Joyce Harwood

In installment three of the series, Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...

Mustafa Khan Trol looked at the dial on his Rolex. With the precision of an obsessive compulsive who has washed his hands for the 60th time in an hour he and his 11 comrades had commandeered the entire Bass Pro Shop complex in Springfield, MO without a shot being fired. The only resistance they had encountered was the fat rent-a-cop guard at the main entrance who succumbed without fanfare to Ali's pilfered fillet knife across his jugular. They watched mesmerised as the 'pig' in his death throes, legs spasming, heart still beating, spewed blood a metre into the air from the gaping wound to his throat. The terrorists had corralled the employees and guests into the food court separating the men from the women. There were no windows for the enemy to come through. The entrances and exits had been wired with explosives. The complex secure, they were safe - for the moment.
By striking at the heart of America's heritage of fresh water sport angling the goal was simple: Create chaos, panic and terror amongst the greater Midwest population. If America knows she is vulnerable in a small city nestled in the Ozarks she will know she is vulnerable anywhere. Hit "The Great Satan" where its festering, filthy, foul-mouthed father's of whores spend their dollars - on fishing supplies, was the plan. If 9/11 was a wake-up call for America, Springfield they hoped would be its nightmare morning commute through mid-town traffic. "Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he spends all of his time in the cellar working on his hobby and neglecting his hygiene" or so the witticism goes. The plan was flawless. Before they were dead, all of the world would know about Abu Garcia and its St. Patrick's Day attack in Springfield, Missourah, USA. "Allahu Akbar!"
Arriving at Ronald Reagan Airport, Nick O'Tyme showed his ID to the chief officer of Homeland Security. The officer instantly recognized O'Tyme's clearance level and ushered him personally to the boarding gate. While the masses stood on queue with their belts and shoes in hand Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, was hustled past the metal detectors and x-ray booth to the awaiting American Airlines flight to Springfield, MO on a Boeing 777.
The buxom flight attendant leaned towards O'Tyme's lap and clicked his safety belt for him lingering a bit too long with her ample cleavage inches from his weathered, chisled broad cheekbones.
"Excuse me," he flirted, "I see your name is Siobhan, do have you a little Irish in you?"
"On March 17th, sir, everyone is Irish," her lilting, patented Belfast-raised brogue evident.
"Let me rephrase that," he smiled, "Would you like a little Irish in you?," he stared, looking into the emerald portals to her soul.
Smiling professionally, she glanced at the holstered Glock hanging freely from its cowhide shoulder harness. 'Loaded and ready to go,' she thought to herself. 'If he were to discharge that weapon prematurely all would be lost.'
The captain's voice over the plane's intercom interrupted their verbal foreplay..."Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm your captain, Jack 'the Hook' McLeod. Happy St. Paddy's day to all and welcome to American Airlines flight 6 - oh - 9 to Atlanta's Hartsfield airport. Our trip will be approximately 90 minutes door-to-door. Enjoy your flight and Erin Go Braugh!"
'What a tool,' O'Tyme thought. A meaningless phrase in any language let alone Gaelic. Opening his lap top he went to his personal addy and clicked the attachment with the Abu Garcia file. His focus now was on studying the non-enemy, paraphrasing the President's malaprop. Somewhere in the file was a clue to what makes a man a terrorist.
Mustafa Khan Trol was born in Dearborn, Michigan on Mawlid, or the day of birth of the Prophet, in 1980. His father, a Twelver Shi'a entrepeneur traveled extensively throughout the Middle East on business. Mustafa's mother also Shi'a, remained in the family's modest home in Dearborn raising his sister and keeping house. Mustafa accompanied his father regularly on trips overseas as a youth. He had learned Arabic as well as Farsi. His fluency allowed him to read and speak extensively about fundamentalist Islamic causes. His sympathies leaned towards al Qaeda and at Uni he had made acquaintance with similar thinking Semetic young men. Although on the international watch lists he moved freely within the States, communicating with his comrades via stolen mobiles and email. In an age of instant access communication there was no need to travel abroad even if he were able. Mustafa's contempt for the West, especially Americans was palatable. For him, Satan was not a literary metaphor for the ills of Mankind. Satan for him was as real as the early spring Sun rising higher each day across heaven and Allah's abobe.
O'Tyme closed his Notebook and stared straight ahead. His job was clear: he was hired to kill Mustafa Khan Trol by any means at his disposal. If innocent people were injured or killed in the process it would be an unfortunate necessity. 'This was not Waco and that dyke Janet Reno was not giving the orders,' he knew from Ryan's briefing. O'Tyme closed his eyes and concentrated on the face of his opponent. Like a mongoose stalking a cobra he would strike so quickly Mustafa wouldn't have time to react.

To be continued...