Hidden Agendas and more...

[Pro A.]

A small portion of what will be my 31st book, titled Hidden Agendas.

The Indictment
The end of the Cold War brought to us the end of the Soviet Union, saber-rattling, and the possible apocalypse. What it didn’t bring an end to are the problems that the U.S. continued to face. With one superpower left, all eyes are on the prize. Everyone wants a piece of the pie. We were, and still are, the head honchos. We could have used these powers to make the world a better place and we might have become a more sovereign nation.
We failed. We chickened out.
This is the pre-9/11 world, mind you. 9/11 is the end result of the failures that the first 12 years had. We ducked through 1989-1992 with few problems. Then, 1993 rolls along and we wreck Somalia. 19 soldiers die and it’s a national crisis. Our gutless and brainless foreign policy set us up for what would happen in 2001 and we deserve every last ounce of it.
Here’s to the people that saw it coming, feared it, and were laughed at.
This book is for them, the men with the guts and the brains.
Part One: Belgium (October 3, 1993-
Chapter 1: Burayd
THE NEWS: 1
October 3, 1993: Plans made to take two Aidid Lieutenants. Lead by Deltas and Rangers. Daring air assault in midday.
October 4, 1993: 19 Americans; as many as 1000 Somalis killed in attack operation that went wrong. Some soldiers on the ground for more than 17 hours. 75 soldiers wounded in assault.
October 8, 1993: American public demands withdrawal from Somalia; see it as a pointless venture.
October 11, 1993: Pressure continued to build over Somalia. President Clinton continues to mull options.
October 17, 1993: President Clinton orders withdrawal of all American troops in Somalia.
November 2, 1993: Mohamed Farrah Aidid declares October 3 a great victory for the people of Somalia, driving out the American oppressors.
November 5, 1993: Aidid survives RPG assault. Party responsible unknown; believed to be rival faction operating outside Mogadishu.
November 12, 1993: Aidid declares that he has survived and will continue to rule until Allah takes him. Declares martial law on the city.
November 23, 1993: Terror group called New Jihad offers assistance to anyone that is willing to fight for the name of freedom, according to CIA reports. Leader is a man known only as Burayd.
November 29, 1993: Thanks to recovering economy, Clinton’s approval rate goes up in spite of Somalia.
December 12, 1993: Violence in Bosnia continues to escalate.
2
December 28, 1993; Rammstein, Germany
Paulson had the assignment under his right arm. The file said something patriotic. He didn’t read the name. Skipped past it. Went to the juicy stuff. Found plenty from the get-go. Some A-RABS went in and seized control of a government lab. NATO wouldn’t touch it. Said they didn’t have the resources. Interpol wouldn’t go near it. Didn’t have the right squad. On to the military. Here comes Force Recon. Fine and dandy. Have them shoot the A-RABS. It went to Belkadan. Belkadan took it. Belk had no choice. Do it as a payback for that last favor. Belkadan agreed. Much reluctance on his part.
That didn’t matter. He had a favor to repay. He agreed to the job. He said he would handle it. He had a team that could handle it. The perfect man for the job, he said. He came up with Lieutenant Scott Paulson, the new guy. Paulson wondered why him. Belk said that he was the best man for the job. Bullshit, Paulson said. Belkadan insisted. He said the cloud was still over him.
Paulson shut up. The Somalia cloud. Cleared of all charges. Treason, murder, insubordination, theft, and about twenty other things. All went away. Even with Kamalda’s escape. Paulson still looked for Kamalda. No sign of the man. Rumor from Somalia: he dead. Buried in the ground. After the U.S. pullout.
To this day, Paulson didn’t understand it. Nineteen dead and they leave? What the hell? He hoped they stepped in with Bosnia soon. It was looking ugly. Uglier than his younger sister.
