing fidelity to a conservative strain of Islam, all swore in secrecy the blood oath to the Caliphate of al-Qaeda, a true belief in the coming new power in the region, superior to all current weak governments in the Middle East. Their mantra was eons old: Death to all unbelievers. Sheik Osama bin Laden was destined by Allah to be the first emir, and Khalaf challenged himself, eager in his determination to one day be sitting next to the holy throne.
He watched a goat being brought into the compound. Life around him seemed normal, Khalaf mused, but still this place of high walls seemed more a prison than refuge. Osama’s son, the one called Khalid, stepped to his side.
“Where is he sending you this time?”
“Yemen. To speak to our brothers al-Wahishi and al-Awlaki.” Khalaf did not trust the cleric, Anwar al-Awlaki. He hated everything of the West, and al-Awlaki came from America, born and raised. But bin Laden had ultimate trust in the young spokesperson of al-Qaeda, and Khalaf acquiesced to his supreme commander. Still….
“Will the ‘Sword of the Just’ be there?”
“Yes, I expect so. This is a major meeting concerning our activities in the West.” Saif al-Adel, known as the ‘Sword of the Just,’ had been appointed in November 2010 by Khalid’s father “as new commander to spearhead al-Qaeda’s offensive of operations in the West,” stated an English-language New Delhi newspaper.
“It must be nice to see the world,” said Khalid, his eyes observing the cloudless sky. “I would like to see Paris some time. Photographs in the magazines are quite elegant. Did you bring us any new books or magazines?”
“One book only, sad to say.” Khalaf knew they all suffered from various forms of cloistered stress. He smiled at the 22-year-old, expressing encouragement to the son of his leader, perhaps someday an heir-apparent – though another son, Hamza bin Laden, a year younger, had the reputation and name of ‘Crown Prince of Terror.’ Khalaf understood that one must make many friends to have a few worthy allies.
“The books have been quite helpful.”
“Yes,” said Khalaf, not believing that bin Laden’s son knew how much these books had come to assist the cause. “Read them again, for they will improve your reading of English.”
“The tongue of dogs,” laughed Khalid. They watched as one of the women slit the bleating goat’s throat, while another caught its flowing blood in a cooking pot. The woman holding the red-drenched knife looked up. She smiled to Khalaf and went back to her work, next slitting the goat’s belly. From his recent visits, Khalaf had been accepted as a distant cousin to the Sheik. It was not true, yet it gave him stature in a world based on tribes held taut by the strict Koran code of family obedience and blood honor.
“Ahmed,” Khalaf called out. A man, looking disheveled, as if he had just arisen from sleep, approached. He smelled of sweat and greasy food, but then Khalaf considered the whole compound ripe with nefarious odors, stale and, at the same time, pungent like old garbage not yet discarded.
He held out his hand. “From the emir. He wants it sent out today; now, if you could.” Khalaf’s voice was determined, as if to set the pecking order – that he was not a mere runner but a higher up. The other man took the small work-stick, a thumb-sized flash drive that was their method of conveying messages to the outside world.
Ibrahim Saeed Ahmed and his brother, Abrar, were couriers who made trips to local coffee shops and made the Internet connection with others across the globe in the al-Qaeda network. It was simple and effective against the risks. Khalaf glanced up, more of a twitch in his afterthought. The Americans, NATO, they had too many eyes in the sky. Were they, at this moment, spying on him, he wondered?
2.
Indeed they were watching, but they were in a whitewashed building only four hundred yards away. On its second floor, two men, dark-skinned with unshaven faces, were taking turns at observation, one watching from the shadows with binoculars, the other resting on a metal framed bed, a Nikon camera with telescopic scope, lay on the table next to him.
“The gate is opening.” The man adjusted his 10x42mm Swarovski Optik binoculars and focused. The other man grabbed the camera and moved quickly to his post.
Half of the large green gate door had swung open.
A gray-bearded man with hunched shoulders walked out carrying gardening tools and a ragged sack in the other hand.
“Their occasional gardener. The local weed whacker.” Both men spoke English with Middle Eastern accents. Eyes went back to the opened gate. “Wait. Here comes Scooter.”
Ibrahim Ahmed exited on an aged Vespa, exhaust smoking.
“Wish we could follow him,” the photographer said, clicking digital pics of Abu. He turned his view back to the closing gate, saw no one else, and noted that the gardener had disappeared around a corner.
“Can’t blow our cover. Just log occurrence, date and time,” said the man with the binoculars, scanning the high walls and the land surrounding. Nothing out of the ordinary, everything as usual, and usual included the butchering of the goat in the corner of the compound.
“Someone else up the food chain will tell us what we are doing here.”
“Do we even know who or what we are looking at?”
“No idea. But someone thinks ho-hum Pakistani suburban life is worth cataloguing.”
“You do have to admit it’s strange that a group of hired help have run of the place.”
“Squatters, my guess.” They returned to their routine, one observing, and the other lying on the bed resting.
Shouldering his field implements of hoe and rake, Khalaf maintained his disguise for the half-mile walk past potato fields to his predetermined niche between two large houses, unseen from the roadway. Leaning the gardening tools against the wall, he stripped off his robe, tugged away his false beard, then rifled through the sack and emerged from the shadows a captain in the Pakistan military. It was a logical choice because of the proximity to the Pakistan Military Academy in Kakul. This disguise would have few questioning him, his forged papers leaving no doubt as to his reassignment and posting down to Karachi. What set him apart, and gave him a no-nonsense need for saluted response, is that he wore the green ribbon of Sitara-e-Jurat (Star of Courage), the third highest military award in the country. Any authority to challenge him would be awed away by his seething contempt at their bothering a hero. It was enough aloofness to get him to the airport in Islamabad, where his next disguise would turn him into the traveling computer salesman for IBM Egypt. Two flight stops and he would be in Yemen for his meeting with al-Qaida leadership in the Arabian Peninsula. Khalaf would deliver the message on Crimson Scimitar and the operation would be asked to stand ready, activation to soon follow.
