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...
Sunday, July 14, 2024
Ellen Brent Harland
Episode four of Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...
"Southie," I heard myself murmur. I must have been dreaming. The turbulence from the warm air rising off the Blue Ridge caused the aircraft to tremor like a Manhattan debutante losing her virginity after the ball at the Waldorf-Astoria. "The ball after the ball," is what Carolyn and her girlfriend's call it. 'Southie!' After thirty years the phrase still makes my skin crawl. I left Dorchester Bay when I was 17. I never went back. Enrolling at Columbia, I spent nearly 5 years trying to lose my accent and the stench from Boston harbor. To this day there are two things I won't eat: seafood or pussy. The smell of either a reminder of the Friday mackerel dinners mother prepared. By the time I had taken my GRE's and been admitted to John Jay I was for all appearances New York born and bred. Waiting tables in Manhattan while completing my education I had looked only to the future. The idea of America is the endless opportunities it provides for those who find a need to re-invent themselves. We can no longer keep moving west when the soil gives out. The New Jerusalem is social mobility through economic gain and that is simply a combination of will and luck. I had both. 'Southie,' I thought, 'Why would I dream of that? It's been years...'
My anus clenched like it will at the urologists when he snaps that latex glove on his wrist and asks you to lean forward on the exam table. The plane jolted violently. My hands instinctively grabbed the arm rests. 'White Knuckle Club,' I thought. I have never gotten used to air travel. I had considered taking one of Carolyn's benzos before take-off but I needed to keep my edge on for when I arrived in Springfield.
I heard the flight attendant, Siobhan, somewhere behind me. Appearing next to me, her lovely put-on smile on her full, crimson Celtic lips she calmly placed a business card between my pale fingers and moved forward. Printed on the face of the cream-colored card was "Executive Conference Center, Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta GA". I turned the card over and in a women's pen was written, "Sojourners Rm.-2:30". I slipped the card into the pocket of my open collared Izod shirt.
In his second term Clinton had gutted the payrolls of both the Bureau and the Agency. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" meant new hirings went to Gays and Lesbians and minorities for what few new positions were available due to attrition. I didn't own a J.D; I was active in the fledgling American Catholic Church - there was no upward mobility available for me at the Bureau. It was time for me to get out. I had my twenty years in. I was still relatively young. I would become an independent contractor. With Lt. Sean Ryan, USMC as my liaison between the Agency and the Pentagon I could find work. There was always someone, somewhere who needed to be eliminated - "for God and Country".
Touching down in Atlanta I gathered up my Notebook and my briefcase, reached in the overhead for my bag and de-planed. Inside concourse T I boarded the shuttle and was whisked to the Atrium and the ECC. I found the Sojourners Room and knocked gently.
'No answer'. I placed my hand on the door handle and let myself in. I noticed a small 'fridge and helped myself to a LaBatt Blue. There was a knock and Siobhan entered, locking the door behind her. I moved towards her not losing my gaze into her eyes as we met, mouths open our tongues colliding. I withdrew slightly and nuzzled her neck as she gently bit my ear. "No marks, lad," she whispered. I pushed her towards the door, she allowing me to lead as if we were slow dancing. She struggled with the belt holding up my trousers and simultaneously unbuttoned them. Pushing down my zipper my trousers dropped unceremoniously to the floor. I lifted the skirt that was part of her Attendant's uniform and pushed her briefs aside. I paused and lifted my fingers to my mouth, wet them and reached down to moisten her vulva. She moaned and pulled me even closer. Standing now on her tip-toes she grabbed for my rigid cock and rubbed its head on her outer labia, guiding me into her at the same time. My instinct was to thrust immediately into her but I knowingly hesitated while she removed her hand. I moved inside her keeping my strokes short. I didn't want to interrupt the intense pleasure we both were feeling. She grabbed my exposed bottom and pulled me into her farther. I ground myself against her mons and I could feel her starting to climax as she got wetter and wetter. My cock swelled and I felt the rush of ejaculate move through my urethra and out the meatus. She came at the same time, sighing heavily as I grunted my satisfaction. We remained united for a moment breaking away after a pleasant, lingering kiss. I reached down and pulled up my trousers as she adjusted her knickers and pulled down her skirt. I stood there looking at her...
"What is it, love?" she asked in her oh-so-sensuous Irish brogue.
"Its just...I...erm," I stammered looking for the words...
"What? You gonna tell me you love me like some school boy might?" she laughed.
"Erm...ah...nooooo," I chuckled back.
"What is it, lad?"
"Um...Cath or Prot," I blurted out.
Laughing again she replied, "Da is Church of England. Mum is Catholic. They make it work. I am a Protalic. Any other questions?" all the while smiling broadly.
"A what?" I asked. Needing her to repeat what she had said as if I hadn't heard her.
"A Protalic, love. You never heard that word?"
"No." I said. The noun now embeded in my consciousness.
"Love, its been grand. You were grand but although the bank appreciates the deposit I'm afraid if I don't clean miself up there's gonna be a run on it and I'll catch a rash."
"I need to catch my connection," I said unemotionally.
"Goodbye and good luck, O'Tyme," she smiled. "Take care."
"You too, hon," I grinned as I grabbed my luggage and headed to the door.
As I closed the door over I said to myself, 'Protalic. I will never forget that word for as long as I live.'