He and his platoon were to go to Belgium. Seize the lab. Kill the A-RABS. Prevent the decimation. Demand: one hundred million in 24 hours. That was six hours ago. 0400 hours. It was 1000 hours. Another four hours to get ready. Two more on the plane. Two more to set up. 1800, the game began. He couldn’t wait. He went to his office.
Piles of papers on the desk. Signs of a slob. Paulson paid no mind to the cynics. He could do what he wanted. Didn’t create a health hazard. Colonel Belkadan didn’t say anything. Only one that did was the janitor. Bitter old fuck. Paulson’s assessment of the guy. Someone who hadn’t had pussy in a very long time, if ever. Paulson felt sorry for him there. No excuse to make others feel bad. Painful as it was, though.
Paulson heard a knock. He looked up. It was Lusher. He was a transfer. Field analyst. Did some work with NATO. Went okay. He wanted back to the field. Paulson volunteered to keep him. Belkadan agreed. He wanted him doing more analyst work first. Lusher didn’t like it, but he said yes. The promise hooked him. One day, he would return. That was the promise. He swallowed it. Hook, line, sinker.
“Morning, Jack.”
“Morning. You see the stuff?”
Paulson nodded. He opened up the file. Front faced Lusher. He saw the name. Something patriotic. Tried to read it. “Free…dom… ea…gle…”
“Is that what it says?”
“I guess. Didn’t you look at it?”
“No,” Paulson said. “Not important.”
Lusher moved on. “What are you reading?”
“The terror group.”
“They have a name?”
“Yeah, they do.”
“What?”
Paulson getting annoyed. Dropped the file down on the desk. “If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
“Yeah, yeah, man.”
“Some Middle East group called New Jihad.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Me either. Supposed to be powerful in the Middle East. Bunch of right-wingers. They love to hate the West and we seem to enjoy fueling that hatred as much as we can.”
“So, it’s our fault?”
“To a degree, I suppose. I guess they weren’t happy about Somalia, but no one was. I still say we should have stayed there. I can’t fucking believe the fucking President chickened out. Only nineteen Americans die and we pull out?”
“I guess the people demanded it,” Lusher said.
Paulson slammed the deck. It shook. “Fuck them. Those stupid ignorant rednecks did this. They don’t know shit about foreign policy. They can kiss my white ass.”
“But I thought they had blind loyalty.”
“Until one of their own gets killed. Bunch of religious fuckers,” Paulson said. “Religion is for someone that can’t accept that when they die they are worm food.”
Lusher grimaced. “Never thought of it that way.”
“Glad I could help you.”
“Ringleader is some guy I never heard of. Burayd Al-Faisani. Iranian.”
Lusher shrugged. Odds of him knowing where zilch. Had better chances of winning the lottery. Lusher scratched his chin. “So, what’s his motive for attacking the lab?”
“Don’t know, but I bet that once we get to Belgium we’ll learn everything,” he said. “Just think, you’ll be back at NATO with some of your old chums.”
Lusher rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.”
“Get ready. We leave at 1400 hours.”
Lusher walked out. Paulson went back to reading. He thumbed through the papers. He found that his group had more than a hundred men. They had been formed about a year ago. Most of them professional soldiers. Iraqis out of work. Hate America. Hate the West. That was the New Jihad. Their code. Their message. It rang clear. Paulson didn’t know or care. He hated A-RABS. Bunch of slimy fuckers. Why didn’t they die? He knew about their offer to anyone that wasn’t in the West and was a Muslim that they would fight their cause. He looked at what the CIA was saying from Saudi Arabia.
No offers so far. He shrugged. Probably got bored waiting. Go after something Western on their own. He knew that after they were done fighting them they would fall back. Take their rank of mediocrity and pray it didn’t get any worse. He could live with that. Paulson wanted blood. Their blood. Didn’t matter how. He wanted it. He would get it.