More importantly, Khalaf wanted to have a one-on-one with Naser Al-Wahishi and better still with al-Adel to build up support for Khalaf joining the Scimitar campaign, in what he knew would be al-Qaida’s greatest triumph against the United States.
3.
December 2010 Las Vegas, Nevada
Halibut with a mango avocado salsa sounded enticing, a treat that even his kids might appreciate from their old man. In recent years, he had become quite the gourmet, addicted to experimenting off the foodie websites and television food networks. Tonight, fish sounded right for a healthy menu. As he pushed his grocery cart down the aisle of the gourmet market, he stopped to pick up a bottle of northern California virgin olive oil for a light brushing on the fish that he would grill outside. What else? Mixed spring greens sounded good, with a Balsamic vinegar dressing. Only the best for Marcie and the kids. Thinking of his children reminded him that it was another hour before he would need to arrive at the soccer field and pick up the youngest for the drive home.
He did not see the dark-haired man with the ponytail approach, likewise pushing a grocery cart, staring at shelves as if seeking a hidden food item. As they slowly passed each other, the man leaned over and whispered, “On the day of victory no one is tired.” In Arabic!
The family man, the cook and chauffeur of children, froze at those words of a distant memory. He turned in shock that was tinged with fear, aware that the world as he knew it had just been altered.
“Do you mind, that jar of pickles behind you, the sweet gherkins, could you hand it to me? …Professor Rogers.”
The Professor noted that the stranger peered from beneath a ball cap bearing the number 51 of the local baseball farm team. The man was clean-shaven, with light olive skin that could pass for a suntan, and seemed like an ordinary shopper unless one looked closely, as the Professor did. The ball cap pulled down, scraggly raven-dark and greased hair poking out, hid what he finally realized as the oddity. The man’s right ear was missing. Barely visible, half covered by the cap, a nub bump of flesh with a dark hole, like an enlarged but deformed bellybutton. The stranger spoke again, an unknown accent barely discernible. “And do you have something to say to me?”
Hesitation first, then, as if by a mute who had just found his lost voice, scratchy and strained, came the English response: “Days will show what we were ignorant of; and news will come that you have not sent.” He paused, glanced either way to be assured of being alone in the shopping aisle with this man, the messenger, knowing he was about to reveal a deep mystery.
In Arabic, he whispered, “In the name of Allah, the Benevolent, the Merciful.”
“Very good, Professor.” The smile seemed innocent as between friends, but the stranger’s severe tone showed otherwise. “Had you not said those words, I would have had to kill you on the spot, and your Marcie would be a grieving widow. Unless I decided to visit your home tonight and slit her throat and those of your children. Too messy, I have found, and what with all that new carpeting in your bedrooms.”
The Professor felt the blood drain from his face, both with mortified fear for his family, but more because of knowing the truth. James Rogers, the Professor, was not the man others knew. Long before his wife and children, before the house in the Las Vegas Summerlin suburbs, his soul had gone over to a darker cause.
“What do you want of me?”
“Are you prepared? Are they ready?”
“Yes, but they will be as surprised I am. Such a day seemed like it would never come.”
The man sneered and leaned close, venom coming from his lips. “You are fated to play your part. Prepare your people. Look for a man who calls himself a scientist, perhaps within the next month, or within several months. He will say the words, ‘Scimitar.’ You will learn more from him. I will return with your supplies. If you have any issue, however minor, that might put our plan at risk, contact me immediately. Here is a telephone number. Memorize it. Let it ring five times, then hang up. I will contact you and see what can be done about your problem. Goodbye, Professor.” With a casual air, the messenger sauntered to the end of the aisle, abandoned his cart, and disappeared around the corner.
For the longest time, the Professor could not move. Memories flooded back, bitter tasting ones. His stomach soured and his heart went cold.
4.
10 years earlier Las Vegas
The Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States would give the specific date as of June 29th, 2001. The Professor remembered that night quite clearly, especially the meeting place, a strip club called Olympic Gardens. A young, idealistic jihadist back then, mostly due to brazen thoughts forged by a personal history demanding his private revenge, he sought contact with like minds and had a passion for action. In his recruitment during his Middle East tour in the early 1990s, they allowed him to sidestep the training camps, to preserve anonymity, and he became known, only to the Supreme Council, as The Professor. This code name was bestowed because at that time, in his early career, he struggled as a low-paid teaching assistant in the International Affairs department at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, UNLV.
He could have arranged the meeting for their motel room at the EconoLodge on Las Vegas Boulevard. But no, they were being careful, and later, on national news after the attacks, he understood why. All four men were tightly wound, which was visible only by eye-darting paranoia, and skittish towards an assignment of which they told him nothing and dropped no hints. He admired their minimal speech of caution, seeing them as they were, True Believers, Defenders of the Faith, unquestioning soldiers, focused, and absorbed by details towards execution. For two days, disguised as awed tourists, they cruised Sin City, ridiculing all they saw as being the heart of the Great Satan. Or so they told him.
Dance music blared while women in negligee costumes circulated, pitching their wares of 20-dollar lap dances or, for that extra something, more in the back VIP room. The music covered their conversation. Three of the men kept the women from approaching too closely by the subterfuge of pretending to be enamored by enhanced breasts, leering at the pandering pasty, perfumed beauties, the men liberal in paying the harlots to press against their crotches with swaying friction. The Professor noticed, by the men’s sarcastic smiles, that they did not mind suggestive banter with the strippers, and in fact enjoyed testing in conversation the story covers they were using while traveling the United States.
