Septemberday Adobe Ebook
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
i SEPTEMBER DAY LARRY SCHWEIKART Cover art by Jay D. Dyson ii Published By: Alpha Connections Emmett, ID 83617 This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely a result of the author's imagination. Copyright © 2006 by Larry Schweikart All Rights Reserved. This work, and any parts thereof, may not be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means; electronic, mechanical or otherwise without prior written permission from the author. ISBN 0-9747610-9-5 Proudly produced in the United States of America iii Introduction No living American can, or should, forget 9/11. But the process of trying to place this book with a major publisher has alerted me to the fact that many indeed want to do just that. Repeatedly, my agent got rejections with the words, "It's well written, but we don't want to touch that topic." They could have added, " . especially from a patriotic point of view", as this book offers. Fortunately, a friend and published author in his own right, Jeff Head, assisted me in bringing this into print. Jeff's "Dragon's Fury Series” at www.dragonsfuryseries.com, a techno-thriller about World War with China and Iran that arises out of current events, is a testimony to what self-publishing of a good book can accomplish. Jeff has served as production supervisor and as "editor" in most matters of getting this into print I also thank Jay Dyson of www.sacredcowburgers.com, who provided the cover art. Although it never was accepted by a major publishing house, I don't think it was for a want of trying on the part of my agent, Scott Hoffman, and I thank him for his many labors on my behalf. Finally, my intent was never to write a "religious" fiction, but I do hope that the Christian faith of several of the characters emerges as a reflection of the One hero above all others, Jesus Christ. Larry Schweikart Centerville, Ohio, January 2006. SEPTEMBER DAY LARRY SCHWEIKART TABLE OF CONTENTS TITLE PAGE.................... .......................................................................... i PUBLISHER’S PAGE ..... .......................................................................... ii INTRODUCTION............ .......................................................................... iii PROLOGUE..................... .......................................................................... 1 PART ONE – THE PLOT .......................................................................... 15 CHAPTER 1................... .......................................................................... 16 CHAPTER 2................... .......................................................................... 32 CHAPTER 3................... .......................................................................... 56 CHAPTER 4................... .......................................................................... 64 PART TWO – THE DAY. .......................................................................... 71 CHAPTER 5................... .......................................................................... 72 CHAPTER 6................... .......................................................................... 88 CHAPTER 7 .................. ..........................................................................107 CHAPTER 8 .................. ..........................................................................113 CHAPTER 9 .................. ..........................................................................126 CHAPTER 10 .................. ..........................................................................137 CHAPTER 11................... ..........................................................................146 CHAPTER 12................... ..........................................................................155 CHAPTER 13................... ..........................................................................168 CHAPTER 14................... ..........................................................................180 PART THREE – INFINITE JUSTICE........................................................189 CHAPTER 15................... ..........................................................................190 CHAPTER 16................... ..........................................................................196 CHAPTER 17................... ..........................................................................213 CHAPTER 18................... ..........................................................................229 CHAPTER 19................... ..........................................................................244 CHAPTER 20................... ..........................................................................261 CHAPTER 21................... ..........................................................................277 CHAPTER 22................... ..........................................................................291 CHAPTER 23................... ..........................................................................305 CHAPTER 24................... ..........................................................................318 EPILOGUE....................... ..........................................................................325 ABOUT THE AUTHOR .. ..........................................................................329 1 Prologue Khartoum, Sudan, May 18, 1996 The black Mercedes rocketed through the deserted, unlit streets of this old city, nearly camouflaged against the darkened buildings. Weaving almost drunkenly at times, the driver was, in fact, quite sober. He did not care if he nicked a pedestrian or two: there were more pressing issues at hand. Frantically, the car skidded around curves, negotiating the narrow roads that during the day would have been impassable, crammed as they were with merchants and beggars, bankers and imams. But it was not daytime. No cars, camels, or carts impeded him. Ahead loomed a pothole the size of a small television, which he could not dodge. The Mercedes’ right front tire slammed into it, propelling him off his seat. A Lebanese curse sprang to his lips---Ja Harandin!---exemplifying his capacity for swearing in six languages. Screeching to a halt on 12 El Meshtal Street, the driver, almost as an afterthought, checked his mirrors. He swiveled his head, looking around, and concluded he was alone, sitting outside the iron gates that protected the compound home of Osama bin Laden. Checking his mirrors, Falik Malid surveyed the row of smaller “guest houses” that stretched down El Meshtal on each side where bin Laden’s lieutenants lived. Tonight, they were quiet. That’s because tonight they were gone. Good. At least that much is going according to schedule. Malid threw open the car door and burst through the gate without a key or a password. Bin Laden, obviously, was a man who had no fear of common burglars, or, apparently, foreign intelligence services. Like bin Laden, Malid was a Saudi, born shortly after the Yom Kippur War in a village not far from Riyadh. He’d known his share of 2 poverty, but tonight he was dressed in a western-style suit, sans tie and head covering. Aside from his stubble and a scorpion tattoo on his left wrist, Malid looked like any other Middle Eastern businessman. But under his suit rested the Glock 9 mm, which peeked out from his belt. He had only one spare clip, in his left pocket. If he needed more than that, . well, the battle would have been lost by that time anyway. Walking briskly through the small courtyard, Malid smelled the fragrance of lemon trees, which were laced among the date palms in the lush vegetation surrounding bin Laden’s residence. On the tiled courtyard stood several empty plastic chairs, the site of so many of bin Laden’s many “business meetings” that were little more than murder planning sessions. Malid recalled the powerful messages Sharif had delivered to the infidel west and to Muslim heretics from these insignificant-looking, cheap chairs. His mouth curved into a tiny grin: Ironic, no, that bin Laden has made “low tech,” as the Americans say, his modus operandi. Malid had witnessed these decisions first hand, and had been privileged to sit in on some of them. Privileged indeed. Tonight, though, was not about delivering messages, but protecting the messenger. Osama bin Laden’s luxurious two-story house had pink faded walls that concealed an extravagant, if gaudy, interior, all paid for by the Bin Laden Construction Company. Although it hardly compared with Saddam Hussein’s lavish palaces, the residence contrasted sharply with the poverty-ridden shacks that littered Khartoum’s streets. Now marching deliberately to the front porch, Malid slammed his open palm hard into the wooden door. Sharif dislikes doorbells, Malid recalled. Dogs barked their dissatisfaction from nearby neighborhoods, but Malid heard no response inside the house. Again he pounded the door. Then it opened a crack. Peering out was Osama’s servant, Talil, a short, ugly woman who cleaned the house and cooked for the family. She’d been with bin 3 Laden as long as Malid had known him. Whatever she lacks in beauty she makes up for in her ability to keep secrets. “What do you want?” Talil growled. Normally, Malid might be polite, but there was no time now. “Out of the way. This is important . and no business of yours.” He pushed the door open, sweeping Talil back with his free arm, then