[Dorbin]

Good job...31st book, man oh man.

Only thing I would suggest is that the sentences seem extra fragmented this time around, even for your style. Just a thought, though.

[Pro A.]

Here's a nice little segment from my latest book, set in my own town and the nearby towns. A little game of chance for me.

Oakbrook, Illinois 1
Brian Devels thought: Jesus Christ. Never thought I’d be here again.
It was true enough. Nine years has passed since he had last been here in Dupage County, which is West of Chicago. Third richest county in the United States with more than a million people. This had been his home, many years ago, and then he had left it. A blow hit his stomach as he reflected on that. Focus. He did, and he returned to his focus on driving. He moved down I-355, keeping up with the traffic, which was moving at a decent pace for post-Rush Hour. It was worse tonight on the Edens and the Kennedy, which had been the victims of multiple car crashes. He turned the radio to FM. 97.1 The Drive. Classic rock, they said. Devels shrugged, figuring it was better than nothing.
First song: Black Dog by Zeppelin. Hard-ass rock.
He turned at the next exit and made his way on over to the motel that was on Cass Ave, about two blocks away. He parked the car at the far end of the lot. He popped open the trunk. He grabbed two items. One was a suitcase containing several shirts, pants, and a few other personal belongings that he could not leave home without. The other was a briefcase, made out of Teflon. He closed the trunk and walked into the lobby, which stunk. It was as if a rodent had died there and had been sitting in the corner for more than two days. The manager, a fat man that had made the small chair that came with the lobby desk his friend and his enemy, looked up at Devels with a stare that mixed contempt and curiosity.
Why the fuck did you stop by at this dump? A Motel fucking 6?
“Can I help you?”
“Need a room. Don’t know how long I’m gonna be here. How much a night?”
“Twenty-nine a night. 79 for the weekend.”
“Fine,” he said. He dropped five twenties on the desk from his wallet. “That’ll cover three nights, for now. Until I find an apartment I’ll be staying here.”
“Okay with me. You get a job here or what?”
“No, actually, I’m looking for one. Quit my last job. Hated the airport security business.”
The manager eyed his frame. 6’2, 195, not too shabby. Had some muscle hiding behind the suit jacket and the black shirt. “Well, I dunno what you gonna find here. Why’d you come here, anyways? You from around here?”
“Yeah.”
“What town?”
“Woodridge. Haven’t been there in almost a decade. Decided home would be the best place to start.”
The cash register rang. Manager handed him the change back. With it came a small key that was rusted on the edges. “Well, I guess that’s true, but its murder finding a job around here.”
Brian smiled. “I’m sure it is. Thanks a lot. When’s breakfast?”
“Seven to eleven.”
“Thanks very much.”
2
The hotel room was passable, if nothing else. It didn’t have the same putrid smell as the lobby did. It was replaced with the smell of lilacs, which was supposed to give the guest the feeling that they were welcome here. Brian didn’t feel all that welcome, but that was for different reasons. He checked the single bed. Sat on it. Soft and plenty of cushion. The place was probably being beaten by the Hyatt down the street. Devels placed the Teflon briefcase on the desk off in the corner and he opened it after putting in the combination on the caches. Inside was his laptop. He grabbed it and he put it on the desk. He plugged it in and he sat down. He made sure that the connections were viable. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to use an internet café.
It could have been worse, but the connection was at least running and working at a speed that he could stand. He shut off the laptop and he decided that it would be best to get a feel for the surroundings again. It had been too long since he had been in this neighborhood. Good run of nostalgia. Painful too, boy. Lest you forget.
No, he didn’t forget. He just tried to.
Woodridge 3
Five miles from Oakbrook is Woodridge, which is wedged in between three much larger towns. To the East is Downers Grove, a bustling community of 48,000 and on the train line that leads into Union Station in downtown Chicago. To the West is Naperville, one of the largest towns in Illinois with over 120,000. It is also on the train line, but it grew because it was one of the first towns to be settled in Illinois. To the South is Bolingbrook, another town of 50,000.
Devels drove down to Woodridge using I-355 and he got off at the 75th St. exit. He drove east to one of the local strip malls and he decided to take a look at the local bookstore, a Barnes and Noble. He parked off to the side because the main parking lot was full. He used the one that was at Pizza Hut. He walked inside and he went over to the fiction novels. He hoped to find a good spy novel to speed through in a couple of days. It would make his time viable out here while he looked for an apartment that did not have the smell of dead road kill.
He decided on The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum. The only reason he picked it was because it was more than 600 pages and it would help him ease through the first couple of days. He rubbed his eyes as he made his way to the register. As he did so, someone called out his name. It was distant. He didn’t pick it up the first time. It took a second clamorous attempt to get his attention. He turned and he saw someone that he recognized but could not place the name.
As he approached, his mind went through a thousand different names. His hair was different. It wasn’t dyed with three different colors, but the face hadn’t changed much. Bobby Jenkins. An old friend from high school. He gave a broad smile.
“Brian, Jesus, it is you. I thought I recognized you as you walked by. I couldn’t pick you out at first, but then it hit me. Wow, man, you look good.”
“Thanks,” Brian said. Bobby was still wearing the beer t-shirts that he loved to adorn when he was in high school. Not in class, of course, but during the weekends. He had gained weight, too. He wondered if he had developed a drinking habit. Wouldn’t surprise him if he did. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. Living with your parents?”
“Nah. Got an apartment in Downers. You?”
“Just moved back. Need to find a new job. D.C. just isn’t cutting it for me, you know?”
“I hear you, man. Times are tough. What with the war and all. Jobs don’t seem to be coming in the way that they used to when we were growing up.”
Devels nodded. “Yeah, I know, but we manage to survive, don’t we? See anyone from the old crew?”
“Just Scotty. Drop one with him at the bar most every night. Catch the Sox game and enjoy ourselves. Try to forget the 9-to-5 jobs that we do every day.”
“Where do you work?”
“Verizon. Telemarketing. Thank God it pays good money or I’d have quit after day one.”
“Anything to pay the bills, uh?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Devels eyed his right hand. No ring. No rock. No girl. Figured. Bobby had always been a loner. He was one of those people that liked to rely only on himself. It was a safety thing.
“You oughta come by to the bar tonight. Scotty should be there. We can catch up on old times.”
Brian smiled. “I’d like that. You on your way out?”
“Yeah, actually, I am. You paid for the book yet?”
“Not yet. Just about to when you stepped in.”
“Oh, well, I won’t keep you.”
“Where do you meet?”
“The Grill Zone. 63rd and Fairview.”
“Okay, I know where that is. I’ll catch up with you guys there.”
“Great. See you then.”
Devels paid for the book with cash, dropping a 10-spot and then heading on over to the bar. He was already starting to feel at home, but he could still feel the churns in his stomach. He knew they weren’t about to go away. Not until he faced the problem head on, and that was never going to happen. Not willingly.