“Are you committed?” their leader asked into the Professor’s ear.
“My parents died in Lebanon by Israeli war planes, planes made in the U.S. dropping U.S. bombs.” It was not quite a true story, but his hatred for his adopted homeland was real and surged from deeply buried aggravations.
“Can the heat of your anger remain fired years from now when you are called to your destiny?”
“I pledged with my dripping blood to Allah, to the brotherhood of al-Qaeda. There is no turning back.”
“You may rejoice that we will first strike a magnificent blow, and you may watch with pride as this government run by drunken cowboys quakes and quivers in fear. They will do nothing and that will be the beginning of their undoing, and then later, and I do not know the details, your task may be even greater. But you must wait and control your desire for revenge. Patience must be your wife. Someday the call will come.”
“I am ready. What must I do?”
“You must create three cells of four members each, no cell to know of the other, all to live quiet lives until they are called upon. And best that they look more like you, faceless, the typical common-looking white man, rather than like us, like Saudi exchange students with limited visas.”
“It will be done.”
“Consider several years, if not longer. Beyond that I know nothing more, except when from a stranger you hear the words in Arabic, ‘On the day of victory no one is tired.’”
He handed over a scrap of paper.
“Memorize this and respond to your messenger.”
The Professor repeated the code words with deep emotion, his eyes closed as if he had heard a command from heaven, and when he recovered his senses the young men were gone and he was left, jostled in the midst of parading flesh, to pay their bar tab. Maybe one lap dance would not hurt, he considered, a reward for the distinction they had tendered and how they must value him. Eyeing an attractive blonde who wiggled his way, he pulled out $40. My pledge is sacrosanct, he thought in affirmation, feeling himself harden. Playing with her breasts will not compromise my assignment.
From that date of the strip club meeting, only two months remained before 9/11 and the burning, imploding towers. Those men, those heroes he had met, did change the world, but the Professor did not think such change was to the benefit of his people, his faith. Transgressions continued. The Unfaithful still occupied his people’s land. His own call to duty would not arrive until more than 10 years later, to this day, when this severe Messenger of Allah in the supermarket had awoken his other self. Success or failure, the implied message had been delivered: be prepared to succeed or die. He breathed deeply and finished his shopping. Yes, fish tonight. If he hurried, perhaps he still had time to watch his son play his soccer game.
5.
December 2010 Afghanistan
There is the old war movie cliché that if your buddy sharing the foxhole shows you his worn photo of his wife and baby from back home, then he or both of you are doomed to the sniper’s bullet or the falling mortar round.
E-4 rated Shawn Pacheco of Navy SEAL Team Four hadn’t gone that far in believing he had jinxed his buddies, but in his platoon, the night before the mission, he felt odd man out, uncomfortable, sensing they looked at him with unspoken expressions. Everyone knew of his earlier Skype telephone call with Janet, his fiancée, making wedding plans, she waiting for him in Cleveland, Ohio. In the mess tent he had boasted optimism of love and honeymooning, of going home soon. Just like in a war movie. Fated.
There were feather-stepped shuffles across the light snow on the ground. They were stalking their quarry, or so they thought. No words were exchanged; it was all hand signals as they approached the cave, gray-etched outlines over the eastern mountains in the Pachir Wa Agam District of Nangarhar Province. In another half hour they would not need their night vision goggles, so the push was on to move quickly, silently, with stealth. Pacheco, a member of the elite Seal Team Four, was proud to be part of the unit, expecting greater recognition when his paperwork would be approved for a new status as an expert in explosives. He assumed this was the reason they put him on point, further field work, that from his knowledge they expected him to spot nuances in the landscape – disturbances that might be telltale signs of planted IEDs.
This mission was to engage Taliban combatants thought to be located in or near this cave location, in hopes that a high-valued target might be present.
Though his squad said little in prepping, their hopes buoyed and there were little exchanges of ribbing and joking. They wished that any target might be the Big Guy himself, Osama bin Laden, or even his second-in-command, The Doctor, al Zawahiri, so they could go home, away from this damn, cold country. And Shawn back to Ohio and to Janet, his promised bride.
The cave, with its small squat entrance, was shallow, with little depth, and empty. Its litter showed habitation from at least two months ago. It was bad intel, more usual than not these days if you got your information from local villager scuttlebutt. Anxiety waned and fingers on triggers relaxed, but only slightly. Several team members were pissed, and cursed at limestone walls, less about the mission’s failure than about a lack of action, which cemented a Seal Team’s honed training into the élan expected of them.
In single file, they backtracked down the narrow trail, hearing distant choppers returning to the LZ for embarkation. Tensions eased more. The first slivers of sunlight hit mountaintops, and daylight moved down toward the valley below. When the trail opened up, Pacheco’s best friend, Reyes Montoya, gave him a friendly nudge to the side and moved to the front of the small column.
On a switchback turn, Montoya spotted an old juice can sticking out of the snow. Probably recalling his high school soccer days, he made a move at playing, rushing the net with the winning kick. It was a mental mistake and a fatal one, because what looked benign in this godforsaken land never was.
A thin wire attached to the juice can tripped the detonator on the PMA-2 mine. ‘Goal, he scores’ whispered Montoya. It was loud enough that Pacheco knew in that second what was about to occur. He could do nothing but turn his head and accept the blast.
When he awoke in the base hospital, he discovered he had been concussed, bruised, and had scattered wounds stitched up. He still had all his limbs though, and he felt himself damn lucky. The doctors later told him that the bone and gristle removed from his chest and arms had been Montoya’s.
