Original Historical Fiction - Common Interests: A 9/11 Novel - Chapter 2steemCreated with Sketch.

in #fiction7 years ago (edited)

A historical fiction narrative surrounding the crimes of 9/11.  Published exclusively on Steemit at the moment! A paperback will be available in May.

If you missed chapter 1, you can find it @

 https://steemit.com/fiction/@steeminganarchy/original-historical-fiction-common-interests-a-9-11-novel-chapter-1 

This is a fictional narrative wrapped around the real crimes of the September 11, 2001 attacks and the 2008 financial crisis.  A smattering of other real events, institutions, entities, and people have also been included. 

 Chapter 2
Oval Office 

Washington DC 

July 3, 1979 


Zbigniew Brzezinski set the multi-billion dollar document in front of President Carter.  They looked at each other for a moment across Carter’s desk.  Carter did his dopey but lovable southern grin. Carter spoke nervously, “The political ramifications of this could be disastrous.  We’re talking about arming and training an Islamist guerrilla army?”

“They’re not Islamist.  Far from it.  They’re a mix of freedom fighters and self-interested zealots.  You take the good with the bad.  The final outcome is what matters, and that is the end of the Soviet empire.  The political ramifications of not pledging your support could be even more disastrous.”

Carter looked at the crisp page on his desk, then back at his trusted advisor.  Zbig thought to himself about what a wishy-washy pussy Carter was.  Zbig got impatient.  “We’re doing this one way or another, so I suggest you just sign the damn paper and move on to other matters.”

Carter sighed.  He knew his iron-faced advisor was right.  This would happen overtly or covertly.  And he didn’t want to appear weak on Communism.  Zbig grumbled.  Jimmy C signed.  An official partnership was cemented.  A Middle East mercenary army was born.

Jalalabad Afghanistan 

November 1979 


Intel said this was the best point in the city to penetrate.  This was a soft spot in the Soviet security perimeter surrounding the city.  This would be the target area to test some of the new toys and new recruits.  They’d shot up some defenseless villages before this, just to get a taste for blood.    

Hekmatyar watched from a safe distance with military grade binoculars fresh from Uncle Sam’s vast tentacles.  Around a hundred teenagers and twenty-somethings brandishing machine guns were hungry for commie blood.  As they charged the outskirts of the city, they fired indiscriminately into buildings.  Bullets splattered brains and grenades burst buildings with ferocious fire.  Debris flew and dirtied the heavenly blue.      

Children screamed, arms flew, women bled.  The noise was deafening as the unison of thunderous weapons went pop-pop-pop.  This was guerrilla warfare.  This was the bloodletting that Hekmatyar thirsted for.  Soviet soldiers came trotting out of nowhere and started spraying AK wickedness in all directions.  Their resistance came quicker than the teenage mercenaries had expected.  Most of them panicked, some of them splattered, and the survivors ran.    

The Butcher was happy.  It was enough to get the reds attention.  This was necessary to provoke the Ruskies into a Vietnam-like escalation.  About half the boys made it back to The Butcher at the designated meet-up spot.  One of the boys was fourteen.  He was crying and shaking.  The Butcher shot him in the head.  The other boys took note that such emotions were not tolerated.  The mercs soaked their adrenaline with Jack Daniels.   

 Khabul, Afghanistan 

December 10, 1979

Soviet tanks came rolling in.  Soldiers poured in in droves and pounded their boots on the ground in lockstep.  Things were escalating quickly.  Certain elements within the Russian ruling elite were tired of getting sucker punched in the nose by the CIA’s mercenary army.  They didn’t care about the civilian slaughters that were going on at the hands of the Vickers and Hekmatyar hell raisers.  What the Russian oligarchs cared about was resources.  Oil, gas, minerals, and opium.  And now all of it was under attack and something had to be done.  So they sent in their own mercenaries, better known as the Russian Army.

Saudi Arabian Embassy 

Washington DC 

December 1980 

“You’re not doing enough,” Carlucci spoke with a gangster grin as he eyed his counterpart, Turki bin Faisal, director of Saudi General Intelligence.  Faisal shrugged his broad shoulders and replied with his thick British accent, “We’ve already invested tens of millions of dollars.  And what good is it doing anyone in my family, killing a bunch of peasants and the occasional Russian soldier in Afghanistan?”

Carlucci relaxed and leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair.  He just stared at Faisal with his icy eyes and looked as smug as possible.  He knew he held all the cards.  He was the Deputy Director of the CIA.  He liked to fuck with people’s heads, so he just stared until Faisal broke. “What? What more can I do? Tell me, Frank.  Damnit, tell me.”

The brash Carlucci put a thoughtful finger to his lips, straightened his wide spectacles, leaned forward, and said, “First of all, who the fuck do you think buys all that God damned oil from your little clique? I hope you’re smart enough to know that all those billions of barrels are worth nothing if there is no one to buy them.  Secondly, you’re already getting a cut from the dope biz.  Now let me ask you some questions.”  He paused for effect.  Faisal gulped air and continued his piss scared freeze.  

Carlucci was enjoying putting this overgrown spoiled oil prince in his place.  “Do you grow poppies?”

Gulp.  “No.”

“Do you process poppies into heroin?”

Sigh.  “No.”

“Do you transport heroin, sell it, then arrange for the money to magically become legit?” No answer.  Silence speaks volumes. Frank was getting a little wild-eyed.  He was enjoying it a bit too much.  “So all you do is sit on your pretty little towel-headed ass and have a five percent cut of The Company’s heroin trade fall magically into your network’s pockets, so you can live your lazy, self-serving, debaucherous lifestyle, and you think that it isn’t doing you any good to invest a few million dollars in our anti-Communist crusade?”

Faisal looked at the floor.  Carlucci told him to look him in the eye.  He locked eyes and said he was sorry, that he would see what he could do.  Carlucci told him that wasn’t good enough.

“I want names,” Carlucci demanded.  “Who the fuck are you going to send? I need recruiters, financiers, and soldiers.  I know you don’t have any real soldiers in Saudi Arabia, but humor me.  Some warm bodies that can at least serve as human shields for my real soldiers.  Now, give me names.”

Faisal’s eyes darted around.   “Perhaps Osama Bin Laden might be a good choice. He is a
Carlucci cut him off, “I know OBL.  You think I don’t know who the hell he is? I also know that he’s on the outs with his family, so basically, you’re sending me a runt.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, sir.”

“Well, I would.  He’ll do, for a start.  His family has plenty of legit money.  It’s still early, but I’m telling you, stop fucking around.  We can’t afford to waste any time.” 

Stay tuned for more

Download the entire book for free in pdf format @

 https://www.docdroid.net/UcgRCw5/9113rddraft.pdf.html 

All above images were found "labeled for reuse" in google images and are from wikimedia, deviantart.com, and nationalinterest.org


Thanks to @papa-pepper for the great steeming anarchy logo

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Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Good story, thank you. I'll be following for sure.

Excellent! Great to hear man. Cheers!

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