[Pro A.]

The opening to my 33rd book (sort of 33. Long story) It is titled Bin Laden Bounty.

July 23, 1996; Mogadishu, Somalia Full Circle
He hated the country then. He still hated it now. The fury hadn’t changed. The degree had. That would always rise. Rise like the red sun that was beating down on them already. It was only thirty minutes into the day. He almost wilted. Had he been a man who burned, he might have collapsed. He didn’t burn, though, and that was thanks to his ancestors having lived on this continent for thousands of years.
Sabeer Kamalda left the helicopter on the far edge of the city. Two men were waiting for him. They bowed when he arrived. Kamalda ignored them and went down the runway to meet the troops that he would be using for this operation. According to his boss, Osama Bin Laden, the chief of Al-Qaida, this had to be a quick job. There couldn’t be any traces that they were involved. Kamalda assured him that there would be none. Bin Laden wasn’t assured by this, but he decided to trust his top deputy to make things right in the region again.
Aidid was destroying a possible trading center with his senseless violence. It had to be stopped. The Habr Gidr region had to fall. Too much money was being wasted. Their dollars were being funneled in a venture that had no sense of profit or reward. He had no tolerance for that. Bin Laden wanted him dead. It would make for better profits in Africa in the near future. Kamalda knew that he wanted to have a jump on Jeremiah, aka Sinar Mohamed Masak, in any capacity possible. It did not matter how they got ahead of them, just so long as the pulled ahead.
This would prove to be a very good start.
The six men that were standing at the end of the runway had a card table with a map that was being held down by half-inch rocks. They were smooth and held their weight very well under the pressure. Kamalda nodded to them and asked them what the map was supposed to entail.
The men in the center pulled out a stick and he pointed to the circle. “This where Aidid is now. He in hiding.”
“Why is he hiding?”
“We try kill him last week. He escape.”
“Was he wounded in the exchange?” He shook his head. Kamalda cursed under his breath. “All right, scratch that. How many men does he have protecting him?”
“Ten to twenty.”
“That’s it? Well, we could be done a lot faster than I thought.”
“He very dangerous. He kill lot of people.”
“I’m aware of that. I used to work with him as a Lieutenant three years ago. He is a homicidal maniac, but he is very careless at what he does, which is going to come back and haunt him very soon.”
“You dink you can kill him?”
“Yes, I do think that. I’ll do you one better. I will kill him.”
“This has to be quick. Once he shot, entire city come on us.”
“This won’t take long. What weapons do you have?”
They pointed to a nearby table that had weapons lying on a forest green tarp. He grabbed one of the miniature AK47 rifles lying on the edge of the table. He examined it from top to bottom. He nodded and released the safety. It was loaded. He could tell by the weight. He smiled and looked at the men, who had the same smiles, but he could see the uncertainty in their eyes. They didn’t know what to think of this. They still believed that there was a chance that they might wind up getting killed. Kamalda told them to grab only the rifles. The RPG’s were too big and it was going to cause a problem. Only one shot and no guarantees would not suffice for this job. No, this would require a little more audacity in their overtones.
He smiled and he did have to admit that coming back to Somalia did bring a wave of nostalgic memories and vivid visions of the good times that he had. Running that operation against the Americans had been a grand one, even if it had gone down in flames. He had pushed the Americans around. He had made them nervous. He made them believe that they were going to lose. Those bastard Marines had been responsible.
Kamalda pushed those thoughts away. They weren’t important now. The main priority was to get this job done and then get back. Bin Laden had mentioned that there was another venture that was quite enticing. Kamalda wasn’t sure what that was related to, but he had an idea. There had been talk for some time of getting in on the Chechnya trade and funneling arms and weapons to the rebels. Not a bad investment. Jeremiah wasn’t willing to touch it. Kamalda wasn’t sure why. The land was a fucking gold mine. Then again, Jeremiah seemed more interested in cutting deals with the Colombians than he was with his own race and belief. He would never get to paradise at this rate.
Sabeer told them that they would have to work with two trucks. Any more than that and they would wind up looking like a convoy. Kamalda got in the front truck. He said that he wanted to be there within the hour. The clan members took the rest of the seats. Kamalda’s men stayed behind and said that they would tell Bin Laden that he was in Somalia. Kamalda had told them on the plane that he didn’t want to have anymore of his troops involved in the operation. If Aidid somehow survived the assault, he would figure it out and he would end up declaring jihad against Bin Laden. That was the case if all of them were there. If Kamalda was just there, Aidid would go under the assumption that he was only doing this as a long-planned revenge and not on orders. Every deal that Bin Laden ever did with Aidid was handled through discreet cut-outs so that Aidid would never figure out that Kamalda had been, all this time, under the employment of Al-Qaida. Since the start of the Gulf War. No one knew about it. It was a well-kept secret. It helped Kamalda run his military operations.
He was the chief of all black operations. It was a job that provided more possibilities than anyone could ever begin to imagine, and what he had in mind here was only another link in the chain.