To SEAL Team Four, all blame could not be affixed without collective guilt about a stupid mistake by a dead friend, and it wasn’t a mistake since SEAL members did not make such bad errors of judgment. Except maybe guilt on Pacheco, who should have maintained point position, instead of Montoya. Shawn, they groused, failed at his assignment to watch out for all of them, steer them away from booby traps, to take the explosion if it had come to that. He came out of the hospital to find himself a Jonah and a pariah; shunned. Personal grief made him accept his fellow Seal members’ silent accusations, and he began to believe he had killed Montoya himself. Or perhaps it was he who should have died instead of his friend? Physically he recovered quickly, but the mental damage ate at his conscience like a cancer. He did not talk to Janet for a month, and when he did the conversation seemed one-sided, stilted. Talk of pre-wedding parties had lost their allure.
6.
January 2011 New York City
“Should not creativity be used for a higher moral purpose?”
She zapped him, tore into his mind-set, just at the climax where Starfighter Hugh Fox began, at the 20th Level, destroying the headquarters of MegaToth Command and Control. The woman’s voice had brought him from the galactic unworldly back to a familiar reality of a chattering cocktail crowd.
He dropped his cosmic beam weapon away from the movie theater-sized flat screen and turned to the crowd of the imbibing inquisitive, all well-heeled and attired formally for the charity evening. His avatar, looking like Hugh Fox himself and programmed by his company, Skilleo Game Technology, to offer human-styled expressive emotions, turned to say ‘what the –’ – but not finishing the surprise of abandonment, it was blasted instead into jellied gore by one of the thousand MegaToth NucleoDisseminators the game master had thus far defeated. “You are history,” came the programmed voice as game play went into stasis, waiting for the Starfighter game player to reboot.
Hugh’s eyes turned to his audience, seeking out his presumed critic. Those in the small group surrounding him were not fans, but consumers, the parents of fans who had so far made “MegaToth Doomslayer V” the top-selling electronic game of the last holiday season, and winner of the Interactive Achievement Award. He was here tonight, at an uppity charity event for cancer research, where he would offer a lucky bidder, at the celebrity auction following dinner, the right to put his or her name, character and personality into his next Skilleo game as the evil OverLord. Among gamesters, this would be on par with Marvel Comics creating an action hero based on one’s own image. He expected frenzied bidding that night by indulgent parents who were pressured by their precocious children to purchase a rare and personalized piece of the Hugh Fox Skilleo empire.
Hugh spotted her in the crowd. She was attractive, and dressed stylishly in expensive and tasteful clothes. She seemed alone, and slightly older, but then he found that all society people seemed older than him. He passed his weapon baton to J-Q, his personal assistant and highly paid go-fer. J-Q, who was very loyal to his boss, was nicknamed ‘J’ after the Men in Black movie character, and ‘Q’ for James Bond’s weapons supplier. He worked mostly for the fun of hanging around an atmosphere that was based on imaginary realms and offered unknown, mind-boggling surprises.
When J-Q picked up the weapon and resumed the demonstration, the computer game downloaded all of J-Q’s stored play habit information, based both on fingerprint recognition and also his grip’s strength pressure. The game began anew with J-Q’s avatar fighting MegaToths at Level 7. Only Hugh Fox, one or two lab engineers, and three walled-in game junkies scattered around the world had ever played Level 20, Ender’s Game Platform as it was called by those joy-stick pilgrims who, with admiration and reverence, seek the ultimate video game high.
Hugh ignored those who pointed him out in low whispers, and didn’t care that by tomorrow's editions, the tabloids would describe his blue jeans and black corduroy tux jacket with no tie as his usual, slovenly nerd image. He was quite comfortable with himself, and as a gentleman might, he guided the woman away from the game he had fantasized, nurtured, and brought into being with the support of his 1,600 loyal employees and fellow thrill geekers.
“You say I am not using my creative juices properly?”
“No, one can certainly see that genius must have its outlets, and it certainly seems you have found your calling.” Her voice trilled lightly, easily and melted with mild laughter.
With a slight shrug of his shoulders he replied, “I am no genius.” He truly believed that, though his intelligence and success suggested otherwise.
“Not according to how The Journal and Forbes and all the business bloggers go on about you. Founded Skilleo at 18, your first billion dollars in sales by 21. Privately owned, I might add, which makes you master of your domain. I just wonder if you could do more with your creative spirit to help, you know, mankind.”
Even though she was smiling, Hugh felt he was being lectured to. The implication seemed to be that he was a young man of potential, but one handicapped by immaturity. His feathers bristled.
“I am here tonight for a worthy cause,” he said. “My company does have a foundation that contributes generously. Its primary focus is challenge grants and scholarships for science and math education in the public schools.” He had his litany down pat.
“Yes, but Mr. Fox,” she said, and she leaned in. Her perfume enhanced her closeness; his brain took in an orange scent and the outlines of a shapely body within a sleek black dress. He studied her face and expressions – freckles, a deep purple eye shadow drawing out fathomless aquamarine eyes, and a singular skin color. Not that old, he decided, as she continued, “I do not find fault in your corporate benevolence. But are you maximizing all of that talent within? You have made money, yes, but are you sure you could not do more? Instead of other people using your money for a greater good, you and your ideas could directly solve a problem with worldly magnitude. Self-satisfaction in its purest form.”
It was one of those moments, a long pause during which silent communication was in process, intense yet undefined. She reached out and touched his arm, but then someone called out and she turned, her touch drifting away.
“Samantha. There you are.” An elegant gentleman, Armani-tuxed and coiffed in a weathered commodore look, with a slight gray sanding to his thick hair, appeared with an extra glass of champagne, which he handed over. “Thought I’d lost you.”