"Southie," I heard myself murmur. I must have been dreaming. The turbulence from the warm air rising off the Blue Ridge caused the aircraft to tremor like a Manhattan debutante losing her virginity after the ball at the Waldorf-Astoria. "The ball after the ball," is what Carolyn and her girlfriend's call it. 'Southie!' After thirty years the phrase still makes my skin crawl. I left Dorchester Bay when I was 17. I never went back. Enrolling at Columbia, I spent nearly 5 years trying to lose my accent and the stench from Boston harbor. To this day there are two things I won't eat: seafood or pussy. The smell of either a reminder of the Friday mackerel dinners mother prepared. By the time I had taken my GRE's and been admitted to John Jay I was for all appearances New York born and bred. Waiting tables in Manhattan while completing my education I had looked only to the future. The idea of America is the endless opportunities it provides for those who find a need to re-invent themselves. We can no longer keep moving west when the soil gives out. The New Jerusalem is social mobility through economic gain and that is simply a combination of will and luck. I had both. 'Southie,' I thought, 'Why would I dream of that? It's been years...'
My anus clenched like it will at the urologists when he snaps that latex glove on his wrist and asks you to lean forward on the exam table. The plane jolted violently. My hands instinctively grabbed the arm rests. 'White Knuckle Club,' I thought. I have never gotten used to air travel. I had considered taking one of Carolyn's benzos before take-off but I needed to keep my edge on for when I arrived in Springfield.
I heard the flight attendant, Siobhan, somewhere behind me. Appearing next to me, her lovely put-on smile on her full, crimson Celtic lips she calmly placed a business card between my pale fingers and moved forward. Printed on the face of the cream-colored card was "Executive Conference Center, Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta GA". I turned the card over and in a women's pen was written, "Sojourners Rm.-2:30". I slipped the card into the pocket of my open collared Izod shirt.
In his second term Clinton had gutted the payrolls of both the Bureau and the Agency. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" meant new hirings went to Gays and Lesbians and minorities for what few new positions were available due to attrition. I didn't own a J.D; I was active in the fledgling American Catholic Church - there was no upward mobility available for me at the Bureau. It was time for me to get out. I had my twenty years in. I was still relatively young. I would become an independent contractor. With Lt. Sean Ryan, USMC as my liaison between the Agency and the Pentagon I could find work. There was always someone, somewhere who needed to be eliminated - "for God and Country".
Touching down in Atlanta I gathered up my Notebook and my briefcase, reached in the overhead for my bag and de-planed. Inside concourse T I boarded the shuttle and was whisked to the Atrium and the ECC. I found the Sojourners Room and knocked gently.
'No answer'. I placed my hand on the door handle and let myself in. I noticed a small 'fridge and helped myself to a LaBatt Blue. There was a knock and Siobhan entered, locking the door behind her. I moved towards her not losing my gaze into her eyes as we met, mouths open our tongues colliding. I withdrew slightly and nuzzled her neck as she gently bit my ear. "No marks, lad," she whispered. I pushed her towards the door, she allowing me to lead as if we were slow dancing. She struggled with the belt holding up my trousers and simultaneously unbuttoned them. Pushing down my zipper my trousers dropped unceremoniously to the floor. I lifted the skirt that was part of her Attendant's uniform and pushed her briefs aside. I paused and lifted my fingers to my mouth, wet them and reached down to moisten her vulva. She moaned and pulled me even closer. Standing now on her tip-toes she grabbed for my rigid cock and rubbed its head on her outer labia, guiding me into her at the same time. My instinct was to thrust immediately into her but I knowingly hesitated while she removed her hand. I moved inside her keeping my strokes short. I didn't want to interrupt the intense pleasure we both were feeling. She grabbed my exposed bottom and pulled me into her farther. I ground myself against her mons and I could feel her starting to climax as she got wetter and wetter. My cock swelled and I felt the rush of ejaculate move through my urethra and out the meatus. She came at the same time, sighing heavily as I grunted my satisfaction. We remained united for a moment breaking away after a pleasant, lingering kiss. I reached down and pulled up my trousers as she adjusted her knickers and pulled down her skirt. I stood there looking at her...
"What is it, love?" she asked in her oh-so-sensuous Irish brogue.
"Its just...I...erm," I stammered looking for the words...
"What? You gonna tell me you love me like some school boy might?" she laughed.
"Erm...ah...nooooo," I chuckled back.
"What is it, lad?"
"Um...Cath or Prot," I blurted out.
Laughing again she replied, "Da is Church of England. Mum is Catholic. They make it work. I am a Protalic. Any other questions?" all the while smiling broadly.
"A what?" I asked. Needing her to repeat what she had said as if I hadn't heard her.
"A Protalic, love. You never heard that word?"
"No." I said. The noun now embeded in my consciousness.
"Love, its been grand. You were grand but although the bank appreciates the deposit I'm afraid if I don't clean miself up there's gonna be a run on it and I'll catch a rash."
"I need to catch my connection," I said unemotionally.
"Goodbye and good luck, O'Tyme," she smiled. "Take care."
"You too, hon," I grinned as I grabbed my luggage and headed to the door.
As I closed the door over I said to myself, 'Protalic. I will never forget that word for as long as I live.'
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