The two trucks separated at the street corner. One went to the front and the other went to the back. Kamalda adjusted his sunglasses. The sun was having a red tint today and it was bothering his eyes. He kept his head down and he worked diligently over to the building, making sure that no one in the Bakara Market recognized him. Most of the faction members that he did know were probably dead by now, but it was always premature to go in with the assumption that all were dead. Someone always seemed to survive to tell the tale.
He smiled. His was one that wouldn’t be remembered with much fondness. No, his was one that was much better off staying in the shadows and being used as a forewarning.
He walked into the small lobby and he pointed to the second floor, to the two guards standing on the balcony. They couldn’t see him because he was in the shadows. He moved his index finger upwards twice for the number count. The men nodded and they waited for Kamalda to give the signal to attack. Kamalda looked again and he checked to see how good their security was. It was decent, but it could be halted with a decisive blow. He closed his eyes and he waited another ten heartbeats. When he was satisfied, he jumped out and fired nine rounds. Three hit the first guard. Three went wide. Three hit the right guard. Over in less than five seconds.
Kamalda moved back, waiting. Three men exited the room. The man in the center was Aidid. His two bodyguards were busy pushing him out of the hallway. Kamalda and two men fired at them. They were wide to the left. Kamalda ran to the other side of the lobby, hoping to cut them off. He was stopped halfway at the pillar when two men carrying AK74 rifles fired a long burst at him. Kamalda hit the deck and he fired back, draining the last of his clip. He shot one down and wounded the second with a single blow to the shoulder. Left him incapacitated.
The three men ran outside. Kamalda grabbed his radio.
“The target is outside. I repeat, the target is outside. Cut him off.”
Kamalda ran out the same door and he waited by the doorway, looking out the corner. A truck was waiting ten meters away. Aidid was being escorted in on the opposite side. Kamalda knew he had one chance to get this right. He didn’t want to have to go through a gunfight. Sabeer gripped the Makarov in his pocket. He jumped out and shot Aidid twice in the shoulder and his bodyguard once through the head. The third man was about to shoot when his chest got blown apart by four rounds from behind. He screamed and hit the floor. Kamalda got to his feet and he walked towards Aidid, who was moving away from Kamalda.
“You bastard. You came back.”
“Yes, I did,” Kamalda said. “This… is just retribution. Coming full circle, you might say.”
Aidid was about to protest, but Kamalda shot him three times through the chest before he could respond. He lowered his weapon and he looked at the man, feeling an unusual wave of emotions. This did not normally happen when he killed someone. Killing had become a very natural thing for him, especially after Somalia. Why did this feel different? Kamalda wasn’t sure, and he doubted that he would get a satisfactory answer to that question, even if he did plenty of soul-searching.
He whistled to his men and told them to get back to the airfield. He had a plane to catch. No one would ever acknowledge that he was there. No one but Aidid. He screamed it to his death.

And Now, Some News
July 26, 1996: Preliminary talks about START3 between the United States and Russia.
July 28, 1996: President Boris Yeltsin hopes to repeat his victory in the upcoming election. President Clinton hopes to do so, as well, even though there are questions about his foreign policy record. Insiders shrug it off.
July 29, 1996: CNN reports that Aidid had been shot and severely wounded in Mogadishu.
August 2, 1996: Mohamed Farrah Aidid dies.
August 3, 1996: Maj. General William F. Garrison, the commander of the Deltas during the Somali operation in 1993, retires.
August 6, 1996: Eleven people killed during a mob hit in Moscow. Russian Mob clans blamed for the incident.
August 10, 1996: 35 Chechen troops killed by anti-Russia forces.