“I wandered over to see Mr. Fox’s display,” she said. “It’s quite exceptional – if one is into destroying NucleoDisseminators.” She smiled at him, a disarming tease. Realizing that this lady knew details of his game put a look of surprise on his face. She introduced the gentleman and Hugh filed away his name, noting that Samantha called him her “escort for the evening,” in a kind, solicitous fashion so as not to offend. It left a lot said unsaid, he thought. He was not a boyfriend or she would not have said “escort,” nor was he a fiancé – though she would make a great trophy wife at this sort of event, he thought, recognizing his callousness.
The couple excused themselves and went to find their table, as the non-profit festivities of the hotel-catered meal were beginning. He, himself, sat with an assortment of Fortune 100 CEOs and their spouses, where talk weaved and flowed over government intrusion into business by taxes and burdensome oversight, of fabled golf games, and of nightmare remodels of second and third homes on the ski slopes and at the beach.
Hugh smiled and indulged the genial table conversations, mostly as a listener since the others did not know on what level and on what subject they could easily discourse with him. After the salad plates were removed, and while waiting for the entrée, he glanced through the evening’s program, and there she was.
7.
Samantha Carlisle. Of course! That Samantha, the one known to the world for her SammyC Fashions, was well known for her spritzy clothing lines. One of her couture lines was called Provac, short for ‘provocative.’ Every teen girl, those adolescent caterpillars morphing into coquettish butterflies, had a closet rack dedicated to SammyC labels. Mature women seeking to imply naughty ways through their fashion wore Jimmie Chu and Gucci accessories, but dazzled in SammyC’s Kling for night-on-the-town/next-morning outfits.
He did not know this firsthand, introverted bachelor that he was, wedded only to the design table and computer screen. He knew it because of his speed scanning of news sources to stay on pace with youth marketing, and track the fickleness of cultural fads as they might eventually arise in one of his games.
Tonight, his curiosity did one better. He pulled out his personalized handheld, the walk-about computer designed by his engineers to be larger than an iPhone but less intrusive than an iPad; to be something inoffensive but expected of any multi-tasked executive, especially someone like himself who was known as the gadgets guy. He put on his WiFi earplug and as the dinner buzzed around him like a distant hum, he pulled up a Google-Nexus search. As his finger scrolled across a sentence, it was translated into vocalized speech in his ear, and automatically archived to a file for future reference. As he smiled and exchanged comments with his dinner companions, he was also being educated.
In minutes, Hugh knew her bio and all her public secrets.
According to SEC filings, Samantha Carlisle could boast, having achieved multi-millionaire status in her own right. At the height of a rebounding stock market, she had sold her fashion house to an Italian public conglomerate for $400 million in cash and stock.
That information counterbalanced his insecurities about why she had made a play for him at the party. As an unattached, now wealthy woman, she did not need him (nor any man) for her bliss and financial security. Burned in past surface encounters with women who wanted his credit card and not his heart, he realized their meeting showed her true character: She was merely being friendly, engaging in banter, and with that he found parity with Ms. Carlisle. He found her a fresh, kindred spirit.
The evening’s ceremony launched into speeches for the cause and touting of the upcoming auction, which would give its proceeds to charity and included a list of special high-end and glamorous bid items from personally prepared dinners for 10 by top chefs to yacht cruises off the Bahamas.
Hugh read that Samantha Carlisle was offering her own donation to the cause:
A Ten-Day African Photographic Safari including a personal tour of the SammyC Save Our Wildlife Refuge in Kenya. It was all-inclusive, featuring catered meals and private jet access – hers – and the private tour would be hosted by the refuge’s namesake.
Interesting, he thought. His capsulated research had revealed that she was active in many charities. There was social column chatter of her attendance at highbrow functions where she was seen with various escorts. Then it hit him, and he replayed their brief conversation, beginning with her opening line: “Should not creativity be used for a higher moral purpose?”
That was it. She was not talking about him; she was talking about herself. At the pinnacle of what everyone else would laud as success, Samantha Carlisle was probably bored; not necessarily with the functions and responsibilities of daily fashion design or charity boards, but because she lacked a true-life purpose. She was searching for the pizzazz of significance.
Just like him.
At the appropriate time, he raised his hand and outbid everyone else. At the back of the room, J-Q made a note in his PDA: SammyC’s Save Our Wildlife Refuge — ask date, plan trip – and wrote a Skilleo Foundation check to the charity for $250,000, the highest of all the bid items that evening. Hugh Fox never carried cash or credit cards.
8.
January 2011 São Paulo, Brazil
From the balcony, Carlita ‘Callie’ Cardoza watched her computer screen, which featured five small boxes in matrix showing live camera feeds. Cam One was aimed at the front of the deluxe apartment complex. Cam Two peered across the street, scanning light auto and pedestrian traffic. Cam Three was at the airport, on standby, prepared for if everything went right. It was a big “if.” Camera Four and Five were head cams, located in ball caps, one inside the van down the street and the other in a back fire exit, pointed at the apartment’s front door.
“Heads up,” she spoke into her headset’s microphone. “Lights just went out from the penthouse. He’s on the move. Everyone alert.” She slammed closed her computer, threw it into her backpack, swung it to her shoulder, tore off down the hall and took the staircase in bounds.
She had previously timed her exit. She had 20 seconds before the Target would reach the ground floor and exit the elevator.
On the street, giving a few huffs from her sprint, she positioned herself across from the two guards at the front door. The men picked up on her presence, noted her fine form, and began some undercurrent of smutty dialogue between them. Good, she thought; they are distracted. She glanced up the street and saw the black van, with the detachable ‘Floristas’ sign on its side, begin its slow acceleration.
“Here he comes,” she said. “One guard.”
Timing made a blur of the snatch.
Target and his bodyguard exited the front door, nodded to the guards on either side, and turned to walk down the street. Callie knew, from his habits, that he was heading to his favorite nightclub. Not tonight, or thereafter, she thought.
Following right behind the Target, coming out from the dummy apartment they had rented weeks earlier, Colonel Richard ‘Storm’ King smiled at the armed doormen, then brought his hands from his pockets and zapped them both with 5 million volts from Streetwise Blackout stun guns. In his next motion, he dropped the stun guns and whipped out two black bags. He jerked the bags over the men’s heads as they quivered on the ground, and pulled the plastic tie cuffs so they locked tight to the neck. There were breathing holes, but even if the guards could pull their weapons, now they could not see what to shoot at. It was a King invention for tactical advantage.
In the same few seconds, the side door of the onrushing black van flew open, and another stun gun shot out electrical wires, as the bodyguard standing next to the Target turned to see what the commotion was at the apartment entrance. As he fell, a large muscular man jumped from the van, collared the Target and tossed him like a sack of garbage into the van.
The bodyguard, better trained than the rent-a-cop door guards, was pulling his revolver just as Callie stepped on his wrist. She wrenched the weapon from his hand and drew a black blindness over the man. She was covered by King, who had taken down the apartment duo and had now drawn a semi-automatic Walther P99. Both Cardoza and King jumped into the van, yanking the door shut as the vehicle burned squealing rubber away from the curb, dodging late night traffic on its way to Sao Paulo’s Guarulhos International Airport.
A stationary min-cam and microphone inside the van picked up Callie, and one of the ball cap cams gave a close-up.
To the Target, she said, “Welcome, Mr. Pettigrew, to your worst nightmare,” and then administered the hypodermic, with its cocktail solution of chloral hydrate and haloperidol. “Night-night,” said King, “you motherfucker.”
Back at the room where moments ago Callie had watched the apartment, a man stood with his own headset communicator on. He watched the three, head-bagged men writhing on the ground in neuron pain. He saw the black van speed away with the Target.
“Cut,” said the Director. Cam One and Cam Two turned off.
9.
January 2011 Silicon Valley, California
End of the day. Hugh Fox let the sweat run from his gritting face, a feel-good sense of accomplishment. He punched in a higher setting on the treadmill: Climb the Mountain mode.
After their respective assistants compared calendars, the photo safari tour to Africa had been set for next week, and Hugh felt himself needing to take stock of his physical condition. He did not think this trip would be strenuous, but nevertheless he wanted to upgrade his cardio and have his bodily fluids balanced to take the African heat and offset the required infusion of medical immunizations.
Around him in the Skilleo company gym, an optional job benefit, fellow employees groaned and grunted to their own health maintenance programs. Running in place allowed Hugh’s mind to wander, checking off priorities, thinking in multi-dimensional levels, still falling back to his social introduction to Samantha Carlisle. He was not so much attracted to her, or so he told himself, as haunted by the thread of that lingering conversation. Had he indeed given his all to a goal beneficial to others? Her words nagged. He felt them thrown back on him like a challenge.
Yes, he could up the dollars of his foundation gifts, but to where? Bill and Melinda already had world health covered. Most movie stars publicized their own importance to a specific charity, or went out of their way to adopt an underprivileged waif. Didn’t Brangelina have a baker’s dozen of little critters? Not for him. His daily grind consisted of dealing with that whiny audience.
Whatever extra effort he could afford, he didn’t want to be seen as a me-too sort of grandstander. Most of his corporate giving was generous but under the radar, a package of gifts to United Way-type 501(c)(3) charities. Even Jerry’s Kids received a donation, though not during telethon season. His corporate giving philosophy mirrored his personality; there was a shyness that downplayed his presence.
Gaining attention was not his norm, except as adjunct to promoting his games sales. He would leave headline grabbing to Virgin’s Branson and to Trump. As he climbed to the treadmill’s first plateau, he watched the multiple television screens before him, their sound muted: sports, market and business news. Such silence, the seeing but not hearing, compartmentalized his mood: he was good at what he did, which was turning creative thinking into popular game design. How could that skill be put to specific use – as this woman, acting as catalyst, called “for the benefit of mankind?”
A news feature caught his attention, and he turned up the sound. A law firm was being chastised for placing newspaper ads seeking to represent 9/11 victims regarding the disbursement of monies by the federal government’s Victim Benefit Relief Fund. The ad used stock footage of a fireman, placing him before a grainy image of the aftermath of the Twin Tower destruction. The fire helmet was photo shopped out, and placed in his hands instead some sort of marketing plaque. Tacky. It had since been learned that the fireman had not been at the World Trade Center that tragic day, nor had he even been a fireman yet on that historic date.
The television’s talking head critics were yelling at the insensitivity of the ambulance-chasing shysters. They shouted that 9/11 should never be forgotten, should never be commercialized in any way. 9/11, they said, should always be a wake-up call for the innocent, a reminder that there are very evil people in the world who have no compassion and will kill anyone to achieve their aims, one specific goal being the fall and destruction of the United States.
September 11, 2001. The terrorist attacks on Washington, D.C. and New York City, and a burning, cratered field in Pennsylvania impacted the psyche of American citizens and changed their way of living forever. Hugh admitted to himself that he had not thought about that tragedy in a long time, nor even given it any serious thought in recent years. As the televised news item ended, he agreed with a survivor being interviewed, who bemoaned that we all should be reminded we are still under attack and that complacency is this country’s greatest weakness.
He felt his running pace picking up. Weren’t they building a memorial in New York? Maybe his foundation could be useful in some way. He went one step further. Had they caught all the perpetrators of this evil? Hadn’t he heard that they were prosecuting some of the 9/11 plotters in a military court? But that didn’t include all of them, right? No, it didn’t. Not all of the alleged masterminds had been brought to justice. He turned to J-Q, who was off to the side and on his back, 200 pounds of weights hoisted above his head.
“Have they ever caught – what’s his name, Osama bin Laden?”
J-Q hefted the barbell to its rack, out of breath, before answering. “I don’t think so. Still in a cave somewhere.”
It was at that moment, as Hugh Fox reached the pinnacle of the mountain, that the idea came to him. He opened a new file in his mind and began creating open-ended parameters of What ifs and How can this work….
Episode #2
By James Wolcott Vanity Fair, December 2009
The influence of Reality TV has been insidious, pervasive. It has ruined television, and by ruining television it has ruined America…. The voyeurism of Reality TV, the viewer’s passivity is kept intact, pampered and massaged and force-fed Chicken McNuggets of carefully edited snippets that permit him or her to sit in easy judgment and feel superior at watching familiar strangers make fools of themselves. Reality TV looks in only one direction: down….
10.
January 2011 Burbank, California
Five Aces Studioz
INTEROFFICE MEMO: Private and Confidential
(Summary of Final Script: Route from Production to Edit Department—Work from my notes)
Show: King’s Retribution
Season Final Episode: Grandma Mary’s Gift
Opening Scene: Colonel King and his second-in-command, Carlita ‘Callie’ Cardoza, arrive at the Midwest home of Mary Branch, a widow in her mid-60s. Exterior shot shows quiet, unassuming neighborhood of mature trees, clean yards and blooming gardens.
Interior: Mary’s living room is maintained with family photos [close-up of deceased husband photo], collectible china bells and glass paperweights [close up].
Talent: Mary explains that she invested $55,000 of her husband’s insurance money into the Peregrine Fund, after her stockbroker sent a prospectus saying that this investment would provide the best return, provide for her during her lifetime, and then act as a tax-free estate gift to her two grandchildren. When the Fund stopped paying interest she called, only to discover that the Manager of the Fund, touted Wall Street bizwhiz Matthew Pettigrew, had looted all the funds’ assets under his control and fled the country, disappearing with more than $85 million dollars.
VOICE OVER: Hundreds of investors were robbed, and Grandma Mary lost everything she invested. Her home’s mortgage is at risk. That’s the house she’s lived in for more than 40 years, [she is crying at this point; CUT to Callie who looks teary-eyed] and which she wanted to leave as a legacy for her grandchildren.
[Trademark King voice, holding Mary’s hand: “Mr. Pettigrew will face the King’s Retribution.” SHOW LOGO—arrow flying into Pettigrew’s target face] [dub Music] <<Break>>
Scene: Collage of bits and news snippets, narrated by King. History of Pettigrew, his fund, and the theft of fund assets. Typical Ponzi scheme, then as house of cards falls, he flees the U.S. to hide out and enjoy his spoils.
Scene: Office of New York City Prosecutor’s Office, Securities Division. Meeting with Storm, Callie and a Federal Bureau of Investigation prosecutor and agent.
Meeting highlights [cut and paste]: Charges are filed and Pettigrew is wanted. FBI believes he is in South America, there’s one clue pointing to Brazil, but Brazil has no fast extradition policy. Agent bemoans how long it would take to get Pettigrew back to the States; even longer if he has high-priced attorneys. Prosecutor mentions there is a $1 million award for his capture and return for prosecution. [CUT TO: Callie] “This is our sort of case.” Usual disclaimer: Warning from FBI agent not to take action into one’s own hands. That Pettigrew could have bodyguards and be dangerous. [CUT TO: Storm smiling at Callie] <<BREAK>>
Scene: Flying Squad Headquarters. Back and forth shots [STORM RECOMMENDS PICKING UP SEQUENCE SPEED]. Callie on computer tracking last payment Pettigrew made to his attorney before services terminated. From mid-town, First Federal. Show criminal’s time line. Show payment made after Pettigrew left country. Callie fakes out bank with a verification notice. Funds wired from bank in São Paulo, Brazil.
Storm, with Clayton and Bennie, discusses travel itinerary and extraction method. Callie shows off snatch equipment. Callie and Bennie will be point team to locate Pettigrew in São Paulo, Brazil. [STORM SAYS MAKE POINT OF NEEDLE IN HAYSTACK. THIS IS 6th LARGEST POPULATED CITY IN WORLD, 11 MILLION.] <<BREAK >>
SCENE: Pick up archival film on São Paulo: airplane landing, city view, etc.
Shot of street, patch in fast graphics, cut-aways of target apartment house. We have grainy footage of Pettigrew walking the street with bodyguard [CUT: back to old photo; his hair is now dyed and he has beard].
Hotel Room: Strategy Session—Three Days—show anxious faces, plenty of them. Callie will use the bank ploy, say there is a problem with Pettigrew’s wire account, and can he come in personally and re-sign forms. [PUT IN VERBAL FIGHT BETWEEN CALLIE AND STORM. ONCE AGAIN SHE WANTS FIELD ACTION AND NOT ALWAYS TO BE ON LOGISTICS]
SCENE: Grab off the street. Van used. Tased bodyguard—black bag to all including apartment door guards [Setting up cameras was harder on this than last; used FIVE locations. CAMERA ONE, roving: Three head caps on Storm, Callie and Bennie. CAMERA TWO, stationary. If we missed the right spot for the grab, the whole thing would have been blown and we’d have had to use post-event junk.]
Street: [STORM SAYS SHOW HE AND CLAYTON CHECKING GUNS—THAT’S A NEW ONE, USUALLY IT’S TASERS, AND ONLY CLAYTON WITH LOW LOAD SHOTGUN—BUT DO IT] Fast action take down. (Storm is the man—great action shots). Van driving away. <<BREAK>>
WRAP: Jet landing, closed limo to Halls of Justice, prosecutor and police take custody. (We invited news channels to shoot it all; use some of their footage as source).
FINAL SCENE: Grandma Mary’s house. Storm hands her a check for $55,000, hugs all around. Find it, but she does say, ‘What a wonderful gift’. <<END>> (Source: $55,000 as usual from our production fund while we are waiting for reward payment. Probably will take the other Peregrine Fund investors years to get their monies back. Jeez, don’t the viewers know we wouldn’t have even shot the Grandmommy segment if we had not first apprehended Pettigrew?! As Storm says, no glory for failure. By the way, be forewarned, a first: Storm wants to view the post edit. Has a bug up his ass, guess he wants to give this show a little goosing. Hope it’s not a new Stormin’ norm. Don't forget wrap party next week. Like to see rough-cut by then. – Confidential, do not distribute — Hope this helps us for next season’s renewal. Remember we have two projects floating, six months out in research. In May or June, another snatch and grab to film for the pipeline. Hope it’s not the last. Ciao. – b/a
11.
February 2011 Late night
Sky Bar at Mondrian Hotel, West Hollywood
The private party bounced and weaved, and even with a Gestapo-like bouncer at the door the terrace was sprinkled with crashers and wannabes, interspersed with front office executives of the production company and their guests. Not the A-List; it was more of a B-gathering, gentrified enough to have a few paparazzi hanging out downstairs, their cameras poised. Just in case, Lindsay (drunk and wearing a monitoring bracelet) or Gaga (naked, but painted in day-glo colors) dropped by.
Callie stood near the bar, a glass of champagne in her hand as a defense mechanism, warding off groupie handshakes and hugs from the front office personnel. “Great year for King’s Retribution,” they all seemed to say while snarfing down free cocktails and buffet canapés. She replied stiffly, accepting their congratulations with a forced smile, and listening to advice given by people who knew nothing about how the show could be made better, and reminiscences of certain shows that seemed to stand out, or she was informed.
The staff crew visited among themselves in whispers, morose; the next season was unannounced, and they were worried about their futures. The two cameras, CAM ONE and CAM TWO, were present, as usual, and in operating mode. The contracts they had signed meant that at all public functions, as well as on set, they had to be unobtrusively filming, so video of the stars was candid, not showing actors playing to the camera. CAM TWO was stationary, to the side of the entry door, most certainly focused, Callie thought, on Storm’s grand celebrity entrance. CAM ONE wandered the crowd fringes, picking up snatch shots; perhaps for a future documentary in the making, or maybe a requiem, or planning for the sales pitch video to be used later for syndication.
“You gonna get drunk and slug someone?” This came from the show’s on-camera muscle, Clayton Briggs. He took the empty glass from her hand and replaced it with more bubbly.
“He hasn’t arrived, and I am sober, dammit.”
“Hey, it’s not that he has all the control. Scriptwriters and production suits have put our little pegs in the holes.” He stood over her, looking down. Clayton, an ex-NFL linebacker, was Storm’s shadow when the grabs were made, more pushing and shoving than fists flying.
After two years in close proximity, Storm and Callie knew Clayton’s secrets, even the one his former wife had been unaware during eight years of a turbulent marriage. Callie saw him glance over and above the imbibing, giggling young women on the bar couch who thought his stares were for them, not the thin young man nattily dressed in Polo garb. Quick smiles about the in-joke flashed between the men. In Hollywood, career positioning for second banana hunks required remaining in the closet.
“Your agent have you booked off-season?” asked Clayton. The strong man had a good side business appearing in television ads for a national chain of health clubs.
“Nothing lucrative per se. A guest appearance on Ellen prior to the Grandmother Mary episode.” Not sipping, she chugged at the champagne. “Storm will do Leno.”
“That’s it?”
“Negotiating for a mobile phone app commercial. Guess I’m just not in the league of Paris, Snookie, or a Kardashian yet.” Callie enjoyed her minor stardom, and wished for more recognition, but did not begrudge the heightened world of other television stars in reality world entertainment, the ones who pulled down $5-10 million a year from someone else writing their tell-all fashion and health hint books, and hosting raucous birthday parties at Vegas night club venues. There was a public demand for the unique to amuse people during their daily drudge, in these days when they could create stars out of even pawnshop employees. King’s Retribution seemed more respectable than the outlandish or trite formulas with Retribution’s audience Nielsen ratings in proximity to Cops and 48 Hours, and it definitely ranked higher than storage war auctions and car repo shows.
Reviewers had niched this television action show. One critic wrote: “King’s Retribution is where bounty hunters meet U.S. Marshalls, tinged with Mission Impossible tech, spiced up with a little A-Team humor thrown in.” Callie these days found no humor in her employment at all.
Growing applause drew their attention. Colonel (Ret.) David ‘Storm’ King, star of the reality television show “King’s Retribution,” made his entrance, hitting invisible cue spots, shaking hands and accepting praise for a season well done. He worked the room, a consummate politician knowing whose ego needed to be stroked.
His walk of fame brought him to Callie, her expression set strong, heat emanating, tinder to the powder keg. He ignored her temper with a forehead kiss, and in turn was ignored by her; she looked away.
“You aren’t going to make a scene here tonight? A few low-life paparazzi are stalking the sidewalks outside, eager for your flare-up.” He talked through his bared teeth, so his face seemed locked in a grin.